“Almost,” Bruno said. “Once Ben Raines has pulled his troops off German soil and out of Italy, I will order my troops to leave Switzerland. They have not agreed to join our alliance, and I will certainly honor their sovereignty.
“You all have condemned me for my actions in dealing not just with minorities, but with certain types of people in general. You sent the greatest mercenary army in the world in to ‘restore order,’ as you so quaintly phrased it. I find that amusing. For you see, there isn’t a modicum of difference between what I am doing and what Ben Raines has been doing for years.”
I was right, Ben thought. I had him pegged. Now here it comes.
“Nonsense!” Son Moon snapped.
“That’s ridiculous!” Blanton said.
“Is it?” Bruno questioned, a smile playing on his lips. “Oh, I don’t think so. Do you, my dear General Raines?”
“Speak your piece, General Bottger,” Ben told him.
“Oh, I shall. I shall. All the years Ben Raines has spent setting up his little nation within a nation, what has he been doing? Why, throwing out any and all who don’t agree with the Rebel philosophy . . .”
That wasn’t exactly true, but close. Ben said nothing.
“. . . Search the SUSA until you collapse from sheer exhaustion,” Bruno continued. “I’ll wager you won’t find a single white trash family in the SUSA. There are no niggers in the SUSA. Nobody who could work but won’t on the dole. No shacks with a dozen junked cars littering the yards; no horde of half-naked kids with dirty diapers and runny noses. Ben Raines won’t permit it. No grassless yards where those leaping savages spend their time playing basketball instead of working. He kept the cream and threw away the milk, so to speak. Back before the Great War, social services in my country almost bankrupted the nation feeding and housing and clothing and providing medical care to worthless people. Just like in America. Ah, but your precious Ben Raines, he got rid of those types of people. Just like I am doing. Yet I am condemned, and Ben Raines is allowed to continue his purging of citizens. Any of you care to deny that?” He met each eye in the room. Bruno chuckled. “No? I thought not. You, Mr. Secretary-General of the United Nations, you commissioned Ben Raines and his army of Rebels to destroy me for doing the same damn thing that Ben Raines has been doing for years! You, Mr. President of what is left of the United States, you went along with it because you knew if you sent your armies against General Raines, they would be defeated. And defeated quite soundly . . . and then Ben Raines would control all of North America.”
Bruno cut his eyes to Ben. “You don’t like the press, General Raines. But I love the press. Especially your American press. I intend to hold a press conference when this farcical meeting is concluded. Oh, my yes. Indeed I shall. I want the world to know what hypocrites you all are. I’m going to invite the press to come visit our New Federation. See our accomplishments. Film them, write of them. Pro and con. I will insist upon that. I don’t expect glowing reports from them . . . just a few pros among the many cons will please me greatly.”
He looked hard at Son Moon, then at Homer Blanton. “You hear me well, gentlemen. I have a standing army of a quarter of a million fighting men and women. With a reserve of over one hundred thousand. If you persist in sending Ben Raines and his Rebels against me, I will squash them like bugs.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And then I will turn my armies against any who supported Ben Raines. But I will promise you this: I will never wage war against any country that does not first wage war against me. But I warn you all: Do not continue this fight against me. You cannot win. I will return to this meeting room tomorrow at nine o’clock in the morning. I shall expect your answer at that time. I pray it is the right one.”
“We’ll need a bit more time than that,” Blanton said unexpectedly. Both Son Moon and Ben gave him sharp glances.
“Three days?” Bruno asked.
“A week would be better,” Homer said, after cutting his eyes to Ben and receiving a slight nod. The man was catching on how to play the game.
“Very well. A week it is. I shall see you then. Not before. Now I will meet with the world press.” Bruno and his aides stood up together and marched out of the room. The heavy door closed behind them.
“Jesus Christ!” one of Blanton’s senior people said.
Every eye in the room turned to Ben Raines. No one could understand why he was smiling. Ben pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll see you all in a few days. Here.” He looked at Blanton. “Have your Secret Service people sweep this room for bugs.” He walked out of the room.
TWO
“He just might be able to field an army of 250,000,” Mike Richards told Ben a couple of hours after the meeting had concluded. “And probably 100,000 to 150,000 of them would be crackerjack soldiers. The rest would be cannon fodder. He has practically no air force. What he has is some helicopter gunships and a few old prop transports. The group that destroyed Europe’s jet fighters years ago did the world a service, I suppose. Although the reasoning behind that move still escapes me.”
“They didn’t just destroy the fighters over here,” Ike said. “They systematically destroyed ninety-nine percent of the world’s jet fighter and bomber fleets. PTV.”
“Peace Through Violence,” Dan said. “Interesting name. I wonder what ever became of that group? There must have been thousands of them.”
“They vanished into history,” Ben said. “What the hell has Bottger got up his other sleeve?” He glanced at Mike, but the man’s eyes were clouded over. His people are on to something, Ben thought. But he’s not yet ready to spell it out.
“The press types are hot to travel into Bottger’s New Federation,” Buddy said. “They’re lining up in droves.”
“Good,” Ben said. “I hope they never come back.”
Tina Raines laughed and leaned over and tickled her dad under his chin. Ben looked pained, and that brought roars of laughter from the roomful of Batt Coms, the majority of whom had flown in that morning while the meeting was in progress.
Georgi Striganov, the Russian Bear, grumbled at Mike, “What do you know, Mike? And you know something, I can sense it.”
“Nothing concrete as yet,” Mike replied. He stood up. “But I’ll have something for you in seventy-two hours. I’ll see you then.” He left the room.
“Worse than the old KGB,” Georgi muttered.
“Let’s piece together what we do know but can’t prove,” Ben said. “We know that Bottger killed many of Europe’s Jews—thousands of them—and then destroyed the death camps and planted flowers and grass and crops over the old sites. We know that to be fact. We just can’t prove it.”
“We know he killed thousands of minorities,” Raul Gomez said. “Asians, Hispanics, blacks, others, and incinerated the bodies and scattered the ashes. Then dismantled the ovens.”
“We know for a fact his hero is Adolph Hitler,” Ike said.
“We know he despises blacks,” Pat O’Shea said. “He’s admitted that.”
Ben held up a thin book with a tattered cover. “Bottger wrote this crap back in his youth. This is probably one of only a few volumes remaining. Years ago Bottger ordered all copies destroyed. In here he states that his lifelong dream is to find a way to rid the world of all blacks. I think this is the key.”
“What do you mean, Father?” Buddy asked.
“I’m not sure. But one of the things Mike told me was that his people learned that scientists from around the world embraced Bottger’s views some years back. Just before the Great War, they dropped out of sight. No trace of them was ever found, until now.”
“Mike found them?” Nick asked.
“Some of them; probably all of them. They’re working in a vast, underground complex in what used to be Poland. All these men and women share several things in common, the most important being the belief that all blacks are inferior beings and should be destroyed.”
“I’ll be damned! Have you told this to Blanton and Son Moon, Ben?” Ike asked.
“Not yet. But I will. I’m going to wait for Mike’s next report. He’s on to something.”
Bottger and his staff did not leave their floor at the hotel. And no one saw Bruno for the next seventy-two hours. By that time Mike had returned.
The man was exhausted, but he would not rest until he reported his findings to Ben.
“Nothing solid, Ben. No proof at all. But Bottger’s had his scientific minds working around the clock for months. About ten days ago the complex in Poland went back on a nine to five shift—with lots of happy faces. Lots of loud parties all over the small city; the complex is located just a few miles outside the town. Something big happened, but I can’t find out for sure what it is. Ben, a Polish Jew died getting me the next bit. So bear that in mind.”
“All right, Mike.”
“Only a few of Bottger’s scientists are German. Most are from other countries—the man who was shot getting to me was a scientist and a Jew, but he hid both facts and became a janitor in the complex. He died a few minutes after telling my man in Germany. He claims that Bottger’s people have developed some sort of serum, vaccine, whatever it’s called, that can be introduced into any sort of liquid: soda pop, water, coffee, tea, milk, beer—anything—and it does something to the female reproductive system. It renders them incapable of having children. And they’re only days away from having the same sort of . . . thing, that will work on men. Destroys something in a male. Weakens the sperm, I think.”
“Bottger’s dream come true,” Ben said in almost a whisper.
“Ben, a lot of people in this world would not be unhappy to see something like that come to be.”
“I know. And some of the Rebels are included in that. We’ve got some discontent in the ranks right now. Only a few, so far; but it disturbs me.”
“When do you tell Blanton and Son Moon?”
“Right now.”
“Monstrous,” Secretary-General Son Moon whispered. “The man must be stopped.”
Blanton was speechless, his face pale with shock. He sat and stared at Ben for a full half minute before he was able to speak. “Bottger wants to control the world,” Blanton finally said. “And with a weapon like this, he could.”
One of Blanton’s senior people asked, “Does this work on women of all nationalities?”
“I suppose so,” Ben replied. “I don’t see how they could make it work on one race and not the other. But then, I’m not a scientist. So I’m just guessing.”
“With so few reports coming out of Africa, I wonder . . . ?” Blanton’s voice trailed off into silence.
“I don’t think so,” Ben said, knowing full well what the president meant. “The serum or vaccine, or whatever it’s called, has only just been perfected. If perfected is the right word to use.”
“But they may have been experimenting with it over there for some time, and if that is true, only God knows what horrors may have come from it,” Son Moon said.
“True.”
“Bottger has to be confronted,” Blanton said firmly. “We’ve got to act on this information. Mike Richards was a highly respected CIA operative before the Great War. People speak glowingly of him. I believe this report.”
“Hold on,” Ben warned. “Consider this. I’m here with two battalions. You have a dozen or so Secret Service people, and the secretary-general has his security people. But Bottger has ten or fifteen combat-ready battalions within easy striking distance of this city. And God alone knows how many more people he’s been moving quietly into place—just in case something went wrong at the meetings. Like what we’re discussing, for example.”
“What are you suggesting?” Blanton asked.
“Getting you and the secretary-general clear of this place.”
“He wouldn’t dare harm us!” Son Moon said.
“Don’t you believe that. He hates Homer. After he was elected president, Homer bent over backward in the direction of America’s blacks. He angered a lot of people by doing that. And not just Americans. Something else you may not know is this: Bottger’s mother was an American citizen. She was serving in the armed forces in Germany when she met her future husband. Bruno was very close to his mother; adored her. She never renounced her American citizenship. When Bottger was about twelve, she was assaulted and raped by a gang of blacks. Spent several days in a coma before she finally died from massive head injuries. Another reason why Bottger despises blacks.”
“I didn’t know that,” Blanton said, a note of irritation in his voice.
“Your intelligence network is not nearly as proficient as mine,” Ben said. “Congress puts too damn many restraints on yours.”
Blanton gave Ben a dirty look, then managed a wan smile.
Son Moon quickly turned his head so Blanton would not see his own smile at Ben’s blunt words. The secretary-general knew that during Blanton’s rule before the Great War, Homer had allowed his liberal Congress to nearly wreck not only the military but also the country’s intelligence-gathering network. Son Moon liked Homer Blanton, but he did not have the respect for him that he held for Ben Raines . . . the two men thought very much alike.
“About a hundred or so press types have left for the New Federation of Germany,” Ben said. “They were flown out early this morning for a guided tour.”
“Any blacks in the group?” Blanton asked.
“Are you kidding?” Ben looked at him. “Just being this close to the border makes them very nervous. And I damn sure can’t blame them.”
Jersey opened the door to the conference room and stepped in, a worried look on her face. “Something weird is going on, boss. Bottger’s troops have moved closer to the city and—”
Two grenades suddenly rolled into the room and went off in a blinding flash of sound. Ben had time to think: concussion grenades! They were followed by two canisters of hissing gas. Ben dropped into darkness wondering what in the hell had gone wrong.
THREE
Ben slowly returned to consciousness. Groaning, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, his back to a wall, and looked around. Jersey was still out, as was Son Moon. Neither appeared to be hurt, just unconscious. Blanton’s senior aides were sprawled on the floor.
Blanton was gone.
Ben had no idea how long he’d been out, but he thought for not very long.
Listening, waiting for full awareness to return, he could hear no gunshots. It was a perfect plan, Ben thought. He’d bet that nobody outside this floor knew that Blanton was missing. Bottger’s people probably drugged the Secret Service agents’ coffee, then tossed those . . . whatever the hell they were . . . in here and grabbed Homer.
How did they get the president clear of the building?
Old creepie tunnels probably.
“Son of a bitch!” Ben muttered. “This had to have been planned a long time ago.”
Jersey groaned and sat up, a confused look on her face. “What the hell . . . !” she said.
“We’ve been had, kid,” Ben told her, standing up. He was shaky and quickly sat down in a chair.
“I can’t get my legs to work, boss,” Jersey said with a groan.
“I know the feeling. Just rest there for a few moments; you’ll be all right.”
Ben managed to stagger to the hall door and open it. Rebels and Secret Service personnel were sprawled up and down the hall floor. Glancing at his watch, Ben saw that he’d been out about twenty or so minutes. “Goddamnit!” he cussed.
Ben made his way through the maze of unconscious bodies to the end of the hall. There he picked up a chair and threw it out the window overlooking the street. That got the attention of about a hundred people on the street and sidewalks below.
“Bottger’s kidnapped President Blanton!” Ben yelled, leaning out the window. “Fan out to the edges of the city and seal it off tight.” But he sensed it was a futile gesture. Bottger and Blanton were long gone. “And get some medical personnel up here, pronto!”
Ben was still very weak. He sat down in a chair n
ear the smashed window in the hall of the old hotel and waited for his strength to return. Corrie and Beth and Cooper were slumped together in the hall, backs to a wall. He cut his eyes as Jersey came crawling out of the small conference room on her hands and knees, dragging her M-16 by the sling. She was cussing a blue streak, tracing Bottger’s ancestry back to the caves and tree limbs and beyond.
“Settle down and lean against a wall, Jersey,” Ben told her. “Your strength will slowly return.”
Rebels and Secret Service personnel and UN security people were racing up the steps. They quickly filled the hall, followed by Rebel medics.
Ben pointed toward the conference room. “In there,” he said. “Son Moon and all the senior aides are still unconscious.” He looked at Dan Gray. “Bottger and his people had to have used old creepie tunnels to get clear. I’m sure the tunnel entrance is in the basement. Check it out.”
Medics quickly checked Ben’s heart and BP; normal. The effects of the gas were wearing off of everybody, and the hall was filled with groaning and moaning and cussing men and women. Corrie’s radio crackled, and Jersey grabbed the mic and held one side of the headset close.
“Yeah. This is the Eagle’s roost. Go on.” She listened for a moment. “All right, sir. I’ll tell him.” She looked at Ben. “Dan’s people found the tunnel in the basement, just like you figured. But it’s wired to blow. Dan says it’s gonna take several hours to clear all the booby traps . . . and that’s just the ones they can see right now.”
“Tell him to forget it. Those damn tunnels might run for a mile or more, and Bottger will have laid booby traps every hundred feet. It’s not worth the time and people it would take.”
“We’ll take care of the tunnels,” a Secret Service agent said. “We’ve got to find the president.”
“Suit yourself,” Ben told him. “All Rebels out of the hotel. Right now. Evac everybody before it blows.”
The Rebels cleared the hotel in minutes, with many of those who’d been inside when the gas canisters went off carried out on stretchers.
D-Day in the Ashes Page 25
