Fire in the Ashes ta-2

by William Wallace Johnstone

  Fire in the Ashes

  ( The Ashes - 2 )

  William Wallace Johnstone

  Destroyed by the fires of nuclear holocaust, our once great nation is in shambles. Life as we know it is no more. But among the survivors stands Ben Raines, retired soldier, mercenary, and the only man alive trained to lead the Resistance into a visionary new America.

  But the Rebels’ greatest adversary—our own government—forces Raines and his army into bloody guerilla combat—and an unavoidable civil war. Now, as brother turns against brother, an even greater peril is thrown into the pot: a new, indestructible breed of post-apocalyptic enemies who threaten to wrest control of the new world and sink it into a hell on earth.

  William W. Johnstone

  FIRE IN THE ASHES

  Tell him to go to hell!

  — Reply to Santa Anna’s demand for surrender at the Alamo.

  PROLOGUE

  The White House

  Richmond, Virginia

  March, 1999

  “Are you sure Ben Raines is dead?” President Addison asked the agent.

  “Yes, sir. Positive. He was hit three times in the chest area with M-16 rounds. Then he fell off a mountain. The man is dead. No human could have lived through that.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Montana, sir. The man is dead.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Ben Raines is hard to kill.” The president dismissed the agent and whirled around in his chair, looking out the window. Alone in the Oval Office, Addison’s thoughts were as mixed as they were many.

  Ben Raines finally dead. Finally. Funny, I should be experiencing some… some sort of glow of victory. But I don’t. I met him; I rather liked him. I wish to God we could have reached some sort of agreement, for I don’t believe he was ever an enemy of the people.

  The president sighed heavily and rose from the comfortable leather chair. He stood by the window, watching the drops of rain spot and splatter against the bulletproof glass. He stood for several moments, experiencing a dozen different emotions. He turned at a knock on his office door.

  “Come in.”

  Al Cody, director of the FBI, walked in, a huge smile on his face. “I can’t believe it, sir. The son of a bitch is really dead?”

  Al Cody was not one of the president’s favorite people. The man had pushed hard for the new anti-handgun bill; had been instrumental in stripping the citizens of pistols, and in setting up what amounted to a virtual police state in America. The majority of the citizens of the United States hated Al Cody.

  But they were stuck with him.

  “Yes,” Aston said with a sigh. “I believe Ben Raines is dead.”

  “Is there any way we can get Congress to make this a national holiday?”

  Aston Addison could only look at the man.

  Al flushed, realizing he had perhaps taken that one step too many and crossed the invisible line. “Sorry, sir. But my feeling for Ben Raines is a lot deeper than yours. His Rebels killed my brother in the battle for Tri-States.”

  “There is right and wrong on both sides, Mr. Cody. Our forces raped and tortured a lot of Rebels—or have you forgotten that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is there anything else you want, Mr. Cody?”

  To see you out of the White House for one thing, the FBI chief thought savagely. That would be marvelous. “No, sir,” he said.

  “That will be all, then, Mr. Cody. Thank you for stopping by.”

  Cody deliberately slammed the door as he left.

  “Bastard!” President Addison said.

  The president turned to the window and once more stared out at the rainy afternoon. Dead, the word came dully to him. Dead. He shook his head.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said aloud. Then, for a reason not even the president could fathom, he added, “I hope it’s not true.”

  PART ONE

  ONE

  “You’re lucky, Ben,” Doctor Lamar Chase said. “You’re the luckiest man I’ve ever seen.”

  But some of Ben Raines’s Rebels were beginning to think there was something more than luck surrounding their commanding officer.

  “You’ve got a broken collarbone, three cracked ribs, and a small bit of bone gone from your left shoulder. This would have killed a lesser man. Should have killed you.”

  Jerre knelt by Ben’s bed. “Old man,” she grinned at him. “I wish you’d quit scaring me like this.”

  Ben touched her face, ran his fingers through her blond hair. His face was pale from shock and the pain of his wounds. “I keep telling you, babe,” he whispered, “I’ll go when I’m damn well ready to go.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  “Everybody out!” Chase ordered. “Let the man get some rest. He’s not immortal, you know.”

  The doctor did not notice the strange looks he received at that statement.

  Ben’s personal contingent of Rebels was camped near Hell Creek, not far from the southern shores of the Fort Peck Recreation Area. Many of these Rebels had been with Ben for years: Judith Sparkman, James Riverson, Ike McGowen, Ben’s adopted daughter, Tina, Cecil Jefferys, Doctor Chase, in his early seventies and still spry as a mountain goat—and just as cantankerous.

  The tent cleared and Ben closed his eyes, fighting back waves of nausea that alternated with the peaks and valleys of pain coursing through him. The shot Doctor Chase had administered began to take hold, dropping Ben into drug-induced sleep.

  But his sleep was troubled, and he called out for friends long dead. Men he had known in Southeast Asia; men he had fought with during his years as a mercenary in Africa—that period of his life when the adrenaline-surging high of combat would not be appeased by civilian life. But he’d finally gotten it out of his system and returned to a normal life, as a writer.

  He called out for friends who had stayed with him after the bombings of 1988, men and women who had toiled, giving their sweat and blood, and ultimately, their lives for a dream called Tri-States; a country within a country. It was a dream carved out of three states, an area free of crime and unemployment, where men and women could leave their homes unlocked and the keys in their cars and trucks, knowing they would not be robbed or their vehicles stolen.

  Ben Raines and his Rebels had proved their concept of government could work; that people do not have to be bogged down by government bureaucracy and red tape. That schools could function without the Supreme Court and federal judges interfering with the process of education.

  Tri-States worked. It had worked. And it would work again.

  Ben groaned on his cot.

  * * *

  “You bring back Ben Raines’s body,” Al Cody told a group of agents. “I don’t care if it takes you six months to find the rotting bastard—you bring it back.”

  “Wild country out there, Mr. Cody,” the FBI chief was reminded.

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “And still full of Rebels,” another agent said.

  “Take as many men as you need. Do it. Find the son of a bitch and bring it back. I want it on public display. The people have to learn that this is a law-and-order society. Anarchy will not be permitted.”

  The agents left the office and drew weapons. They called their wives and girlfriends and told them they were going on assignment.

  No, they did not know when they would be back.

  They boarded a plane at Byrd Field and headed westward. The agents were in high spirits. Hunting traitors was the name of the game. They were loyal to the red, white, and blue, Ben Raines and his Rebels were all traitors and anarchists, and that was that.

  It was all cut and dried. No gray area between the white and the black.

  By tomorrow at
this time, all the agents would be dead.

  * * *

  “We hit them here,” Colonel Hector Ramos told his Rebels. He thumped a wall map and smiled grimly, a big predatory cat on the trail of a blood scent. Ramos had lost his entire family to government troops back in ‘98. His wife and daughter had been raped and tortured and then cut open like pigs, left to die in the sands like hunted animals.

  Ramos looked at his people. “Our informants in Richmond said the agents left two hours ago. A planeload of them. Fifty agents, all heavily armed. They are to find General Raines’s body and return with it to Richmond; put the body on public display…”

  A hand shot up.

  Ramos said, “Captain Garrett?”

  “Let’s not kill the pilots, sir,” the young captain suggested.

  “Oh?”

  “No, sir. Let’s send the agents back in the plane. All sitting up very nicely in the seats. All dead.”

  “I think General Raines would approve of that, Captain,” Ramos said. “Thank you. A very nice touch, indeed. I would like to see Director Cody’s face when his men return.”

  Just as their cousins and uncles and fathers and mothers had done years before, many people of the United States, instead of turning in their handguns and heavy-caliber hunting rifles, had wrapped them carefully and buried them. Then they had formed underground networks of small cells of dedicated men and women, all with one goal in mind: To keep Ben Raines’s dream alive. To restore America, not to what she was before the bombings, but something better; something very much like Tri-States. And just as their relatives had done before them, if they had to die to preserve that dream of a government truly “Of and for the people”… so be it. They were prepared to do so.

  * * *

  “Will you get your ass back into bed!” Chase shouted at Ben. “Good jumping Jesus Christ.”

  Ben bit back the pain and said, “Hector Ramos on the horn. It’s big, the operator said. I’ll just talk for a minute then back to bed. That’s a promise.”

  “Hard-headed son of a bitch!” Chase yelled at him.

  “You shouldn’t talk to the general like that,” a young Rebel said, speaking before he thought.

  “I’ll talk to him any goddamn way I please to talk to him!” Chase roared.

  He was still roaring at the young man when Ben slipped on the headset in the communications tent. “Go, Hector.”

  “How’ya doing, General?”

  “I’m alive, Hec—but don’t ask me how.”

  Ramos brought him up to date on the flight of the agents. Ben smiled a toothy tiger’s smile as Ramos told him the plans. “I like the captain’s plan, Hec. Can you carry it out?”

  “No sweat, General. They’ll land at the new Air Force base just outside Flagstaff late this afternoon. My people will be in position when they come in. We’ll hit them as they deplane, then ship the bodies back the same day.”

  “What about the personnel at the base?”

  “Just a skeleton crew. My people took care of them about two hours ago.”

  Ben sighed, his pain momentarily forgotten. “All right, Hec. But this commits us past the point of no return; your people aware of that?”

  “Yes, sir. To a person.”

  “Good luck, Hec.”

  Ben slowly removed the headset and handed it to the operator. The young man looked at him, questions in his eyes. “From now on it’s open warfare, isn’t it, General?”

  “Yes, it is, son. It sure is.”

  Chase stuck his head in the tent. “Now will you get your ass back to bed?” he shouted.

  * * *

  “I know what you’re thinking, Ben,” Jerre said, when Ben was once more in bed.

  He looked at her. “Oh?”

  “You’re wondering if you’re doing the right thing. You’re thinking some of those agents were just kids when the bombings occurred; they might not even remember what it was like before. And some of them might not really go along with Al Cody and President Addison, but they’re just doing their jobs.”

  “You do have a way of getting inside my head,” he said dreamily, half asleep.

  “I should,” she smiled. “After all, you screwed me when I was only nineteen, you dirty old man.”

  “So am I doing the right thing, Jerre?”

  “You know you are, Benj,” her words held a hollow, echoing sound as he drifted off into sleep.

  He was remembering how they met, ten years back…

  * * *

  He had seen her walking slowly down the road—trudging was more like it—just north of Charlottesville, Virginia. It was just a few weeks after the world had exploded in germ and nuclear warfare. Frightened, she had jumped across a ditch and hurt her ankle. Ben found himself looking down the barrel of a small automatic pistol.

  He had finally convinced her he meant her no harm, and she allowed him to look at her ankle, finally convincing her she should soak the ankle in a nearby creek.

  She had been in college in Maryland when the bombs hit. She’d been sick for a week. The whole experience had been “Gross, man. The absolute pits.”

  They had talked the afternoon away, and she came to trust him. That night, she came to his bed, young and coltish and smelling of soap, fresh from her bath.

  They had traveled the country, growing fonder of each other. But she had told him she would leave when she felt the time was right, ‘cause right now, he thought she was cute; but that cute would get old pretty damn quick, she thought.

  He had taught her as much as he could in their time together—teaching her, he hoped, to survive.

  “But,” he had told her, “it might help improve your shooting if you would open your eyes.”

  He had left her just south of Chapel Hill.

  He still had the letter she had written him.

  * * *

  The agents walked blindly into a murderous ambush at the Air Force base. As they deplaned, they thought nothing of the Air Police sitting around the airport in Jeeps. The M-16s in their hands and the M-60 and .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the Jeeps were nothing out of the ordinary. The agents paid little attention to them.

  They also paid little attention to the AF captain and sergeant who boarded the plane when the last agent got off.

  The pilot felt the cold steel of a .45 pistol pressing into his neck. He did not turn around. He just listened to the low voice explain how it was his option whether to live or die.

  “Just keep your cool, Captain,” the Rebel told him. “You’re not going to be on the ground very long.”

  The pilot fought to keep his nerves steady as heavy gunfire ripped the late afternoon. The screaming of the agents churned his guts and tied them into soft knots. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at his copilot. He, too, had a pistol shoved into his neck.

  “Your wife’s name is Loraine,” the Rebel told him. “Your copilot’s wife is Betty. Right now, they’re safe; fuck up, and you’ll never see them again.”

  That was a high bluff. The Rebels had no intention of harming any innocent person; but the pilots didn’t need to know that.

  Outside the plane, the gunfire was still intense.

  “Just tell us what you want us to do, mister,” the pilot replied. “We’re civilian fliers, not military.” He watched an agent running across the tarmac. A machine gun barked; a row of bloody dots appeared on the man’s back. He fell face-first on the tarmac and lay still.

  “While we’re loading the bodies on the plane,” the Rebel said, “you’re going to refuel and take a piss if you need to. Then you’re going to fly back to Richmond and you are going to maintain radio silence all the way except for landing instructions. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “While you’re getting your instructions to land, you are going to tell the tower to get hold of Director Cody. Have him meet you at the airport. Tell him this: General Raines is alive and well. He sends his best wishes in the form of this little present. Tell him Tri-States will
rise again. Tell him from this point on, it is open, no-holds-barred warfare. I hope, gentlemen, we will not see one another again. Stay in your seats until I give the word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After what seemed an eternity, the muzzle of the .45 was removed from the pilots’ necks. Both men slowly turned their heads and fought to keep from puking as the grisly cargo was loaded onto the plane, placed in seats, and buckled in.

  “Refuel now,” they were told.

  Tanks topped, the Rebel said, “Have a nice, safe journey back home, boys.”

  Then he was gone.

  Taxiing away, the copilot said, “Al Cody is gonna have a fit about this.”

  “Fuck Al Cody,” the pilot said tersely. “Man, if I knew how to go about it, I’d join the Rebels now.”

  “Well, hell! Why didn’t you ask back there?”

  “Did you feel like making chit-chat with that .45 in your neck?”

  “Shit, no!”

  “Then just fly the plane; don’t ask stupid questions.”

  The Air Force personnel were released unharmed; all but four of them who had elected to fight. They lay stretched out in an empty hangar, their bodies covered with blankets.

  “If you men are smart,” the leader of the Rebel unit told them, “you’ll walk off this base the instant we leave and don’t look back. ‘Cause the word is goin’ out: you are either one hundred percent for us, or one hundred percent against us. Just like the government mentality, boys, no gray in the middle. If that’s the way they choose to fight, it’s okay with us.”

  “How do we join you?” one asked.

  “Just walk out with us.”

  “That suits me, man.”

  Nine of the airmen walked out with the Rebels.

  Ben Raines’s movement was once more rolling, picking up steam with each tick of the clock.

  Five hours later, in Richmond, Al Cody stood in silent trembling rage as he viewed what was left of his men. He walked out of the plane and stood in the darkness on the tarmac. His fists were clenched and his voice choked with anger as he spoke.