Fire in the Ashes ta-2

by William Wallace Johnstone

  “Let me correct that, General,” General Preston said. “Hartline wasn’t there. I don’t believe he would have made such a move.”

  “You’re right,” the Marine agreed. “Hartline was in Richmond, I forgot. Well, anyway, that’s a thousand mercs we won’t have to deal with.”

  “Affirmative to that,” Admiral Calland said. “I’m just praying nothing happens that will pull us into this fight.”

  “What the hell could happen that would do that?” General Rimel asked. “Raines has given his word that he isn’t interested in toppling the government, per se. All he wants is to return to Tri-States and be left alone. He isn’t going to attack any of our bases.”

  “I just have a bad feeling about it all,” Calland replied. “You know—all of you—that I’ve felt for some time Lowry was not really behind it all. That someone is giving him orders. I can’t shake that feeling.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think Lowry has enough sense to mastermind this. My God, you’ve all talked with the man. He’s just as big a fool as Logan was—maybe more so. All that talk about him being the brains behind Logan. I never did believe it. Somebody else is behind all this. I know it.”

  “Again,” General Franklin leaned forward, “I ask who?”

  “I don’t know. I got a bad feeling about it, boys. A bad feeling.”

  * * *

  “You dirty, low-life bastard!” Sabra hissed at Hartline. “It isn’t enough you’ve ruined my marriage. Now you have to rape my daughter. You son of a bitch!”

  “Relax, Sabra-baby,” Hartline grinned at her. “I just wanted to have a little taste, that’s all. It was tight, I have to admit.”

  “Goddamn you!”

  When she again looked up, she was indeed looking up, the side of her face aching where Hartline had slapped her.

  “Sabra-baby, how would you like me to take little Nancy down to the local barracks and give her to some of my men?”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Oh?”

  “You can’t be that vile.”

  “Would you like to watch her take two at once?”

  Sabra put her face against the carpet and wept from fury and frustration and helplessness.

  Hartline kicked her in the butt. “Get up and go take a bath. You’re meeting the vice president tonight. And when you get cleaned up, call Jane Moore, have her meet you here at seven. She’s giving Al Cody some pussy tonight.”

  The woman slowly rose from the floor. She faced Hartline, no fear for herself in her. “I despise you, Hartline—you must know that.”

  “I know lots of things, baby. But you just go on playing your little games. You’re not going to hurt me.” He cupped a breast and gently squeezed it. “I’ll screw little Nancy anytime I want a nice tight cunt. And there ain’t a damn thing you or anybody else can do about it. Hell, I might even let you watch the next time. Oh, and Sabra-baby? I went over to the studio this afternoon; got me a little peek at your Friday night news script—the little story on me? I made copies of it and took them over to the Bureau. It didn’t take them long to break the code. You’ve been a very naughty girl, Sabra-baby. I’m going to have to think of some way to punish you for that. I’ll give it some thought. I’m sure I’ll manage to come up with something suitable.” He pushed her toward the bathroom. “Now go wash your cunt like a good little girl.”

  He was laughing as she stumbled toward the bathroom, the room blurring from the sudden tears of rage in her eyes.

  * * *

  “I have a plan,” the familiar voice said. “Oh, my, yes. A very good plan. I think I know a way to rid ourselves of the president and Ben Raines at the same time. And,” he held up a finger, “get the military back on our side—all at the same time. It’s so simple I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it before.”

  Lowry leaned forward, interested. He glanced at the wall clock. Plenty of time before he was to meet Sabra at the retreat. “Tell me,” he said, his eyes bright.

  The man leaned back in his chair. He began to speak. By the time he was finished, both he and Lowry were laughing and slapping each other on the knee.

  TWO

  It began raining on the afternoon of the fourth day out of the Smokies, the weather turning cool. As Ben’s column moved through Kentucky and into Virginia, the skies cleared and the stars seemed close enough to touch. The column moved through the night, meeting no resistance, for the news of their coming had preceded them, and the federal police wanted nothing to do with the Rebels, for those of their kind who had fought the Rebels had died hard and quickly… and the Rebels were taking no prisoners.

  After a few hours sleep, the column again headed east, meeting their first roadblock just inside the Virginia line. The scouts radioed back and Ben drove his Jeep to within a few hundred meters of the roadblock. He picked up a portable bullhorn. His message was brief.

  “We’re coming through—one way or another. I’m not going around you bastards.” His voice boomed through the early morning mist. “You men can live to tell your grandchildren about this moment, or you can die where you are and be damned with you all. It’s up to you. You’ve got one minute to make up your mind.”

  To the federal police, the column seemed to stretch for miles. And then they heard the snick of ammo being snapped into chambers; the rattle of belt ammo being fed into machine guns. The federal police heard too, the rustle of leaves and vegetation on the road banks that surrounded them. They knew to fight now would be stupid. They would die. They looked at each other, nodded, and holstered their sidearms and laid aside their rifles and shotguns. One of the men waved the column through. The lead vehicle passed and then Ben’s Jeep stopped by the side of the road, by the blockade.

  “You men showed good sense,” Ben told them. “Now go on home until the people tell you to go back to work.”

  “Who is going to keep the peace?” Ben was asked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Ben said. “You men don’t really believe you were keeping the peace, do you?”

  They shuffled their feet and looked everywhere except at Ben.

  “That’s what I thought,” Ben told them. “We’re arming the people as we go. So my advice to you men is to go home and keep your heads down until the smoke clears. If any of you had a hand in torture or intimidation around here, my suggestion would be to hit the trail and keep your head down. And pray none of the victim’s family or friends finds you.”

  Ben put the Jeep in gear and moved out, leaving a frightened group of ex-federal police standing beside the road.

  An hour later a scout radioed back to Ben. “About seventy-five federal cops and the local National Guard have set up roadblocks just up the highway, General. Town of Marion. They’re getting ready for a fight of it.”

  Ben rolled his column to the outskirts of town and then made his way carefully to visual distance of the roadblock. He checked positions and called for mortars.

  “I’m not going to lose men fighting those silly bastards,” he told Cecil. “Have they been informed they may surrender?” he asked a scout.

  “Yes, sir, several times.”

  “Their reply, if any?”

  “They told us to come and get them.”

  Ben looked down the deserted street. “Have you checked the area for civilians?”

  “Yes, sir. The local cell took care of that. It’s all clear except for the federal cops and guardsmen.”

  Ben sighted through a range finder. “Call it 700 meters. We’ll use that telephone pole just to the right of them for an aiming stake. Give them ten rounds of twelve-pounders, HE. That ought to clear it out.”

  The order was given and the thonk of mortars drifted to them, then the slight fluttering as the projectiles accelerated through the air. The barricade erupted into a mass of wood, burning metal, and mangled flesh. On the rooftops, civilians opened fire with weapons they had, until only a few days back, kept hidden.

  In a very few moments, those su
rvivors surrendered. “What do we do with them, General Raines?” a civilian asked.

  Ben looked at the man. “Turn them loose or shoot them. I don’t give a damn.”

  * * *

  The wire services and the networks reported the Rebel push without asking permission from the government censors. There were no repercussions; every ham operator in the nation and anyone with a CB unit was reporting on the Rebel’s progress.

  Krigel’s Rebels were raising hell in Mississippi, Arkansas, and Louisiana. Conger’s people had pushed up into West Virginia, securing areas as they drove in. General Hazen’s people had already secured more than a third of their designated area of operation, and Hector Ramos was driving hard through North Carolina, picking up support as he went, heading toward South Carolina.

  “Welcome to the state of Arkansas,” the governor greeted General Krigel from his new state capital of Pine Bluff. “Am I to understand the government’s police state is over?”

  “It is in this area,” the general replied. “You may inform your police they are no longer under the auspices of the federal government.”

  “You mean they are under my control?” the governor asked with a smile.

  “No,” Krigel told him. “They are under the control of the people.”

  * * *

  “You can’t just walk into a town and take over, declaring martial law!” a police chief in Kansas loudly protested.

  “We just did,” Captain Gray said, his British accent sounding strange in the Kansas flatlands.

  “But… but…” the police chief sputtered. “What about the constitution?”

  Both Captain Gray and Tina Raines smiled. Gray said, “Standing behind that badge, wearing that federal flash on your shoulder, and with your jails and prisons full of innocent men and women, do you really wish to discuss the constitution?”

  “I guess not,” the chief replied. He sighed. “What do you want me and my boys to do?”

  “Direct traffic,” Tina told him. “Maybe you can do that without fucking it up.”

  * * *

  The column of Rebels moved slowly through Virginia, meeting only scattered and usually light resistance from federal police and some guard units still loyal to VP Lowry. They were given a chance to surrender. If they refused, the Rebels hit them brutally, many times, taking no prisoners. Whenever they came to an armory, the Rebels took everything that wasn’t nailed down, sometimes caching it for later use, sometimes giving it to the people, sometimes taking it.

  They burned all police stations to the ground, first gutting them with fire and then using explosives to destroy the buildings. They destroyed all government records of the personal lives of citizens and turned the job of peace-keeping over to the people.

  They armed all adults who wanted to be armed and told them to protect themselves against arrest should the federal police or troops come in after the Rebels left. In most areas of southern Virginia, the back of the police state was broken.

  At noon, Jim Slater and Paul Green landed their twin-engined craft at the small airport of Radford, Virginia. Except for a few curious stares, no one said anything about the way they were dressed, their guns, or what they were doing in Radford. Everyone knew long before they landed. They were met by a Virginia federal highway patrolman. He wore the bars of a captain. Another patrolman, the stripes of a sergeant. They walked to within a few yards of the Rebel pilots and their gunners, the gunners armed with M-60 machine guns.

  “I gather it would be rather foolish of me to try and arrest you people?” the captain said.

  “Considering the circumstances and all,” Jim replied, “I’d say it would be downright dumb.”

  “I know you are the vanguard of a much larger force of Rebels,” the captain stood his ground. “And I know you people have destroyed any law officers who tried to stop your advance in Kentucky and Virginia. Just how much bloodshed do you anticipate in this area?”

  “That is entirely up to you people,” Jim told him.

  The captain looked at his sergeant. Both men shrugged. “Under this new system we keep hearing about,” the captain said, “will there even be cops?”

  “Peace officers,” Jim replied. “We’re going to try to keep cops to a minimum. You men think you can handle the title of peace officer?”

  “What’s the difference between a peace officer and a cop?” the sergeant asked.

  “You enforce the laws the people tell you to enforce and you don’t hassle.”

  “I think we can handle that,” the captain said dryly. “We were both police officers years before the federalization order came down. All right, count us in.”

  “Y’all sure give up easy,” Jim’s gunner said. “What’s the catch?”

  “Simple,” the captain replied. “You people are going to win the first round of this war. I have no intention of dying fighting you. You’re still going to need officers to investigate accidents, patrol the highways, take care of drunks, and pick up the bloody pieces of stupid fools who shoot themselves with all those guns you people are passing out—right?”

  Jim grinned. “Maybe you two will make good peace officers after all.”

  The highway cops didn’t see the humor in it. The captain made that clear. “We’ve always been good cops, Reb. So have a lot of other men. But we needed a job. I never tortured any citizen in my life, and neither did Harry here,” he nodded at the sergeant. “Lots of cops didn’t. I like to think we probably saved some people from that fate.”

  “Okay,” Jim smiled. “I think you guys will be all right. I’ll take you at your word. Now then, how many troopers in your district are good cops and not bully boys with a badge and a gun?”

  “Not very many,” the captain said reluctantly. “Not like it was before the bombings of ‘88. Maybe… thirty percent of the troopers are still good cops.”

  “How about the sheriffs and deputies and local cops?”

  The sergeant spat on the ground. “Shit!” he said. “Asshole buddy system prevails there. They got their friends who can do no wrong—everyone else gets hassled. Not a whole hell of a lot different from before the bombings, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Jim said. “Okay. You two have a lot of work to do if you want to prevent bloodshed. You get in touch with the men and women you think will work with us, cull the rest. Maybe we can pull this nation upright again—if we work together.”

  * * *

  “I wonder how Roanna is doing?” Jane asked. Sabra glanced at her. “Last word I got from her she said she was pulling out with the Rebels. Should be a hell of a story if she makes it.”

  The women locked gazes. “Something, Jane?” Sabra asked.

  The small woman sighed. “For all the feeling of… unclean I have after the other night, I have to say this, Sabra: Al Cody is not an evil man.”

  “I know, Jane. I got the same impression. Tell me, did you get the feeling the VP is not playing with a full deck?”

  “Yes,” her reply came quickly. “I certainly did. And that phone call he got. I listened on the extension; I know that voice.”

  “Who was it?” Sabra asked, excitement evident on her face.

  “It was muffled; I think intentionally so. I couldn’t place it, but I’ve heard it before, many times, I believe.”

  “You said Lowry kept repeating, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir.’ Who would Lowry say that to? I know he wouldn’t say it to the president.”

  “No. Certainly not.” The woman sighed. “All I can think about is the invitation for next week. I feel like a kid going to the dentist’s office.”

  Sabra said nothing.

  “How’s Nancy?”

  “Coping. Very well, I should think. Hartline has… taken her several more times. I don’t know what to do, Jane. I’ve never felt this powerless in my life. This… helpless to deal with a situation.”

  “Then we’ll just have to do what Nancy is doing,” Jane said.

  Sabra looked at her.

  “Cope
.”

  * * *

  At one o’clock in the afternoon, Ben’s column of Rebels rolled into Radford. Two squads of Rebels rounded up all the police, disarmed them, and put them in jail.

  “You can’t do this!” the sheriff squalled. “I’m the law around here.”

  “Oh, shut up,” a Rebel told him. “Stop bellyaching. If you don’t like it in jail, just tell us, we can always take you out and shoot you.” The sheriff did not see the wink at another Rebel.

  “Luther, goddamn!” the chief of police said. “Will you, for Christ’s sake, keep your big mouth shut?”

  In the downtown area, many people stopped to witness the arrival of the Rebels. Many thought they were regular Army troops.

  “Hey, what outfit you guys with?” a bystander called. He took a second look. He blinked. “Holy Christ!” he said. “There’s women on those trucks; and they’re armed, too.”

  A crowd gathered around the lead vehicles of the convoy. A hundred or more people. They fell silent when Ben pulled up and got out, carrying his old Thompson SMG.

  When it comes to firearms, the American public is conditioned to react in a measurable way. There are people who will tell you, quite honestly, that a .22-caliber bullet will not kill a person. Those people are not very bright.

  An M-1 rifle will bring this reaction: “Oh, yeah. My Uncle Harry has one of those. Uses it to deer hunt.”

  Many people still think of the M-16 as a toy.

  A BAR is not that well known.

  A 155 howitzer just sits there.

  But lay the old Chicago Piano on a table, the .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun, and there is a visible sucking-in-of-the-gut reaction.

  My God, boys! That thing can kill you.

  “There is no need for any panic,” Ben told them. “We’re not here to harm any citizen. We’ll spend the night and be gone in the morning.”

  “You people are the Rebels,” a woman said. “You must be General Raines.”

  “That is correct, ma’am.”

  Dawn walked up to the Jeep, drawing a number of frankly admiring glances from the men. She ignored a few hostile looks from several women. “The local cell has a town meeting set for this afternoon at five,” she said. “They want to know if that’s all right with you?”