Fire in the Ashes ta-2

by William Wallace Johnstone

  * * *

  And Jerre stared out at the snowfall in a small town just ten miles from Pekin, Illinois.

  She waited.

  FOUR

  Roanna Hickman and Jane Moore sat talking in the NBC offices in Richmond. Other reporters and commentators sat quietly, listening. All of them had a hard decision to make. Unpleasant either way they went.

  “Have you been back to see Sabra?” Roanna asked.

  “I can’t go back there; can’t look at her,” Jane replied. “It’s… I just want to cry.”

  “The doctors say she’s going to be all right—in time.”

  “She’ll never be back here,” Roanna said bitterly. “Never. We all know that. But we’re dancing around what we gathered to speak of. And it wasn’t Sabra’s mental health. Let’s discuss our… president,” she softened the last word.

  “Son of a bitch is not my president,” a man spoke. “High-handed bastard is a dictator.”

  “Is he?” Jane “Little Bit” Moore asked. “Seems to me it’s taken him less than a month to do more than anyone else has accomplished in a decade since the bombings.”

  “And everything he’s done has been accomplished by spitting on the constitution,” the man countered.

  “Oh, fuck the constitution!” Roanna lashed out, surprising no one. She had been a staunch supporter of Ben Raines since her return from the Smokies.

  Several of her male colleagues wondered if Raines had gotten into her panties. Several other female colleagues wondered if she might have fallen in love with the Rebel general. The more objective of the group wondered if she saw something in the man they might have missed.

  “Goddamnit, Jim,” Roanna continued, “he’s making things work again. He’s feeding the very young and the very old; he’s opening factories and creating jobs; he’s…”

  “No one is denying any of that, Roanna,” a black reporter said calmly. This reporter had survived the bombings of ‘88 and continued to go about his business of gathering news and reporting it, fairly and objectively. “There is no in-between with Ben Raines… not among the people I’ve spoken with. It’s either love or hate. But the point is: Do we—as reporters and commentators—condone what he is doing, in other words ignore the gross violations of the constitution and the Bill of Rights, or do we report on those violations as we see them, without giving the man’s credits equal time? I certainly don’t agree with everything he’s done and doing, but by God, he’s got to be given some credit. And I, for one, intend to do just that.”

  “Len,” a woman spoke. “Could the fact that he appointed a black VP have anything to do with your decision?”

  She wilted under the man’s steely, unwavering gaze. “I won’t even dignify that with a reply, Camile. If you care to recall, sixty percent of those men and women he had hanged or will hang in the near future, are black.”

  She sat down, but another woman picked it up. “Len, that is another point that can’t be ignored. He…”

  “Ms. Daumier,” Len’s voice stopped her in midsentence. “Those people were murderers, rapists, terrorists—scum! They were not acting out of survival; not out of self-defense—they were behaving in a manner not even befitting a rabid dog! I, for one, do not care to return to the days of the ‘60s and ‘70s, when those types of people were slapped on the wrist and given sentences so light as to be ludicrous. Now, I have had my say. I will report on the president’s excesses and accomplishments. I am not being paid to editorialize or find fault. Good day.” He walked out of the room.

  “I could not believe my ears when the president of the United States said, day before yesterday, if a person is attempting to break into your home, be it tent or mansion, feel free to shoot his ass off, because crime is not going to be tolerated in this nation.” The reporter allowed his outrage to overcome his overt liberalism. “Jesus Christ!” he blurted. “The son of a bitch is no more than a savage himself.”

  “And you’re as full of shit as a Christmas goose!” Roanna told him.

  “I beg your pardon!” the man’s eyes widened.

  Roanna got to her feet. “I said…”

  “We all heard what you said,” a man’s voice stopped the dispute before it got out of hand. The president of network news had entered the room quietly, without being noticed. Robert Brighton was another of the survivors of the bombings of ‘88—a man in his early sixties. Brighton was another of the objective-type of reporters. He had once stated, publicly, that anyone who satisfied themselves solely with TV news, would probably grow up to be a half-wit.

  “We didn’t know you were flying in from Chicago, Mr. Brighton,” a reporter said.

  “I didn’t fly in,” Brighton said. “I drove. I wanted to see for myself some of the horrors our president has perpetrated—according to some of my news reporters, that is.”

  Several men and women began taking more careful note of their shoes, the ceiling, the walls, anything except the eyes of Robert Brighton.

  “But, by golly, gang—guess what I saw?”

  More shuffling of feet and averting of eyes.

  “I saw smoke coming out of factory chimneys that have lain idle for almost twelve years. I saw men and women going to work for the first time in years. I saw men and women of Raines’s Rebel army giving food and warm clothing and blankets to the elderly and to those with small children. I didn’t see federal police—but I saw some of these new peace officers; talked with some of them. They seemed like pretty nice guys to me. Capable of handling themselves if need be, but also capable of using a large degree of common sense as well—something that has been lacking in our federal police for some years since the bombings.”

  “Mr. Brighton,” a man got to his feet.

  “Save yourself some grief, Harrelson,” Brighton frosted him with a glance. “And shut your goddamned mouth.”

  “I don’t have to be treated in this manner,” the man’s face expressed his shock.

  “Then carry your ass to ABC or CBS or CNN—if they’ll have you. Which I doubt. Now you people listen to me,” Brighton said. “Listen well.

  “This is make-or-break time for our nation. Can you all understand that? Make or break! Yes, President Raines has and will do some things that will—if you all will permit the use of an outdated word—outrage your liberal minds. It’s a hard time, people. The world is still staggering about, many nations still on their knees; it’s doubtful if some of them will ever get to their feet.

  “And you people are nit-picking. Nit-picking because a few are complaining while the majority is happy to be going back to work; happy that crime is dropping so rapidly the statisticians can’t keep up with the decline; happy to have a pay check in their pockets; happy to be alive. And you people are whining and complaining—setting yourselves up as the conscience of the nation; the upholders and guardians of liberty and freedom.

  “Get off Raines’s back. Let the man put the nation back together again—he can do it. When it’s together once more, he’ll step down and hand the most disagreeable job in the world to some other sucker.”

  Jane Moore stood up. “Am I to understand we are not to report on Ben Raines’s excesses, sir?”

  “I didn’t say that, Bitty. I said get off the man’s back. I’ve just come from a meeting with the department heads of all the majors—we’ve agreed to give him a chance. Ben Raines, in case any of you missed the placement of the pronoun, and I want it to be very clear. And just to make it perfectly clear,” he looked at Roanna. “You’re in charge of this flag station.”

  “I’ll step down when Sabra returns, Mr. Brighton,” Roanna replied, shock evident on her face at the promotion to Top Gun in the nation’s capital.

  Brighton shook his head. “Sabra died an hour ago.”

  * * *

  “I want this to be the toughest tax bill to ever pass both Houses,” Ben said. “I have no doubt that when I leave the White House it will be repealed, but for my term in office, the tax laws will be as equitable as I can make them.�
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  “Senator Henson told me yesterday she doubted it will get out of committee,” an aide informed him.

  Ben turned in his chair and fixed the man with a look that would freeze water in the middle of the Mojave in July. At noon. “You will personally inform Senator Henson that if this bill is not out of committee and on the floor by this time next week, I will personally go on radio and television and inform the middle and lower-income citizens of this nation that effective immediately, they may commence paying into IRS what they feel the government is worth. And if Congress doesn’t like it, I will station armed troops around every IRS office in this nation with orders to shoot any agent that attempts to harass any non-taxpaying citizen. Is that clear?”

  The aide paled; looked appalled. “Mr. President, you can’t mean that!”

  “Try me,” Ben said calmly, but his voice was charged with emotion.

  “Yes, sir,” the aide replied weakly. “I will so inform Senator Henson.”

  “Fine.” Ben turned to Steve Mailer, the new head of the Department of Education. “Are you going to be a harbinger of gloom and doom, too?”

  “No,” the ex-college professor laughed his reply. “But I’m running into stiff opposition with your mandatory high school education plans.”

  “I expected it. Steve, I hope I don’t have to convince you that education is the key that will turn the lock for survival in this nation.”

  “You know you don’t, Mr. President. But you must know there are any number of… how do I put this… ?”

  “…Hillbillies and rednecks who don’t want their kids exposed to much education. I am fully aware it all begins in the home, Steve. Because of that, the teachers that will staff our schools will have to be a special breed. Not only will they be teaching the three Rs, this time around they’ll be teaching fairness, ethics, honesty, ways to combat and ultimately eradicate all the deadly sins that have plagued this nation for so many years. I know that is in part why the NEA is opposed to me. I understand it, and whether they believe me or not, I sympathize with the teachers; they’ve never been asked to do anything like this before. How is the mail from parents running?”

  “It’s really too soon to tell. But from what we have received so far, it pretty well reinforces what we have known all along: the higher the educational ladder attained, the more in favor of what you are proposing. The lower the educational rungs achieved… against it.”

  “The teacher organizations, Steve—why are they really opposed to this plan?”

  Steve shifted in his chair. An ex-teacher, part of his emotions stayed with his chosen field. But as a highly educated person, he knew the more education a being possessed, the less the chances of that person abusing the children; the less chances of crime; the more apt to stay away from the baser types of music and violent sports… and so much more. But, just as Ben knew, Steve knew, too, that education without a solid base of ethics supporting it all, without a framework of decency and fair play and honesty and a stiff moral base left a great deal lacking.

  But was it, should it, be on the shoulders of teachers to instill those qualities into the hearts and minds of the young?

  Steve had been appalled when he learned that back in the Tri-States, Ben had ordered children taken from their parents if the parents were teaching the young hatred or bigotry and values that went against the foundation of what the Tri-States was built upon.

  But shock diminished, falling away from him gradually when he gave Ben Raines’s plan a deeper study. How could a nation ever do away with the deadly sins if parents continued to practice those sins at home?

  Like father and mother, like son and daughter.

  Steve was conscious of Ben watching him very closely, waiting for his reply.

  “Because many of the teachers are afraid they’ll lose their jobs, Ben. They are afraid they will not come up to your expectations.”

  Ben smiled. “But Steve, we haven’t even discussed guidelines. Aren’t they getting a little panicky for no reason?”

  The teacher met the revolutionary’s eyes. “All right, Ben—you want to cut right through the grease to the meat. Okay. Many of them know they will lose their jobs. They are fully aware they cannot meet any standards set higher than the ones currently in practice. There it is.”

  “That’s their problem. They can learn to adjust.”

  “What if they are fine teachers but still somewhat, shall we say, immoral outside the classroom?”

  “Get rid of them.”

  “Ben…”

  “No! I will not have drunks, womanizers, whores, bigots, playboys, or playgirls shaping the minds of this nation’s young people. Damn, Steve! Kids have to have someone they can look up to standing in front of that class. And I mean standing. Unless the teacher is handicapped and unable to stand.

  “The teachers that will staff the public schools of this nation will be of the highest quality, and they will be very highly paid. And their personal lives will be exemplary. Religion has nothing to do with it. I don’t care if they are Christian or atheist. Religion is not going to be taught in the public schools.

  “There is a very great difference in religion and ethics. Just do it, Steve. You said you could, I believe you, so do it. Steve, we can’t have a government based on common sense without the citizens of that nation openly practicing ethics and honesty and trust. If those qualities are not taught at home, then they must be taught in our schools.”

  Steve gave a mighty sigh. “You are going to stir up a hornet’s nest, Ben.”

  “Steve, I’ve been making waves for forty years. My daddy said I came out of the womb arguing with the doctor.”

  Steve laughed. “I don’t doubt that, Ben. I really don’t.” He stood up. “All right, Ben. It sounds so easy the way you put it.”

  “It’s going to be anything but easy, Steve. If it was easy it wouldn’t be worth a damn.”

  The men shook hands and Steve left to do his task. The intercom buzzer sounded on Ben’s desk.

  “A General Altamont to see you, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “Representative Altamont’s brother, sir.”

  Ben was thoughtful for a moment. A sense of alarm sounded silently in his guts. “Susie? We’ll be rolling on this one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Which meant everything was to be taped.

  FIVE

  Just before Captain Dan Gray slit the throat of one of Hartline’s mercenaries, the man gasped, “Just outside Pekin.”

  Gray took the life from the bullet-riddled man with one expert slash. He looked at his team. “You all heard him. Get on the horn and call the others on tach.”

  That done, one of his men said, “Damn sure narrows it some.”

  “Damn sure does, lads,” Gray grinned, wiping his bloody knife on the dead man’s shirt. “Let’s go.”

  They were fifty miles south of Pekin.

  * * *

  Matt let the tortured body of the mercenary fall to the cold white earth. He looked at the mercenary’s trussed-up buddy. His eyes were as cold as the snow that was slowly being stained red under the body of the merc.

  “You want to die this hard?” Matt asked.

  “Man—you’re nuts!”

  That got him a kick in the teeth. The mercenary spat out pieces of broken teeth and blood. “I’d rather not die at all.”

  Matt just looked at him.

  “Outside Pekin—‘bout ten miles.”

  “Which direction?”

  “East.”

  Matt cut his throat and left him beside his buddy.

  * * *

  The ex-Green Beret smiled at the mercenary. “My granddaddy used to tell me stories about his granddad. He rode with the Comancheros in Texas. Ever seen a man hung up by his ankles with his head ‘bout a foot from a slow fire?”

  Ike and an ex-Marine Force Recon squatted in the cold empty house and waited.

  “You wouldn’t do that to me?” the mercenary blustered.

 
Ike’s team member grinned. It was, the mercenary thought, the ugliest grin he had ever seen.

  “I guess you would,” the mercenary said. “I tell you where she is, I die easy—is that it?”

  “You got it.”

  “Tremont. Just outside Pekin.” The mercenary cut his eyes to Ike. “Long time, Mississippi boy.”

  “It’s growing very short, Longchamp.”

  “We went through UDT together, Ike.”

  “That don’t make us brothers.”

  “I don’t think you can do it, nigger-lover,” the onetime UDT man said with a grin.

  He was still grinning as Ike shot him through the heart with a silenced .22 Colt Woodsman.

  “I reckon he figured camaraderie went further than it oughtta,” the ex-Green Beret said.

  “He never was worth a shit at figurin,’” Ike said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Let’s stop dancing, General,” Ben said. “Sit down and put the cards face up.”

  The AF general smiled and removed a small boxlike object from his briefcase.

  Ben ruefully returned the man’s smile.

  Altamont began a search with the dial until Ben stopped him with a curt slash of his hand. “I’m taping, General.” He punched a button on his desk. “Stop taping, Susie.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “Am I to take you at your word, Mr. President?”

  “I don’t lie, General.”

  The general studied Ben’s face for several long seconds. “All right, sir. I believe you.”

  “Why so hinky about my taping our conversation?”

  “You have… ah… shall we say, more than your share of people who dislike you intensely.”

  “To say the least. That isn’t news.”