Anarchy in the Ashes (14 page)

“I used to fuck his wife.”

Doctor Chase laughed so hard tears rolled from his eyes. “Beautiful,” he finally said. “I needed a good laugh. Come on home with me, Ben Raines – meet my wife and eat a home-cooked meal. I've got something to discuss with you, if you're the Ben Raines I think you are.”

He was, and the doctor's ideas were very nearly the same as Ben's.

The men had agreed that the concept of Tri-States could work. And it did work for more than a decade.

 

 

“I'd like to see you try to stop me from running my combat hospital, Raines.” The old doctor stuck out his chin.

“Look, Lamar, be reasonable. Can't I at least appeal to your common sense?”

“If I had any common sense, you crazy gun-soldier, would I be a part of anything you planned? Huh? Got you there, Raines.”

“Old goat!”

The troops stood back and listened in silence. They had heard it all many times from the general and the doctor.

“You should talk, President-General,” he said sarcastically. “I'm beginning to think you plan on repopulating the world single-handedly Why don't you try keeping it in your pants every now and then? Now go tend to your business while I give my doctors and corpsmen some last-minute instructions on how to patch up people.”

“Damned hard-headed old crustacean,” Ben fired back at him.

“Oh, butt out, Raines.”

“That should be corpspersons,” Gale spoke from the silvery background.

“Ye gods!” Chase roared. “Is she coming along? Raines, can't you control that woman?”

“You're a male chauvinist pig, Lamar Chase,” Gale said with a smile.

“Damn right I am, sweetie. And proud of it.” Lamar stalked off, roaring and bellowing for his doctors and corps
men
to get off the dime and get their asses to their assigned places in this goddamned circus parade.

Ben took Gale's hand and together they walked on up the line.

Ben spoke to his Rebels: a word, a greeting, a sentence, a smile. He was very much aware of the fact that every man and woman present would follow him into hell, and he loved them all for that.

He wondered again – as he had many times since he had made up his mind to commit his people – how many would die because of and for him?

He pushed that from his mind. As far away as he could.

“Ike,” Ben stopped and spoke to his long-time friend and buddy.

“Ben.”

Ben looked over Ike's brigade. He spotted Jerre and her husband, Matt. He smiled and nodded at them and they returned the silent greeting. Ben always wondered what went on in Matt's head, the young man knowing the children he was raising had been fathered by Ben.

He swung his gaze and spotted his daughter, Tina. A tall young man stood beside her. He smiled at them.

He looked again at Ike and noticed the gray in his friend's close-cropped hair.

And the thought came to him: We are not young. Do we have the years left us to see this war-torn nation rise from the ashes?

I hope so.

“Kick-ass time, Ben?” Ike asked with a gin.

The Medal of Honor winner was spoiling for a fight.

“You ready, sailor?” Ben returned the grin.

“Cast off, mate.”

“Then get them mounted up and moved out, Ike,” Ben spoke the words that would again shake the nation into warfare. “I'll see you in a few days.”

“Let's go!” Ike shouted. “Go – go – go!”

 

 

Juan's Solis's troops had rolled out of Arizona thirty-six hours before Ben's column headed north. Al Malden and Mark Terry moved their people in conjunction with Solis. Almost seven thousand fighting men and women were rolling slowly but steadily toward the most hideous threat to humankind since Hitler's nightmarish dreams of a master race.

And all knew that madman's ravings could not, must not, be allowed to again rear its ugly head.

Juan knew it. Al and Mark knew it. Ben knew it. All the troops knew it. Troops of every race and nationality: blacks, whites, Hispanics, Jews, Orientals, Indians, both East and West Indians. If this nation was ever to climb out of the ashes of war and destruction and disease and hunger and lack of faith and hope, it would have to be done without bigotry adding to the seemingly insurmountable task facing those who believe in democracy over slavery, justice over lynch mobs, fairness over prejudice.

This violent confrontation just had to be. The participants had no choice in the matter.

This might very well be their only chance.

The world's last chance.

The convoys had to move slowly, for the big tanks had a top speed of only thirty mph, and it was essential that the tanks be a part of any assault, for the M60A2 tank not only had a 152mm gun launcher, but also carried thirteen Shillelagh missiles, a .50-caliber commander's machine gun, and coaxially mounted 7.62-caliber machine guns. It was fifty-seven tons of awesomeness, twelve feet wide, almost eleven feet high, and twenty-four feet long. Ben had thirty M60A2 tanks. Ten in each brigade.

The M60A1 battle tank was just slightly lighter, weighing fifty-two-and-a-half tons, carrying a 105mm cannon, plus .50-caliber and 7.62-caliber machine guns. Ben had thirty of them. Ten per brigade.

The M48A3 main battle tank carried the same type of machine guns, but with a 90mm cannon. It was a half ton lighter than the M60A1, but could fire ten rounds a minute from its cannon, and was more maneuverable. Ben also had thirty of them. Ten in each column.

The scant intelligence reports Ben had received had indicated the IPF had no tanks, but did have rolling howitzers and mortars.

Ben smiled a secret smile as he drove in his pickup, Gale sitting by his side. Occasionally she would rest her hand on his thigh. He knew he had the IPF outgunned with his M109A1 155mm self-propelled howitzers. The big bastards, with a crew of six, could sit back and lob shells a distance of eighteen thousand meters, which was close to eight miles. Nothing the IPF had could get close to them. Ben had twelve of them. Four per brigade.

Ninety tanks, twelve self-propelled howitzers. Ben had 320 people tied up in armor alone. He had 250 people as drivers and relief drivers. That left him with just over 2500 ground combat troops.

Gale glanced at him, taking note of the secret smile on his lips. She matched it until curiosity got the best of her.

“What are you smiling about, Ben?”

He shook his head. “I shouldn't be smiling. I was thinking that we have the IPF outgunned. But they have us outnumbered.”

“Are we going to win, Ben?”

“No way for me to answer that, Gale.”

“Humor me.”

“The odds are not good,” Ben told it like it was. “I won't lie to you about that.”

“Where is that famous Raines confidence?” she asked. “That chutzpa that carried you all the way from trashy book writer to president?”

Ben fixed her with a jaundiced look. “Trashy book writer?”

“Well?”

“Oh, I still have confidence, Gale. And I won't harp on this subject, but I do wish you had stayed at home.”

“I have a personal stake in this, Ben.”

“Oh?” Ben glanced at her from out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah. I'm a Jew.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed.”

She called him a perfectly filthy name.

 

 

If they could make 175 miles per day, they were doing well, even though the tank commanders were pushing the behemoth machines at max speed. Ben's column spent the first night on the road at the junction of Highways 67 and 63, in a small town in Arkansas called Hoxie. It was yet another lifeless town, the bones of the dead scattered by wind and animals, bleached ghostly white by the past summer's sun. No one among the Rebels paid much attention to the bones. It was a sight they had long grown accustomed to seeing.

But the smaller skeletons still bothered most of the men and women. They would not speak of that emotion, but they would avert their eyes and swallow hard, perhaps thinking of their own lost children, or of their brothers or sisters.

That first night, when the troops had been fed and bedded down, the guards posted, Ben rolled a cigarette – one of the few he allowed himself daily – then slipped into the blankets beside Gale. She turned, coming into his arms.

“Hey, Ben?” she softly whispered.

They were sleeping outside, under a sky that seemed alive with dead worlds, millions of miles away, a black velvet background softening the luster, making the diamond glow seem much more intimate, making the two seem much more alone.

“Yes, Ms. Roth?”

“I'm glad it was you that came along, Ben – up in Missouri, I mean.”

“Aren't you afraid people will snicker and point at us?” he kidded her. It was a game they sometimes played. “Maybe they'll think you're my daughter. Or maybe they'll think you're a wanton woman. Or maybe that I'm a dirty old man.”

“The latter I'll agree with. Come on, Ben. Don't joke – I'm serious.”

“OK. No more jokes.”

“I've been thinking about what you said today. We're in trouble, aren't we? I mean ... what is left of the country?”

“Yes.”

“About those odds you mentioned.”

“They aren't good, Gale. But I can't be certain of that because I can't get accurate intelligence readings out of the areas the IPF control. Maybe the LRRPs will report back some good news.”

“Yeah, maybe. I hate to be a harbinger of doom, but have you thought about what might happen if you – we – can't whip these people?”

“Plenty of thought. North Georgia, for one. That area looks good.”

“North Georgia? You got a thing about the South, don't you? Is the Klan strong there?” There was open skepticism in her voice.

Ben chuckled. “You remind me of a girl I knew years ago. She – ”

“Was she Jewish?” Gale interrupted.

“Yes.”

“I don't want to hear about her.”

“We were friends, Gale, not lovers.”

“You believe if you painted wings on a pig it would fly?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that?”

“About as stupid as you telling me you were friends with a woman. Raines, you have never been just friends with any woman you thought you could screw.”

“I think I'll go to sleep on that.”

She rudely poked him in the ribs with a finger. “So tell me about her.”

“I thought you didn't want to hear.”

“I changed my mind already.”

“She wouldn't visit the South because she thought she would find blazing crosses in every soybean and cotton field.”

Gale waited. “Is that it? Is that all? You got me all worked up for that?”

“I thought it amusing.”

“You would. Did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Visit the damn South?”

“How the hell do I know? I haven't seen her in years.”

Gale was silent for a moment. “Was she pretty?”

“Positively the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”

“Raines . . .”

“You were asking, I believe, about north Georgia.”

“So proceed.” Definitely a touch of irritation.

“I thought we might settle there, win or lose. Right under the Chattahoochee National Forest. I've checked it out. It would be very difficult for anyone to dislodge a sizable force from that area. I've sent a team into that country; they're in there now, nosing around.”

She stirred in his arms. “I'll forgive you for making out with that girl.”

“I never made
–
”

“Then you don't think we have much chance of beating these . . . the IPF?”

Ben sighed. “If all the troops we are committing, Gale – if they all were my people, trained by me, yes, we would have a chance.”

“Would you please explain that?”

“I'm not putting down Juan's people, or Al's people – I don't want you to think that at all. They are all good people, I'm sure of that. But they aren't professional fighters. A great many of the people in my command are combat veterans, Gale Every person in my command is highly trained and disciplined. They are probably the best trained people now under one command – anywhere in the world. With the possible exception of Striganov's IPF.

“But the problem, Gale, is not with the courage or the loyalty of the troops under Juan or Al. That isn't it at all. They just aren't trained. And if something totally unexpected or unpredictable is thrown at them, I don't know how they're going to react. Neither Al nor Mark nor Juan ever pulled any military time. They are going to throw their people into this without any of them having any experience in tactics or logistics.” Ben sighed heavily. “Maybe we can pull it off, Gale. I just don't know.”

She snuggled closer to him. “Please hold me, Ben,” she whispered.

“My pleasure.”

Long moments passed before Gale asked, “What was her name, Ben?”

Ben pretended to be asleep. But seeking fingers soon found a part of him that proved sleep to be impossible.

 

 

It began to rain the morning of the second day out, a slow, leaden dropping from the clouds, with thick pockets of fog lying heavy over the land. It only added to the desolation of the ravaged countryside. The rain and fog slowed the column down to no more than a crawl.

The Rebels saw no people. Not one living soul. And no animals. But they did find several carcasses of cows and pigs. Something had been eating on them, something with super strength and a fanged mouth.

“I didn't know they had gorillas in this part of the country,” Gale said, shuddering at the sight of the mutilated animals.

“They don't,” Ben said grimly. “Just mutants.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “I really needed that just after breakfast. If you want to call that slop we had breakfast.”

“C-rations.”

“What's the C stand for: crap?”

“Get in the truck, Gale.”

“Whatever the master wishes.”

The column stopped at Thayer, in Missouri. The town was deserted. They slowly made their way to West Plains – also deserted. Willow Springs looked as though it had been torn apart by angry, petulant teenagers. With the scouts reporting back to them they felt as if eyes were on them.

“Don't dismount!” Ben quickly radioed back. “Keep on rolling through the town. Get on through and wait for us a few miles northwest of there.”

Ben halted the convoy in Willow Springs. When he spoke to Gale, something in his voice told her not to argue with him.

“Stay here,” he told her. “And do not leave the truck unless and until I tell you to.”

She nodded.

Ben looked at her to see if she was feeling well.

Ben motioned for a team to begin moving up both sides of the street, weapons at combat ready. A thick, almost tangible odor hung over the small town. It resembled a scene from a grade B war movie: the sweaty faces of the troops; the hands clutching M-16s, AK-47s, CAR-15s and numerous other weapons of violence and death.

The thirty tanks in Ben's column rumbled quietly on both ends of the town, their noise adding to the idling sounds of the APCs and self-propelled howitzers and heavy trucks.

“Shut them down!” Ben yelled. The order was relayed up and down the street.

The dead town suddenly grew silent, the ticking of cooling metal like out-of-sync clocks.

Ben walked the littered streets, his old Thompson at the ready, on full auto.

“Sinister,” Ben heard one young Rebel mutter, his voice rising above the heavy silence. “And eerie, to boot.”

“Possibly,” Ben replied, not turning his head toward the source of the words. “Steady now,” he called softly. “That smell is of mutants – and a lot of them. Fire only if fired upon. Let them make the hostile move. Pass the word.”

“There's fresh crap here on the floor, General,” a sergeant called. “Not more than an hour old – if that old.”

“They're here,” Ben said. “I can sense them. But they're not running away, and they usually run at the sight of this many humans. Them not doing that bothers me.”

“They want me,” the small voice came from the top of what had once been a hardware store.

All heads looked up at the small figure, looking down at them. Even at that distance, she looked worn out.

“Who are you?” Ben called.

“Nancy Brinkerhoff. Sam Hartline tortured me, then ordered me taken to where the mutants gather. They stripped me naked and tied me to a tree, but I managed to get free. I've been running and hiding ever since. The mutants cornered me in this town. They're all around here, hiding, watching, waiting.” There was a note of hysteria in her voice.

“Just calm down, miss,” Ben called. “You're all right, now. You're among friends. Let us handle the mutants. Come on down.”

“Who are you?” she called.

“Ben Raines.”

She began weeping and pointing.

The mutants erupted from the empty stores, screaming and howling in rage and hate. Many of them wielded sticks and clubs and crude spears, sharpened on one end. The stench of them was hideous, almost as much as their grotesque appearance was appalling to the stunned Rebels.

Ben was the first to react.

Leveling his Thompson, he pulled the trigger, holding it back. The stream of heavy .45-caliber slugs knocked the front line of mutants sprawling, blood and hair and bits of bone and guts and brain splattered against the brick of the buildings.

The Rebels reacted just a split-second after Ben fired. The fire-fight was very short, with only one Rebel wounded. He took a spear in his leg. Dead and dying mutants littered the sidewalk and street. Blood pumped from their deformed bodies and leaked into the gutters, clogged from years of leaves and rags.

“Let them rot,” Ben ordered the Rebels, his voice strong in the shocked silence that always follows heavy gunfire. “Get Miss Brinkerhoff and let's get the hell out of here.”