Anarchy in the Ashes (17 page)

“That is what is currently happening to our Mr. Linderfelt and to Miss, ah, yes, Llado. That is that greaser's name. We have to give the human males large injections of aphrodisiac in order for them to cooperate – large doses of Valium work wonders in many cases – and it is really working out well, I believe. Our doctors don't, as yet, know the gestation period for the female mutants, but it is very fast, we believe. It should produce some interesting offspring, don't you think, my dear Miss Jones?”

“You're savages!” Peggy whispered. “Nothing but dirty, filthy monsters.”

Hartline looked hurt. “Oh, not true, not true. If everything works out as planned, we shall have a race of beings with some degree of intelligence, able to perform menial jobs, thus freeing the more intelligent for other work. It's science, my dear, that's all.”

He freed her from her bonds and forced her to a low table, strapping her on her belly, legs spread wide, her bare feet on the cold floor, her buttocks elevated. She knew what was in store for her.

“I believe, my dear,” Hartline said, removing his trousers, carefully folding them and hanging them on the back of a chair, “we were in the process of doing something when you turned savage on me. Were we not?”

He was naked from the waist down, his penis already swelling in anticipation of the assault.

Peggy did not reply.

She felt grease or oil being spread between the cheeks of her buttocks.

“Yes, we were,” Hartline said, positioning himself.

Peggy began screaming.

 

 

By maintaining daily radio contact, Ben learned that Ike's and Hector's columns were having as much equipment trouble as his own. Ike had been forced to halt at St. Genevieve in Missouri for major repairs. He reported to Ben that the city contained survivors, but they had, so far, shown no interest or inclination in fighting General Striganov. They would take whatever form of government happened along.

Ben resisted an impulse to tell Ike to shoot them.

Hector's column was bogged down in Warsaw, Missouri while his mechanics worked frantically on the engines and transmissions.

The troops from North and South Carolina had been halted in Illinois.

Juan was the only one to have reached his objective and was digging in for the fight.

But the IPF was having no problems.

 

 

The rumble of Jeeps and heavy trucks grew louder to the small team of LRRPs hidden by the side of the road in central Iowa. The column of IPF forces stretched for miles.

“Must be four or five battalions,” a LRRP said to his buddy.

“At least that. And they've got more heavy guns than we first thought. We got them outgunned, all right, but they've got us outmanned.” The LRRP picked up his mic and called in, speaking softly.

“At least five battalions of infantry heading south in trucks. We counted forty of the six-bys pulling cannon. 105s.”

“Tanks?”

“Negative on tanks. Here comes another convoy. Hang on.”

The LRRPs counted the heavily loaded trucks – those loaded with men and those loaded with equipment. They radioed back to Ben's HQ.

“Three more battalions rolling south.”

“Acknowledged. Maintain your positions and stay low.”

“If I got any lower my buttons would be in the way.”

The radio operator took the bad news to Ben.

“Seven or eight battalions,” Ben read aloud the hastily scrawled message. “Damn! General Striganov knows he's got to defeat us; once that is done, he's home free. Get me Ike.”

Colonel McGowen on the horn, Ben said, “Ike – we've got six thousand troops coming at us, buddy. They're in central Iowa now. Whatever you have that will roll, get the wheels turning north and assume your positions. Get ready for hell, partner. We've got to have time to dig in, so move them out
now!
The clock is ticking. Interstate 70 is the stopping point for the Russians. We've got to hold them. The personnel you leave behind can catch up ASAP. I'll be talking with Hector in a moment. Roll it, Ike . . . and God go with you.”

“Ten-four, Ben. Luck to you, ol' buddy.”

Ben spoke briefly with Colonel Ramos, telling him to move out and dig in. No sooner had he released the talk button than Mark Terry was on the horn.

“We are engaging the IPF in central Illinois, Ben. And we are meeting heavy resistance. We are holding.”

“Dig in and slug it out, Mark. Don't let those people break through and come up behind me. I can't spread my people out any thinner. General Striganov is throwing some six thousand troops in my direction.”

“Jesus,” Mark said. When he again spoke, his voice was calm, the sounds of gunfire heavy in the background. “I have instructed my people not to surrender, Ben. I can only hope they will obey to the last man. Good luck to you.”

“The same to you, Mark.”

The connection was broken.

Ben turned to tell the radio operator to get him Juan Solis on the horn when the Mexican's voice came through the speaker.

“We are looking at some two to three thousand troops, Ben. We have the Missouri River to our backs and we are not going to surrender. It's up to you, Ben. Good luck.”

His company commanders, platoon leaders and squad leaders had gathered around the communications van. They looked at Ben in silence.

Why is it always up to me? Ben thought. Why me? All I ever wanted was to be left alone and to live out my remaining years in peace.

Why me?

“Move out,” Ben told his people. “We've got to stop the advance of the IPF. Good luck.”

The bridges crossing the river at St. Louis were long gone, and Ike had left personnel at Memphis, Caruthersville, Cairo, Cape Girardeau and Chester, with orders to blow the bridges if any IPF forces attempted to cross and come up from behind. Ike began spreading troops from St. Peters, Missouri west to Warrenton. Ben would spread his personnel from Warrenton to Columbia, and Hector would cover the area from Sweet Springs east to Ben.

They were all spread thin, with very few troops left in reserve. It would be a tiring campaign, with little time for the troops to rest. And they would be outnumbered almost three to one.

But Ben's Rebels had something going for them the IPF personnel had never known in all their lives: a belief in God Almighty and freedom.

 

 

When Ben's column reached the outskirts of Columbia, he met with Colonel Gray. After the two men shook hands, Dan brought Ben up to date on the latest developments his scouts and LRRPs had radioed in. Ben said, “I want to meet with General Striganov one more time, Dan, even though it will probably do no more than buy us time. When I am doing that, you take your scouts and LRRPs and circle behind the IPF people; begin a guerrilla campaign against them. No holds barred, Dan, I want as much blood and terror and demoralization as possible. I don't have to tell you how to play dirty.”

The Englishman's grin was decidedly nasty. Now the game was getting to his liking. The men once more shook hands. “Good luck to you, General, and Godspeed.”

“To us both, Dan,” Ben said.

Ben turned to his commanders. His message was brief.

“Dig in.”

 

 

The thin line of defense of democracy stretched some 140 miles – and it was stretched thin. Much too thin, Ben knew. But Striganov knew, too, that to punch one hole in the line of defenders would accomplish very little, for Ben would simply order his people to tighten up, swing ends around, and then trap the Russian's spearheaders in a box.

No, the Russian would be careful, very careful, for he had read every book Ben Raines had ever written – read them many times – and had teams of psychiatrists study the writings and give personality profiles on the man. Georgi had reached the conclusion that Ben Raines was a madman. A man who would fight to the death for a mere principle. That, to the Russian's way of thinking, certainly and irrevocably constituted insanity.

And Ben Raines did not like to lose. Ever. He was – if his major characters were any indication of the author's true personality, and Striganov knew that to be true in most cases – the type of man who would resort to any tactics to win, if it took him a lifetime to do so.

So Striganov concluded this battle was to be of the classic style, the classic-fought duel between armies, the two forces slugging it out, wearing the other down, with Interstate 70 the no man's land.

But the Russian knew, too, that it was only a matter of time for the Rebels. He felt sure and confident in that, for he had Ben Raines's Rebels outmanned. Yes, he knew the mission would be costly in human life and limb. But his perfect people were not being thrown into this battle; they were safely tucked away back in Minnesota, back at the warm and comfortable breeding farm.

Striganov smiled as he sat in the cushioned back seat in his armor-plated and bullet-proofed car in the center of the convoy heading south to Interstate 70 and Gen. Ben Raines and his foolish, idealistic Rebels. He was proud of what he and his people had accomplished in so short a time. They had sterilized several thousand inferiors, had disposed of several hundred mental defectives, and were coming along splendidly with their breeding programs. But just look what he had to work with: those lovely people of his command, the cream of perfection. The women were so fair and blond and beautiful and intelligent; the men so tall and fair and blond and handsome and intelligent – both genders pale-eyed, of course.

All families of the perfect people had been researched carefully for flaws. And so far, the children born to the IPF over the past decade . . . perfect. Not one defective. All beautiful. Selective breeding would work, even that idiot Hitler had known that.

Striganov stirred restlessly in the back seat. He poured a glass of wine and dipped a cracker into black caviar, chewing slowly, savoring each bite.

But that fool Hitler had almost destroyed any hope of the revival of a
Mactep Paca,
a
Meister Rasse.
It was one thing to let a race die out naturally – more or less – but to destroy them with ovens and gas and starvation...

That was unthinkable. Barbaric. Savage. It served no useful medical purpose. For even defectives could be used in experiments. True, Hitler did once have a few experiments going, but his were not on the grand scale of the IPF.

Striganov really never thought that what he was doing was just as terrible and barbaric and horrible – perhaps even more so. The Russian actually believed – had convinced himself – he was doing humankind a service, not a disservice. What he was now putting into effect had been his lifelong dream, ever since as a child he had read and absorbed the rantings and ravings of that only-sometimes-lucid little paper hanger.

Yes, the little man had had – at times – some good ideas and thoughts. But Striganov was so very glad the man had not succeeded. For his own theories and ideas were so very much better.

A master race, a fully workable caste system – that was the ultimate achievement. A world whose leaders and thinkers and breeders at the top level would all be fair-skinned and blue-eyed and handsome and intelligent.

How could anyone wish for more than that?

But suddenly a frown crossed the handsome features of the Russian. For there was only one flaw in an otherwise perfect master plan.

Ben Raines.

 

 

“Ben, do we send troops in to help Juan and Mark?” Lieutenant Macklin posed the question at a briefing before the battle. “They won't have a prayer without some support from trained combat troops.”

“No.” Ben stood firm in one of the most agonized-over decisions he had ever had to make. “That is what Striganov is hoping I'll do. Hoping I'll further weaken this thin line we're maintaining.”

“Do they know this, Ben?” Hector asked.

“Yes. The leaders do. And I'm sure most of the line troops sense it as well.”

“It could backfire, ol' buddy,” Ike reminded Ben.

“I know it – only too well,” Ben admitted the weakness in the plan. “Unless we can defeat the IPF here, those on the west side might punch through and come in under us with so much force we couldn't close the pincers on them. I know that. It's going to be a slugging match, people. We'll be taking and losing and retaking the same ground – on both sides of the line – twenty times before we're through. I think Striganov knows – just as I know – this is going to be the stand-up-and-slug-it-out type of battle. And he knows, as I know, we are going to both inflict and take heavy losses.”

But Ben was worried as he glanced at Ike, and Ike knew it. Knew what Ben was thinking: neither ex-SEAL nor ex-Hell-Hound was an expert in this type of fighting. Both of them were trained – and highly so – in the art of guerrilla warfare: that dirty cut-slash-run type of unconventional warfare. The men had defended the original Tri-States in the West, and done it well but they had been forced out. Not because of lack of courage, simply because of superior manpower thrown at them by forces of the United States government, when Hilton Logan was president and his hate for Ben Raines had finally erupted into bloody warfare.
¹

And it was superior manpower they were again about to face.

Ben rose, signalling the meeting was over. He shook Ike's hand, then Hector's. “Showdown time, gang. Let's win it and get the hell back home. We got crops to harvest in a few weeks.”

Ike and Hector and Mary smiled, nodded and walked away. Mary was part of Ben's HQ's company. Ike went to the east, Hector to the west.

To war.

But only one of the two men would return from the final battle.