William W. Johnstone (10 page)

The Rebels outfitted Harris and his people, then waited for the pilots from the old Tri-States.

While they waited, Ben radioed back to Cecil, asking if Dr. Chase had attempted any contact with General Striganov.

“Not yet, Ben.”

“Tell him to forget it. We’re on a roll out here and I don’t want to tip our hand.”

“Ten-four. What about this Colonel Khamsin business, Ben?”

“Bring me up to date.”

“I just spoke with Base Camp One not half an hour ago. They’re convinced those people are telling the truth about the IPA.”

“About the what, Cec?”

“The Islamic Peoples Army. It was the children with them that convinced our people they’re telling the truth. Seems the kids all say that several times a day, these … whatever the hell they are, stop whatever they’re doing, spread some sort of mat, and squat down, as the kids put it, and pray. All in the same direction.”

Ben’s sigh was audible over the miles. “I think, Cec, we’ve got big trouble.”

“I think you’re right, buddy. Even if the IPA’s force is only a quarter of what is claimed, we’re in trouble.”

“It never ends, does it, Ben?”

“It certainly appears that way. Talk to you later. Hold down the fort.”

Ben signed off. He turned to Harris. “Maintain this charade for as long as possible, Harris. I don’t think we can continue playing radio interference for very much longer. Striganov is probably suspicious by now, and I’m sure Hartline is. But if we can keep this up for another twenty-four hours, we’ll have shaved the odds down and gained a lot of ground. The more outposts we can seize, the more Striganov is going to have to split his forces to regain them.”

“But won’t that also cut down the size of your personnel?” Harris asked.

Ben smiled. “Perhaps,” he said, and would say no more about it.

Ben had no inclination to discuss his battle plans with anyone—not even his own people. Yet.

The northernmost IPF outpost in California, located at Yreka, just a few miles south of the Oregon border, lay quiet under the springtime sun. It was a small outpost, but a vital one. It was also a lonely post for the soldiers stationed there. Before the bombings, now more than a decade past, the town’s population was about six thousand. Now it was down to about two hundred men, women, and children.

The IPF lieutenant in charge of the Yreka station had monitored all the requests of General Striganov’s radio operator; and listened to the garbled responses from some stations. It was puzzling, but, to his mind, nothing to get alarmed about. It probably was that radioactive belt that had hovered over the earth for years.

He stepped outside the building for a smoke and a breath of air.

The silence got his attention. He looked around him.

There were usually some townspeople about, begging for food or asking to see some friend or relative that had been seized by the IPF.

Or some local woman willing to sell herself for better treatment.

Sometimes a man or boy willing to do the same.

That always amused the lieutenant. He held Americans in contempt. The mighty Eagle. Now clawless, its people groveling about, willing to suck a cock for a can of beans or spread her legs for a package of cigarettes.

Or part of the cheeks of male or female ass for a good butt-fucking.

He wondered where the people were on this bright, beautiful morning.

He would never know the answer to that.

He heard a
twang
and lifted his head just as the fiberglass, field-pointed bolt, fired from a crossbow, hit his chest. He knew a few seconds of very intense pain as the point hit his heart, shattering it. He dropped to the ground, only seconds away from dying.

An attack, he thought. Against
us?
Here? Impossible, he thought. Not from these cowardly Americans.

Then he died.

The Eagle had risen, silently screaming its rage.

Lizard-camoed Rebels rushed the outpost, leaping over the body of the arrogant lieutenant.The point man reached the door and slipped inside, darting to his left; other Rebels quickly entered the blockhouse; they carried.22 automatics, the pistols silenced.

Two Rebels stepped into the radio room. They lifted the silenced.22s and shot the two people in the room in the back of the head. They closed the door and pulled the bodies out of the chairs, taking their place behind the wall of equipment.

Other Rebels were going about their deadly work, silently and efficiently.

The Rebels assigned to the small barracks-room found a half dozen IPF personnel sleeping in their bunks.

The Russians never awakened from their sleep.

In less than two minutes the blockhouse was secure and in Rebel hands.

The section leader opened the door to the radio room. “Can you change to our frequency and scramble?”

“Yes,” he was told. “Just as soon as I change out some parts. Take me about five minutes.”

“As soon as you do, inform Eagle One we are secure here.”

The radio operator nodded his understanding.

Some two hundred and fifty miles south of Yreka, in Woodland, Rebels from Ike’s contingent slipped quietly and unseen around the IPF compound. The small band of Rebels was heavily outnumbered and Ike had told them to forget about salvaging any of the radio equipment; just knock out the installation and let the chips fall where they may.

Or in this case, the bodies of the IPF personnel inside the compound.

At a signal from the section leader, a Rebel lifted a 66mm rocket launcher, sighted it in, and put the rocket through the window of the radio room. The room exploded in a cloud of mortar, brick, wood, blood, and pieces of human bodies.

Raines’s Rebels gave no quarter to the IPF forces inside the compound. If Ben and his Rebels were to build something constructive out of the ashes he would play the fiddle and call the tunes. He had turned his theory into fact back in the Tri-States. He had proven that a society can exist without criminals or crime. For if you don’t have one, you won’t have the other.

And Ben’s philosophy was instilled into the hearts and minds of his Rebels.

Ike’s contingent hit the IPF hard, taking no prisoners. In less than half an hour, the battle was over; all that remained was the dust and smoke that lingered like a bitter reminder over the compound.

“Radio Eagle One that Woodland is ours,” the section leader said.

The Rebels now controlled nine of the IPF’s outposts, stretching from Yreka down to the Napa Valley.

Then Ben abruptly called a halt to it, confusing all his teams and team leaders, including Ike.

It was late afternoon when Ike finally got through to Ben.

“Cease and hold, Ben?” he questioned.

“Yes. I want to discuss it, but not over the air. There is always a chance our transmissions could be descrambled. I’ve already spoken with Dan. You both have access to small planes and people to fly them.” He gave Ike map coordinates. “Meet me there in the morning. We’ll go over the plans. I’ll see you then.”

Ben signed off.

Ike scratched his head and looked at his XO. “What’s up, Ike?”

“With Ben, you just never know. But whatever it is, the Russian and Hartline ain’t gonna like it, you can bet on that.”

“Another outpost cannot be reached, General,” Hedda reported to Striganov.

“You mean the signals are garbled?”

“No, sir. Silent.”

Georgi turned slowly in his chair. He sighed deeply; a man in frustration. “Raines,” he said. “He’s making his move. I was wrong and Hartline was right. But where is the son of a bitch?”

“Hartline?” Hedda asked, confused.

“No! Goddammit, woman.
Raines.”

Hedda wisely chose to remain silent.

“He’s pulling something. But what?—other than the obvious. Raines is a wolf. He’s circling, not yet showing me his plan. Just as sure as I commit personnel to one place, the guerrilla bastard is going to pop up in another. I know how his mind works.”

Wrong. He did not know how Ben’s mind worked. He just thought he did. Arrogant people always think they’re much smarter than they really are.

“Yes, sir,” Hedda said. She would never admit it to the general, but she was very frightened of Ben Raines and his Rebels. They were savages. Brutal Vikings. Ben Raines and his Rebels paid no attention to the rules of warfare. They were all, to a person, thugs.

“Contact Hartline,” Striganov ordered. “Have him fly down here first thing in the morning. We have to start planning our strategy. We cannot allow Raines to get the upper hand, in
anything.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes.”

When Hedda had closed the door behind her, General Georgi Striganov’s face tightened as he jerked out a map of his IPF-controlled territory and quickly scanned it. With a colored pen, he carefully
X’
ed each outpost that had a garbled signal, and the one that had gone silent.

He stared at the map. He could make no sense of any of it.

There were two hundred and fifty miles between the northern outpost and the southern outpost. Raines just didn’t have that many men.

Or did he?

Striganov leaned back in his chair, his mind busy. Perhaps Raines had recruited more people …
Yes!
That had to be it. Just as he had recruited—or rather, Hartline—those warlords, Ben Raines had probably done the same.

But that would not be like Ben Raines. Raines hated even the thought of warlords.

But would he use them as a last resort?

Yes, Striganov thought, he probably would. The end would justify the means.

The Russian carefully noted each position he had marked on the map. Raines would be the strongest south of Highway 20, he felt. At least four of his outposts, probably five, had been knocked out there. So it reasoned that Raines would be the weakest at Yreka …

No!

Big Lake. Raines would have teams spread out north and south along Interstate 5. Big Lake would be stretching it thin for Raines, out of his supply route.

Big Lake would be the first outpost the IPF would retake. But first he and Hartline would monitor the transmissions coming from the outposts. Raines would make a mistake; he would slip up. Striganov was sure of that.

And then the IPF would pounce.

He smiled. It was a good plan.

“Sneaky, Ben,” Ike said. “Real sneaky. But it’s risky, buddy.”

“I know. But I’ve already sent for Cecil and his battalion. There is an airstrip here"—he punched the map—"just a few miles from Big Lake. The strip is big enough to handle twin-engined cargo planes. Cecil’s bunch will slip into position along the southeast side. Dan, your bunch will take the north side, forming the top of the triangle. My people will be in position on the west side, forming the west angle of the scalene. When the IPF people enter, then I’ll close the box. If we do this right, we can really cut the odds down.”

“I like it,” Dan said. “It’s dirty and mean.” He looked at Ike and grinned.

“You would,” Ike said with a grunt and a grin. “But then, so do I.”

“Get your people into position and out of sight. For a fact, Striganov is going to make some fly-bys in recon aircraft.”

“And start transmitting between the outposts we’ve captured?” Ike asked.

“Right. But warn your operators not to make it too obvious. Just chitchat. Lots of Rebels between 101 and Interstate five to the south. Lots of people at the border. We’re waiting for fresh troops to arrive. But it’s lonely as hell at Big Lake. Keep it simple and plain. Let drop once or twice that we’ve got two platoons at Big Lake. I don’t really know Striganov’s mind—no one knows another’s mind—but if I were in his boots, I’d send at least a full battalion into the Big Lake area, just to be on the safe side. What do you people think?”

“Just to add a bit of spice to the tea,” Dan said, “I would suggest a conversation or two about some green troops mixed in with the regulars at Big Lake. Since it’s so isolated, and the danger of attack so slim, that would be a good place for new troops.”

“Yes,” Ben said. “Good idea. But not too obvious with it.”

“Right, sir!” the Englishman said cheerfully. “I like it,” Ike said. “Move out,” Ben ordered.

“I don’t like it worth a shit!” Sam Hartline said.

“State your objections,” Striganov said.

“You can’t trust that goddamned Ben Raines! I’m tellin’ you, Georgi, he’s pulling some crap on us. It’s not like him to put up with all this bragging his people are doing on the air. It’s like … well, he’s trying to goad us into doing something stupid.”

“Oh, I agree with that. But you’ve listened to all the tapes we’ve made. Someone put a stop to any mention of those green troops at Big Lake. Raines, I’d wager.”

Hartline sat back down and calmed himself, mentally, silently, going over Striganov’s plan. It had merit, he was forced to admit that.

But Hartline felt he knew Ben Raines far better than Striganov did. He should, he thought, hiding a smile, for the two men were alike in a lot, well,
some
ways.

“What are you thinking, Sam?”

“A mixed bag of thoughts, Georgi. I’ll admit that I like most of your plan. All right, then, we’ll have a go at it.”

“I’ll order recon teams in and we’ll do a fly-by. Tomorrow morning all right?” “Fine.”

The Rebels had worked furiously all day and well into the night. Teams had begun arriving at the Big Lake site only a few hours after the meeting of Ben, Ike, and Dan had broken up. Cecil and his reserve battalion had landed and were digging in along the eastern borders of Big Lake.

Machine gun emplacements, mortar pits, and bunkers were almost finished. Booby traps were being laid out; Claymores were going into place. Artillery was anchored and camouflaged.

And then they waited.

Ro and Wade had received their orders. It was up to them and their young charges to see that no member of the attacking IPF forces made it past the triangle’s northern angle alive. At the Big Lake site, Ben watched the young boys and girls of the woods-children as they received their orders. If there was any fear in them, they did not allow it to show on their faces. They stood impassively.