William W. Johnstone (4 page)

Ben Raines was indestructible.

Ben Raines was more than flesh and blood.

Ben Raines was a god.

Nature, as surviving humankind was finding out, could recover much faster than so-called superior humankind. Nature was rapidly reclaiming its own, now that humankind was not fighting her with chemicals and axes and chain saws and bulldozers and choking smoke from millions of cars and trucks and other types of human-produced and often needless pollution.

The trillion-dollar mistake called the interstate highway system now lay like great twisting snakes throughout the land, broken only by the rushing waters of creeks and rivers.

And nature was slowly but steadily reclaiming much of that, too.

With no maintenance for almost fifteen years, the superslab was rapidly deteriorating. For the first time since its inception, the 55 mph speed limit made sense.

More than 25 mph now.

And if the interstate system was in bad shape, the two-lane highways could best be classified as awful.

Trees were blocking many of the two-lanes, bridges were out, abandoned vehicles squatted like rusting old time machines, mute memorials to an age long ago and far away; an age that would nevermore exist.

And the people. The survivors.

What about them?

Many had forsaken the various religions they had once embraced, believing that if indeed there ever had been a God, He would never have allowed this … this
awfulness
to have occurred. Hell, you couldn’t see Him; you couldn’t really talk to Him and expect any reply; there never was really any proof that He existed. So … all we have is our wits, our strength, our own two hands. Let’s stop this other foolishness and survive.

Inhabited towns either became haven for thugs and outlaws and perverts and lawlessness, or they became walled, barbed-wired, bunkered-in fortresses, with the people finally learning to pull together.

Of course, the people now did not have to contend with Big Brother Government and the mumblings of the Supreme Court interfering in their lives.

And many thought that was a blessing. Something good came out of the horror of war.

Now, there was no sign, anywhere, of factory smokestacks, no humming of machinery, no assembly lines, no commuting to work in car pools …

… and no lawyers.

But there was silence.

Sometimes the silence, for those who knew what went on Before, was loud. Too loud. They would wander away from the safety of fortress, and never be seen again.

Women became rare prizes, to be taken and used and then traded for a gun or a horse or a car. It was not an easy time to be a woman.

Or a child. Of either sex.

It was as if law and order had never existed. Now, there was no law—only the law one was strong enough to enforce. Despite all his efforts, the country that Ben Raines held in his dreams was slowly sliding back into a dark abyss, an abyss that many felt was too deep and too dark to even consider crawling out of.

This, then, was what Ben Raines and his Rebels faced—discounting the Russian and Sam Hartline.

“What is God, Ben?” Sylvia asked.

They were sitting outside the command post as dusk softly gathered her skirts around the land, casting purple hues, creating a false illusion of peace.

“Haven’t you ever read the Bible, Sylvia?”

“Yes. Sure. But I can’t make any sense out of that, Ben. It’s too … well, contradictory for me. And I don’t know what a lot of the words mean. Besides, if God is all-powerful, He wouldn’t have let this happen. He could have stopped it, right?”

“I guess he could have. But if you’re asking for my personal opinion as to why He didn’t … I think He just got tired of it all. I think He became weary of humankind’s pettiness, greediness, cruelness, and inhumanity to fellow humans. So He started over.”

“He created a flood the first time, didn’t He?”

“Yes. And said He’d never do it again. And He didn’t.”

“You think God did this, don’t you?”

“I think He had a mighty hand in it. He just let humankind destroy itself. There are those of us who always maintained our priorities were always wrong. I wrote about them, as writers are prone to do. Didn’t do any good, as far as I could tell.”

“I’ve read all your books. You sure wrote a bunch of them, Ben.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Some of them were pretty sexy, too.”

Ben grinned. “Sure were, Sylvia.” He hoped she was not leading up to what he thought she might be.

She was. “Every Rebel has at least one copy of a book you wrote, Ben.”

“When they should be carrying a pocket Bible, Sylvia. My words are not chiseled in stone, babe. I wrote paperback books for the mass market.”

“You never had a book done in them stiff covers, Ben?”

He thought for a moment. By God, he couldn’t remember. “No, I never did, Sylvia. I wrote to entertain, not to change the world.”

She didn’t understand that; and Ben really wasn’t sure he did, either.

Ben took a sip of water from his canteen and rolled the liquid around in his mouth for a moment before spitting it out on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I can’t get the taste of those goddamned eggs out of my mouth.”

In the gathering darkness, Ben leaned over and kissed her laughing mouth.

In his command post, General Striganov sat behind his desk, gazing at a map of the United States. He had just received intelligence that some of Raines’s command had moved out in trucks, heading west. But only a part of Raines’s command had left.

What was the man up to now?

It didn’t make any sense to Striganov. He had Raines heavily outnumbered as it was, so why would the man split his forces?

Curious.

Striganov sat quietly, puffing contentedly on his pipe. Georgi Striganov was a strikingly handsome man; tall and well-built, with pale blue eyes and blond-gray hair. A very intelligent man, Striganov liked Ben Raines. Of course, that would not prevent him from killing Raines when the time came. Well, perhaps
like
was too strong a word … but he did admire the man. As to his intelligence, that sometimes worked against Striganov, for he thought himself to be brilliant, when he was merely very intelligent.

Why would Raines cut his forces? Why?

He rose from his chair and walked to the huge wall map, studying it more closely. He shook his head. Possibly some of Raines’s Rebels were airborne qualified, but Raines was too smart to jump in with them, for the man was about the same age as Georgi. And when one gets to fifty years of age, combat jumping was not only reckless but foolish.

And Raines had not left with the truck convoy. His deep recon people were sure of that.

So, Striganov thought, that meant Raines was going to wait awhile before launching his attack.

Good. Then he could take his time about setting up defenses; go slowly and make certain of each and every detail.

But where in the hell was that one battalion of Rebels going and what did they hope to accomplish when they got there?

Obviously, he would not know the answer to that for some time. And he couldn’t order an attack against a force that large; didn’t have enough people out in the field. And another bad point was that his deep recon scouts were on foot, with no way to keep track of the truck convoy once they passed their position.

No matter, he brushed that away. He had enough force to crush a battalion like a dry piece of toast.

The Russian turned away from the maps and returned to his desk, picking up the latest photos of the babies born to human mothers, mutant fathers.

“Ugly bastards,” Striganov muttered, gazing at the enlarged photos. It would be at least a year, probably longer, before their intelligence could be truly tested and the Russian could know for sure if he had succeeded in producing a worker race; a select breed to serve as servants and houseboys and field hands.

But his scientists were sure they had done it.

“We’ll see,” Striganov said. He pressed a button on a panel on his desk. An aide stuck her head inside.

“Sir?”

“I need a bath. Send a girl in to assist me.” “Yes, sir.”

Striganov waited patiently until there came a timid knock on his office door. “Come!” he called.

A girl, no more than fourteen, at the most, entered the lushly appointed office of the supreme commander of the International Peace Force.

“Sir?” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.

“You’re new,” Striganov said. “When did you arrive in camp?”

“About two weeks ago, sir. I have been tested by the doctors.”

Which meant the young girl was free of any disease and ready, if not willing, to be on call to General Striganov. The general had developed some rather curious sexual habits over the past few months.

He attributed that to his association with Sam Hartline.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Jane.”

“Jane,
sir.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t forget again.”

“Fine. Remove your robe.”

Jane unbelted her robe and let it fall to the thick carpet. Striganov licked suddenly dry lips at the sight of her nakedness. The girl was a rare blooming flower, he thought. No doubt about it.

Her pubic hair was thick and lush. Her breasts forming up nicely, centered with brown-cherry circles. Her little nipples looked delicious.

Striganov had long ago given up on finding a virgin. Any girl over six who still had her virginity would be a rare find, indeed.

But his men were still looking.

“Come to me,” he said, his voice thick with growing passion. His trousers bulged with his erection.

He pulled her onto his lap and began stroking her flesh. Georgi Striganov felt this was going to be a good year. He had a full complement of willing young girls to satisfy his sexual needs, and very soon he would see Ben Raines die. Yes, a good year indeed.

The morning broke to a gray sky and a hard-falling rain. It was just as well. For Ben had made up his mind to cancel the jump anyway. By doing that, he would give his first battalion more time to get in position, and the Rebels coming from the east more time to arrive.

Leaving Sylvia to sleep amid the warmth of their blankets, Ben dressed and pulled a poncho on and stepped from his command post. He walked over to Ike’s quarters and knocked on the door.

“Come on in, Ben.”

Ben shucked his poncho and hung it up. He moved to the coffeepot at Ike’s wave of his hand and poured a cup.

It really wasn’t coffee, but a mixture of coffee and chicory and other things that Ben would just as soon not know.

“You and Sylvia decided to just shack up and to hell with what the others think?” Ike asked, a grin on his face.

“Might as well. Her idea. But fine with me. Ike, we both can’t buy it on this run. Have you given that any thought?”

“Sure have. And I think you ought to stay back here and—”

Ben waved him silent. “You can take that thought and shove it, pal. Ike, after Sylvia went to sleep last night, I couldn’t sleep …”

Ike paid him back for cutting him off. “I’m sure you couldn’t. Probably laid there and wondered if you was goin’ to have a heart attack.”

Then the ex-SEAL roared with laughter at the expression on Ben’s face.

Ben unsuccessfully fought to hide his grin and took a sip of the awful-tasting brew. At least it was hot. “I’ve got to be thinking of a successor, Ike.”

“When you finally buy it, Ben,” Ike said, “the movement goes with you.” There was a flatness, a finality, in his voice that Ben did not like.

“Ben, I’m an ol’ curly wolf; not an administrator. Cecil is one of the finest men I have ever known in my life, but he’ll be first to tell you: he won’t be able to hold it together. No, Ben, it’s your show all the way. Hell, partner, it always has been. I knew that when you showed up down in Florida … Christ, how many years ago was that?”

“More than I care to recall,” Ben said with a sigh. “Okay. We’ll talk about that later. Let’s get down to business. You’re sure you want to take your people in from the south?”

“You bet.”

“You’re going to have some hot area behind you, buddy. No backing up for your bunch.” Radioactive areas.

“I don’t intend to back up, Ben. Just go forward and sideways and every other whichway.”

It was to be the type of war that Ben and Gray and Ike were trained to fight: a cut-and-slash, hit-and-run, guerrilla-type action.

Ben nodded. What deep recon intel they had been able to receive showed that Hartline had few planes. He could not escape by air. And since the nuclear blasts, the tides had been affected; the oceans that hammered the coasts on both ends of the United States had become a raging torrent of fury. Scouts reported gigantic waves crashing against the shoreline; the seas bubbled and roared, creating a nonsurvivable maelstrom.

No one was coming in by the sea along the California coast.

And Ben was not sure he wanted to see the once-peaceful Pacific in such a rage.

Dan Gray entered Ike’s quarters and poured a cup of what now passed for coffee. He sipped and grimaced. “So so, is good, very good, very excellent good; and yet it is not; it is but so so,” Dan said.

“Shakespeare on a rainy morning, Dan?” Ben asked.

“It’s the best I could come up with in describing this dreadful brew,” the Englishman replied.

“Why don’t you say it just tastes like shit and be done with it?” Ike needled him, knowing Dan would have a quick retort.

“I shall leave crude remarks to people of your ilk,” Dan said.

Ike feigned great personal affront. “The man has cut me to the quick.”

Dan set the coffee mug aside. “Doubtful.” He looked at Ben. “To insult someone of his boorish nature would require a much more eloquent person than I.”

“Don’t he talk pretty, though?” Ike said, grinning.

The men joked and insulted each other for several minutes. They’d been friends, good friends, close friends, for years, and they were the type of men who did not, or would not, allow their feelings to show in any type of overt manner. This was their way of showing affection for the other.