William W. Johnstone (8 page)

She wondered what those things were.

But what really grabbed her attention and held it, was the fact that none of the kids carried a gun.

Not even a knife.

That seemed very odd to Lora.

And some of the girls wore fancy dresses. Lora thought she might have had a dress one time in her life. She seemed to have that memory. But she couldn’t bring the memory into full light of consciousness. But she thought she had had a dress on sometime.

Maybe it was Before.

No. She had been told that was … twelve years ago. And Lora only had eleven years. So it had to have been After.

Oh, well, she thought, suppressing a sigh. It didn’t matter.

She didn’t know anything about Before. Just After. And now that could be called Here.

Sitting alone, she turned the page. More pretty pictures of smiling and laughing kids.

Lora could not understand why they would all be so happy.

She wished she could read the words.

She could make out some words. But she wasn’t too sure she understood what they meant. She had seen the funny-looking word TV many times. She wished she knew what a TV was.

And a moving star. Or something like that.
Movie
star, that was it.

Now she wished she knew what a movie star was.

Stars were up in the heavens. Everybody knew that. Stars were far away and untouchable. Why would anyone want to be far away and untouchable?

Well … Ben Raines was untouchable, but he wasn’t far away.

It was all so confusing.

The other woods-children had told her that when things were better, Ben Raines was going to have them all attend school where they would all learn many things.

Lora thought that might be fun. Maybe.

“Let’s go!” the shouted command reached her.

Lora carefully replaced the magazine back into her rucksack and stood up, slinging her carbine. She looked down at her ragged tennis shoes. She’d have to find a new pair pretty soon. Soon as they came up on a house she’d look. Maybe she’d find a pair the rats and mice hadn’t chewed on.

She took her assigned place in the short column and moved out.

The plane from the old Tri-States had landed and the pilots were busy inspecting the newly acquired aircraft. Jean walked up to Ben.

“They’re in fine shape, General,” she said. “And we found an old Puff—believe it or not—in the far hanger.”

“All the guns operational?”

“They seem to be. We’ll check them out when we test fly the plane.”

“Fine. Get the planes back to a safe zone as quickly as possible. I’ve asked Dan’s Scouts to hit every airport they can. Striganov seems to have set up posts at airstrips. That’s good for us if it holds true. I’m taking my contingent straight up the interstate into Redding as soon as you people get airborne. We’ll reconnoiter the area and if possible hit the airport just before dark. I sent recon teams out before dawn, in seized vehicles. They’ll be reporting back any minute. Get cracking, Jean.”

She saluted and turned to leave.

Sylvia walked to his side. “Recon teams just radioed back, Ben. They report only a small force of IPF personnel at the airport in Redding. And the airport has been cleaned up and is fully operational.”

“Thank you, Sylvia. You heard it, Jean. Get the planes back and stand ready for my call to return.” Ben grinned. “Pretty soon now, we’re going to have more planes than pilots, huh?”

She returned the grin and said, “At last count, General, we’ve got about a hundred and fifty people who are, or were, qualified pilots. Checked out in everything from props to jets. You’re going to have an air force before you know it.”

“I’ll make you the first commander of it, then,” Ben said.

“For the first time in history,” Jean said drily. “That may well be what we’re all trying to do.” Sylvia said. “What?” Jean asked.

“Trying to keep history from repeating itself.” “Very profound, Sylvia,” Ben said. “Oh, I’m just full of surprises, General,” she replied.

Ben glanced at her, smiling.

Jean left before it could get mushy.

Early that morning, before dawn, Ben had ordered the residents of Red Bluff—those that could be found—rousted out of bed. IPF sympathizers were quickly pointed out to the Rebels.

And just as quickly disposed of.

Ben and his Rebels had no sympathy for those who would willingly surrender their freedom. And no use for them. And no place for those types within the ranks of the Rebels.

The handful of survivors found in Red Bluff, less than two hundred in all, were armed with weapons taken from the IPF garrison and told they had damn well better get ready to fight. To the death if it came to that, and that it might just come to that.

Ben’s Rebels pulled out, with Ben’s Jeep leading the column, his Scouts ranging far out in front of the main column. Sylvia driving.

“Isn’t this awfully brazen, Ben?” Sylvia asked. “Just driving right out on the interstate in broad open daylight?”

“No. We’re driving vehicles with IPF markings. If Striganov has spotter planes out, the pilots will think it’s a column of their own people. I would think our greatest danger would come from Americans along the road; maybe with a sniper rifle.”

Sylvia muttered something under her breath that Ben ignored with a smile. It sounded suspiciously like, “Smart-ass!”

Ben halted his column on Highway 273, just west of the interstate, and waited for another report from his recon team. Redding was about five or six times the size of Red Bluff, so the airport would be much larger, and probably with a much larger contingent of IPF personnel assigned to guard it. While they waited, Ben studied maps taken from the slain IPF guards at Red Bluff.

“Curious,” he muttered. “But typical of the arrogant bastard.”

“Who?” Sylvia asked.

“General Striganov.”

“What’d he do?”

“Put his back to a wall of raging ocean. He might have a spectacular view, as I’m sure he does, but he cut off a valuable escape route.” Ben thought for a moment, then said, “No, he didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“If by some chance we do trap him in there, he can walk right out of there. He could put the women and children in front of him, knowing we wouldn’t shoot through them to get him. Or he’d stay put and start killing hostages if we tried to rush him.”

“He’s ruthless enough to do it, too.”

“Tell me.” Ben’s thoughts were flung through a mist of bloody events, back to when Hartline and the Russian had tied naked men and women to the front of tanks and trucks and Jeeps and APCs, and used the helpless men and women for cover while they advanced on Rebel-held positions. And mixed in with the advancing mercenaries and IPF forces were several hundred elderly people, stripped naked and forced to jog and trot ahead of and mingled in with the advancing forces.

If the elderly couldn’t keep up and fell down, they were run down and crushed by the vehicles behind them.

Ben sighed and lit one of his rare cigarettes. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about Hartline and the Russian.”

“You say contact is poor from the Red Bluff end of the transmission?” Striganov asked his radio operator.

“Yes, sir. It’s the atmosphere again. That radioactive belt must be dipping closer again.”

“Then it would affect
both
ends of the signal,
fool!”
Striganov shouted. “Goddamn, I’m surrounded by
idiots!
Get Red Bluff.”

With shaking fingers, the young woman operating the radio keyed her mike and called Red Bluff.

But in the time the IPF had occupied northern California, the Americans had learned a lot of Russian. And the man Ben had left in charge of the civilians in Red Bluff, George, had grinned and agreed when Ben had given him instructions as to what to do when his base was contacted.

George smiled and keyed his mike.
“Da
… Red Bluff …” He paused for several seconds between each word, as if his radio was faulty.
“Kaxkb … bce … tyt.”

He hoped the other end would understand that everything was quiet here.

Striganov cursed as he listened to the man’s voice break up. “I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. Start contacting the others, all of them. Chart their responses and have it sent to me as soon as you are finished.”

“Yes, sir.”

Redding reported that everything was quiet. So did Yreka and Old Station. Yuba City, Marysville, Oroville, Paradise, and Chico all reported everything normal.

But when she tried to contact anything south of Highway 20 and north of Highway 299, she once more experienced that odd breaking-up of transmissions.

Strange, she thought.

But everything was all right in Susanville, Lake Almanor, in the Pumas National Forest, and Grass Valley.

She checked a few more locations and called her relief operator, walking to General Striganov’s quarters in the newly built command post.

She could hear the gruntings and the whimpering cries before she reached his office door. She for certain was not going to interrupt the general’s fucking. The general was getting as bad as Sam Hartline.

She felt certain that was the young girl, Jane, in there with him. He probably had her bent over a desktop and was screwing her butt.

The woman sighed. The general didn’t used to be this way, she remembered. He had always been such a proper man. A gentleman, even.

Except with the minorities, of course. But who cared a whit about them?

It was not until he became associated with that pig, Sam Hartline, that General Striganov became so … perverted with his sexual appetites.

The girls kept getting younger and younger.

The sounds of a blow reached her. The sounds of a hand slapping naked flash.

“Stop your whining, you bitch!” Striganov’s voice carried to her. “You know you like it. Reach around. Spread the cheeks further apart. That’s it. Good.”

His gruntings picked up in tempo.

The radio operator shook her head and walked away, out of earshot. Walked to the secretary’s desk and sat down on the edge of the desk. The two women’s eyes met for an instant.

The secretary said, “It is not for us to criticize the general’s activities.”

“No one did.”

“The look in your eyes did.”

“I’ll remember to be more careful.”

The girl screamed and the secretary’s hand shook as she lifted her teacup to her lips.

The radio operator smiled and put the needle to her friend. “You must remember to be more careful, Val. Your emotions gave you away.”

“Watch your mouth, Hedda. I outrank you, remember.”

Hedda laughed. “He’ll be calling for the medics now. He probably split her.” The secretary’s intercom buzzed. “Yes, sir.”

“Call the medics to come get this stupid bitch,” Striganov said.

“Yes, General.”

“And where is that damned Hedda?”

“Standing right here, sir,” she said with a wink at Hedda.

“Give me a few minutes, then send her in.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked up at Hedda. “Take a seat. He’ll shower before he buzzes me again. He’ll want to wash the blood away,” she added bitterly.

“The radio room first,” Ben told his people. “We’ve got to take those people out but leave the equipment intact. The longer we can keep up this farce, the better off we’ll all be.”

“About fifty IPF men there, sir,” Ben was informed.

“All right.” Ben spread a map of the airport—compliments of the IPF back in Red Bluff—on the hood of his Jeep. “This is how we’ll go in.”

“Have you made contact with the Big Lake outpost?” Sam Hartline asked the man in the radio room.

“Yes, sir. But it’s very poor; breaking up badly. I can just make him out.” “Contact the Mount Shasta outpost.” “Yes, sir.”

Mount Shasta was contacted, the signal clear and loud. Everything was five by five. Okay. Boring.

Hartline’s cold green eyes held a thoughtful light for a few seconds. “Get me General Striganov’s CP.”

The general came on the horn.

“Georgi? Is everything all right down your way?”

“So far as I can tell, yes. We’ve had some difficulty reaching some stations. But you’re coming in very clear. It’s baffling.”

Hartline agreed. Baffling. But … maybe not. He said as much to the Russian.

“Explain, please?” Striganov radioed back.

“We know Ben Raines is on the move, right?”

“Yes. But there has been no sign of any Rebels in our sector. And our network of outposts would have picked up any unusual movements. No, it’s too soon for Ben Raines.”

“Don’t be too sure, Georgi. I’m going on full alert; sending out recon.”

“Very well. I’ll do the same. Keep in touch.”

Hartline turned to his radiomen. “Contact our people on the border. Tell them we’re going to full alert. Tell them to be very careful. Ben Raines is on the prowl.”

“In
our
territory?” the radioman was startled. Hartline nodded his handsome head. “I think so. My guts tell me it’s coming down to the wire.”

Late afternoon began settling softly into dusk as Ben’s Rebels, one by one, attracting no attention from the woebegone-looking people scattered about Redding, moved into position around the airport.

“Folks around here look like all the fight’s been kicked out of them,” a Rebel observed.

“Sure looks that way,” his partner agreed. “I haven’t seen anyone so far I’d trust.”

“I think what we’re seein’ is the losers; they’d be losers war or no war.”

“Then where are the others?”

“Watchin’ and waitin', I’d bet.”

The Rebel’s walkie-talkie, clipped onto his web belt, crackled softly.

“Go ahead,” the Rebel spoke.

“This is Raines. I’ve just been informed there is a very active resistance force of Americans working out of Redding. They know we’re here and will be linking up with you point people very soon. Leader’s name is Harris.”

“Ten-four, General.”

“Over to your right, Mac.”

Mac looked. A man was standing in the doorway of what had once been a drugstore. He waved the Rebels across the street.

They approached him cautiously.

“I’m Harris,” the man announced. “Man, are we glad to see you people.”