Anarchy in the Ashes (30 page)

It was not quite Gen. Georgi Striganov's Armageddon, but it was to be the last battle for more than ninety-five percent of the troops facing Ben Raines's Rebels.

Many of the surviving IPF troops were already leery about fighting the Rebels, for they had heard all the stories about Ben Raines's supposedly supernatural powers, about him being something of a god, about his abilities to face death down.

Of course, outwardly they scoffed and made jokes about that. But for many, inwardly, they weren't so certain.

When the troops of the IPF turned to face the advancing Rebels, fear sprang into their hearts. For the “pure master race” of supermen and superwomen found themselves facing blacks, whites, Indians, Jews, Hispanics, Orientals and practically every other race of people known to exist on the face of the earth.

And they saw pure hate in the eyes of the Rebels. They saw the silvery glint of cold steel affixed to the weapons, the long bayonets gleaming in the cool fall sunlight. For most of the IPF troops, that would be the last thing they would ever see.

The IPF was forced to fight rage against what they stood for, love of country and a fierce dedication to justice and personal liberty, and an almost fanatical loyalty toward Ben Raines. And the IPF knew, to a person, they were beaten.

Miles away, heading back north to safety, Gen. Georgi Striganov sat slumped in the cushioned comfortable security of his armored car. He had tried to direct the operation from the rear, knowing that it was a mistake, but one he felt he had to make, one his advisors had practically insisted upon. He was safe, yes, but his best troops had been wiped out.

His thoughts were as ugly as the bitter taste lying sour on his tongue.

Using the radio in his armored car, Striganov called in to his HQ. “Evacuate west,” he said tersely. “Until I arrive, Colonel Fechnor is in charge. I want plan B put into effect at once. Move all personnel and equipment west into the Oregon, Washington and Northern California areas. Order all troops from Iceland to commence their sea journey to America – utilize the long route for safety. Transport the experimental minorities with care, for the females are not far from birthing. Put the evacuation plan into effect immediately.”

The Russian sank back into his seat. “Goddamn Ben Raines,” he cursed. “Goddamn his soul to the pits of hell!”

To hell! he thought. To hell? He shook away the thought of any punishment after death. He didn't believe in that myth.

Or . . . did he?

 

 

“What do you want done with the prisoners, General?” Colonel Gray asked Ben. It was a useless question, for the Englishman knew perfectly well what Ben's reply would be.

Ben looked at him. His smile was grim: a slight upturning of one corner of his mouth. His eyes were bleak. “Shoot them,” he said.

The Englishman nodded and turned away.

“Gather and inventory all weapons and equipment,” Ben ordered. “We're going to need it.”

A thin cover of smoke lay over the little valley of death. Bodies were piled on top of bodies as the Rebels moved into the carnage, stripping the dead of anything they might find useful.

“Tell our engineers to bring earth scrapers in here,” Ben told Lieutenant Macklin. “And scoop out mass graves for the IPF.”

She walked away, happy to be leaving the immediate area, for the stink of the dead and mangled bodies was ugly to her nostrils.

Ike appeared at Ben's side. Ben glanced at him. The stocky ex-navy SEAL had come through the fight unscathed. Ike wore a long face.

“What's up, Ike?”

“Hector's dead, Ben. He took a round right through the head.”

Ben sighed heavily. Another friend lost. Hector Ramos now joined all the others who had died to defend liberty. “I'm sorry, Ike. Hec was a friend of mine, too. Have him buried apart from those bastards.” Ben jerked his thumb toward the piles of dead IPF troops. Something told him that Ike was not through with his report. “All right, ol' buddy. Drop the other shoe.”

“OK, Ben, but it ain't good. Prelims show we took a thirty percent loss. Another four hundred too badly hurt to fight. We lost twenty tanks to suicide teams from the IPF, six mortar carriers. One long tom completely out of it, another that will have to have major repairs. One PUFF was shot down, all aboard dead. Two spotter planes down – crews still missing, presumed dead.

“In other words, we've got about eighteen hundred troops still able to fight?”

“That's stretching it, Ben. Make it fifteen hundred. Be more like it. And some of them are more badly wounded than they want us to know.”

“Very well,” Ben said, mentally tallying up the troops still able to fight. “So what it boils down to is this: Pursuit is out of the question.”

“Nil,” Cecil said, walking up. He had commanded the west flank. “The last intelligence report we received stated that Striganov had at least another six to eight thousand troops in reserve – but not all of them on American soil. We may have the spirit and the cause, but Striganov simply and flatly has us outgunned and outmanned the way we are.”

“Stopped dead in the water,” Ben mused. “At least for a time.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I'm betting Striganov and his people won't stay in the North. I'm betting he's already given orders to pull out and relocate. But where?”

“To the west,” Juan said. He and his people had just pulled in from their positions on the west side of the Mississippi River, just above that area defended by Ike's Rebels. “Or to the south. I think those are the only two logical moves left him. You said some time back, Ben, the Russian would probably have eyes and ears out and know we are planning a move to the east. He couldn't move into the once-heavily-industrialized Northeast, for those areas – many of them – will be hot for another thousand years. He certainly would know the work you people did in the new Tri-States, the building and the cultivation of crop-lands. He might go there, but I'm hunch-betting he's pulling out to the west.”

“California, Oregon, Washington areas, maybe,” Ben said, more to himself than to the others. “Putting as much distance between us as possible, knowing we would be very much overextended by attacking his people with that much of a supply gap between us.”

“Yeah,” Ike said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. “And with three thousand miles separating our base camp from the Russian, we'll be in a hell of a bind as far as supplies went. You're right, Ben.”

Ben thought of Gale, and how she would take this news. “Mary?”

Lieutenant Macklin stepped forward. “Sir?” She had delivered Ben's orders to the engineers and returned.

“Mary, have Colonel Gray send out teams of LRRPs. Stay well south of the IPF column but give us daily radio communiques as to their progress. Juan, radio your people in New Mexico and Arizona, warn them the IPF is heading west. Maybe that news will help them find their courage and get them to fight.”

“Don't count on it, Ben,” Juan warned.

“I'm not. Mary, have Colonel Gray ask for volunteers for a hit and rescue mission on Striganov's HQ up north. I want it mounted quickly, while the IPF is in a mild state of panic and confusion, getting ready for a massive pull-out west. I want them to rescue as many of the captives as possible.

“All right, people, here it is. We are going to stay put for a time. Let Striganov think we're here to stay in this area. It just might confuse him. I doubt it, but there is always a chance. Let's get to the job of burying our dead.”

Ike stood by Ben's side as the others left. The two men stood side by side, gazing out at the smoke drifting up from the torn landscape.

“Kinda reminds you of things past, doesn't it, Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben replied quietly, his thoughts flying back over the years. “Yes, it does.”

 

 

The battle for Tri-States took thirty-five days. Just over a month of savage fighting. Ben's people quickly resorted to guerrilla tactics and scattered. Ben's Rebels hit hard and ran, and they booby-trapped everything.

The government troops who stormed Tri-States soon learned what hell must be like. Everything they touched either blew up, shot at them, bit them or poisoned them.

Earlier, the medical people in Tri-States had discovered packs of rabid animals and captured them, keeping them alive as long as possible, transferring the infected cultures into the bloodstreams of every warm-blooded animal they could find. The day the invasion began, the rabid animals were turned loose on the government troops. It was cruel. But isn't war always?

The government troops began their search and destroy missions. They entered hospitals and nursing homes but the patients had been armed. The very old and the very sick and dying fought just as savagely as the young and strong and healthy. For those people who chose to live in Ben Raines's Tri-States wanted only to be left alone, to live their lives as they saw fit. And they would fight to the death for that right. And did.

Old people, with tubes hanging from their bodies, some barely able to crawl, hurled grenades and shot at the government troops who had invaded them. And the young men in their jump boots and berets wept as they killed the old people. Tough marines cried at the carnage.

Many of the young government troops threw down their weapons and walked away, refusing to take part in any more killing. Not cowardice on their part – these young men would have fought to the death against any threat to liberty, but the people of Ben Raines's Tri-States had threatened no one's liberty. All they wanted was the right to live and work and play in peace and personal freedom – and to govern themselves as they saw fit, infringing on no law-abiding citizen's rights.

Many of the young government troops deserted to join the Rebels; many were shot by their own officers for refusing to fight against a group of Americans whom they believed had done no wrong.

The universal soldier syndrome came home to many of the government troops: without us, you can't have a war.

And the children of the Rebels, they fought as well and as bravely as the older, more experienced Rebels. Some as young as ten and twelve stood with weapons and fought it out with the government troops . . . wondering why, because they thought they were Americans. The children hid with sniper rifles and had to be hunted down and killed. A battered and bleeding little girl might just hand a medic a live grenade and die with him.

Rightly or wrongly, Ben Raines's decision to school the young of Tri-States in the tactics of war had been driven home. They had been taught for as long as Tri-States stood – nine years – to defend their country, their beliefs, and that is what they did.

The hospital finally had to be blown up with artillery rounds; it was unsafe to enter because the patients were armed and ready to die for Ben Raines and his form of government. Everywhere the U.S. troops turned, something blew up in their faces. With thousands of tons of explosives to work with, the Rebels had wired everything possible to explode.

Tri-States began to stink like an open cesspool. The U.S. troops were forced to kill every warm-blooded animal they saw. There was no way of knowing what animals had been infected, not in the early stages. The government troops became very wary about entering buildings, not only because of the risk of a door being wired to blow, but because the Rebels had begun placing rabid animals in houses, locking them in. A dog or a cat is a terrible thing to witness leaping at a person, snarling and hissing and foaming from the jaws.

U.S troops could not drink the water in Tri-States. Doctor Chase had infected it with everything from cholera to forms of anthrax.

There were no finely drawn battle lines in this war, no safe sectors for the U.S. troops. The Rebels did not retreat in any given direction, leaving that section clean. They would pull back, then go left or right and circle around, flanking the government troops, harassing and confusing them, slitting a throat along the way. For the Rebels knew this territory. For nine years they had been training for this, and they were experts at their jobs.

The bloody climax came when the government troops could not even remotely consider taking prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel, of any age or sex, getting that close to them.

Then the directive came down the chain of command, beginning at the White House, from the mouth of President Hilton Logan: total extermination.

For many, this was the first time for actual combat. The first time to taste the highs and lows of war. And there are highs in combat. The first taking of a human life – all the training in the world will not prepare a person for that moment.

Sometimes in combat, the mind will turn off, and a soldier will do things to survive without realizing he is doing them or remembering afterward. Rote training takes over.

Fire until you hear the ping or plop of the firing pin striking nothing. Fresh clip in. Resume firing, aiming at the thickest part of the enemy's body. Your weapon is jammed. Clear it, cuss it, grab one from your dead buddy. Fire through the tears and the sweat and the dirt.

Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until it's empty and never reload, so caught up is he in the heat and horror. He is killing the enemy with imaginary bullets.

You can't think. Too much noise. Don't even try to think. Kill the enemy. An hour becomes a minute; a minute is forever. God, will it never end. No! don't let it end. The high is terrific. Kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, approaching climax.

One soon learns the truth: You didn't cum – you shit your pants.

And when did it start raining red? Thick red.

You imagine yourself indestructible. They can't kill you. Laugh in the face of death. Howl at the Reaper. A man running for cover is decapitated by a mortar round. The headless, nonhuman-appearing thing runs on for twenty more yards, flapping its arms in a hideous silent ballet, the music provided by machine guns, the applause the sound of screaming. In your head. It's you, but you don't know that. Look at the headless man. Fascinated. It falls down. Still.