Out of the Ashes (34 page)

“Get your people into position and booby-trap everything you leave behind.
Everything.
Poison the water. Turn everything into a lethal weapon—a deathtrap. I want these sons of bitches to remember these next few weeks. You all know the drill. As soon as government troops touch the soil of the Tri-states, we move into guerrilla tactics. No prisoners.” He turned to Voltan. “Bridges wired to go?”

“Yes, sir. We'll set timers as soon as our people cross them.”

“I don't want a bridge left standing in the Tri-states. Not one.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Dr. Chase: “How about the people in the hospitals?”

“Some of them just cannot be moved and they refuse to surrender. They've asked that weapons be left by their beds. I have done so. We're painting red crosses on the roofs of the hospitals. Maybe they won't be bombed.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Pal said.

“I'm not.”

“Cecil, did the zero squads make it out?”

“Yes, sir. They are all awaiting the signal to go.”

“All right, people.” Ben shook hands with his friends. “Good luck and let's go.”

The commander of the federal forces, Maj. Gen. Paul Como of the United States Army, lowered his binoculars and turned to his aide. Dawn was just splitting the eastern sky with beams of gold. The men stood on the east side of the Tri-states' Idaho border.

Como cursed. “Goddamn it, I stood on every border of this state for a week.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I've seen the same thing each day: nothing! Not one sign of human life. No smoke, no movement—nothing. Oh, this is going to be a bloody bitch!”

Brigadier General Krigel walked up, catching the last of Como's statement. “You know the response they gave to our leaflets. What are we going to do about the civilians and the hospitals and the nursing homes?”

“There are no civilians in the Tri-states,” Como said shortly. “The entire populous is an army.” He would rather not think about the rest of Krigel's question, for it was because of that the Air Force had refused to bomb the Tri-states; the military was decidedly split over war with Ben's people. “What's the latest on aerial recon?”

“They started out at ten thousand feet and moved down to five hundred. There has not been a shot fired at any of them. We have not had one hostile move against us from the residents of the Tri-states. There are warm, breathing bodies in there—everywhere—but we don't know if they are friendly, hostile, young, old, male, or female.”

Como sighed heavily. “The bridges all around the state been cleared?” He knew they had not.

Krigel cleared his throat. “No, sir. The Navy SEALs have refused to go in. They say they won't fight against fellow Americans. Some of those people in there were SEALs.”

“I don't give a good goddamn what they were! I gave orders for the SEALs to clear the bridges. I ought to have those bastards arrested.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I would sure hate to be the person who tried that.”

Como ignored that, fighting to keep his anger under control. He glanced at his watch. “All right, then—the hell with the SEALs.” He glanced toward the east. Much lighter. “Get the airborne dropped.”

“The drop zones have not been laid out, sir.”

“What!”

“Sir, the Pathfinders went in last night, but they all deserted and joined the Rebels. To a man.”

“They refused to lay out the DZs. Sir, they said they won't fight fellow Americans, and anyone who would is a traitor.”

“Goddamn it!” Como yelled. He pointed a finger at Krigel. “You get the airborne up and dropped. Start the push—right now. You get those fucking Rangers spearheading.”

Krigel shifted his jump-booted feet. The moment he had been dreading. “We . . . have a problem, sir. Quite a number of the residents of the Tri-states ... were . . . ah—”

“Paratroopers, Rangers, marines, SEALs, AF personnel.” The CG finished it for him. “Wonderful. How many are not going to follow my orders?”

“About fifty percent of the airborne have refused to go in. No Rangers, no Green Berets, no SEALs. About thirty percent of the marines and regular infantry refuse to go in. They said, sir, they'd storm the gates of hell for you, with only a mouthful of spit to fight with, but they say these people are Americans, and they haven't done anything wrong. They are not criminals.”

The news came as no surprise to General Como. He had discussed this operation with General Russell, during the planning stages, and had almost resigned and retired. But Russell had talked him out of it. Como was not happy with it, but he was a professional soldier, and he had his orders.

Krigel said, “General, this is a civilian problem. It's not ours. Those people in there are Americans. They just want to be left alone. They are not in collusion with any foreign power, and they are not attempting to overthrow the government. Paul,”—he put his hand on his friend's shoulder—“I still get sick at my stomach thinking about those Indians. Granted, we didn't do those things, but we were in command of the men who did—some of them. It was wrong, and we should have been men enough to have those responsible for those . . . acts shot!”

General Como felt his guts churn; his breakfast lay heavy and undigested. He knew well what his friend was going through; and Krigel was his friend. Classmates at the Point. But an order was an order.

Como pulled himself erect. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You're a soldier, General Krigel, and you'll obey orders, or by God, I'll—”

“You'll do what?” Krigel snapped, losing his temper. “Goddamn it, Paul, we're creating another civil war. And you know it. Yes, I'm a soldier, and a damned good one. But by God, I'm an American first. This is a nation of free people, Paul? The hell it is! Those people in the Tri-states may have different ideas, but—”

“Goddamn you!”
Como shouted. “Don't you dare argue with me. You get your troopers up and dropped—now, or they won't
be your
troopers. General Krigel, I am making that a direct order.”

“No, sir,” Krigel said, a calmness and finality in his voice. “I will not obey that order.” He removed his pistol from leather and handed it to General Como. “I'm through, Paul—that's it.”

General Como, red-faced and trembling, looked at the. 45 in his hand, then backhanded his friend with his other hand. Blood trickled from Krigel's mouth. Krigel did not move.

Como turned to a sergeant major, who had stood impassively by throughout the exchange between the generals. “Sergeant Major, I want this man placed under arrest. If he attempts to resist, use whatever force is necessary to subdue him. Understood?” He gave the sergeant major Krigel's .45.

The sergeant major gripped General Krigel's arm and nodded. He didn't like the order just given him. He'd been a member of an LRRP team in Vietnam—back when he was a young buck—and the idea of special troops fighting special troops didn't set well with him. American fighting American was wrong, no matter how you cut it up.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said, but he was thinking: just let me get General Krigel out of this area and by God, we'll both link up with Raines's Rebels. Us, and a bunch of other men.

General Como turned to his aide, Captain Shaw. “Tell General Hazen he is now in charge of the Eighty-second. Get his troopers dropped. Those that won't go, have them placed under arrest. If they resist, shoot them. Tell General Cruger to get his marines across those borders and take their objectives. Start it. Right now! Those troopers should have already been on the ground.”

Shaw nodded his understanding, if not his agreement. The young captain was career military, and he had his orders, just as he was sure Raines's people had theirs.

“Yes, sir.” He walked away. “Right away, sir.”

General Como blinked rapidly several times. He was very close to tears, and then he was crying, the tears running down his tanned cheeks. “Goddamn it,” he whispered. “What a fucking lash-up.”

 

The first few companies of marines and their spearheaders, the force recon, hit the edge of the strip and died there. The area had been softened up with artillery and heavy-mortar fire, but Ben's people were in tunneled bunkers, and when the shelling stopped, up they popped.

The marines established a beachhead, or, in this case, a secure perimeter, taking the first three thousand yards. They always take their objective—that's why they are marines—but the price was hideous. Neither side gave the other any mercy or quarter. For every meter gained that morning and early afternoon, the price was paid in human suffering.

The Rebels of the Tri-states waited until the paratroopers were on the ground and free of their 'chutes before opening fire. Those were Ben's orders, and the only act of mercy shown on either side. The first troopers to hit the DZs were killed almost instantly, raked with heavy .50-caliber machine-gun fire . . . or blown to bits with mortar fire.

By evening of the second day, the government troops were well inside the Tri-states' borders, coming in from north to south, east and west, hoping to trap the Rebels in a pocket. But Ben's people had reverted to guerrilla tactics and scattered; they had no group larger than battalion size, and most were platoon or company size. They hit hard, then they ran, and they booby-trapped everything.

The government troops who stormed the Tri-states soon learned what hell must be like. Everything they came into contact with either blew up, shot at them, bit them, or poisoned them. The older men thought they'd seen war at its worst in 'Nam, but this surpassed anything they'd ever experienced.

Earlier, the medical people in the 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 animals were turned loose all over the area. It was cruel. Isn't war always?

The government troops began their search-and-destroy missions. They entered hospitals and nursing homes and found the patients had been armed. The very old and sick and dying fought just as savagely as the young and strong and healthy. Old people, with tubes hanging from their bodies, some barely able to crawl, hurled grenades and shot at the special troops. And the young men in their jump boots and berets and silver wings wept as they killed the old people. Tough marines cried at the carnage.

Many of the young soldiers threw down their weapons and walked away, refusing to take part in more killing. It was not cowardice on their part—not at all. These young men would have fought to the death against a threat to liberty; but the people of the Tri-states were no threat to their liberty. And the young troops finally learned the lesson their forefathers died for at Valley Forge: people have a right to be free, to live arid work and play in peace and personal freedom—and to govern themselves.

Many of the young troops deserted to join the Rebels; officers publicly shot enlisted people who refused to fight against a group of citizens whom they believed had done no wrong.

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

And the children of the Tri-states, they fought as well. Some as young as twelve, stood and fought it out with the American military ... wondering why, because they thought
they
were Americans. They hid with sniper rifles and had to be hunted down and killed. No compassion could be shown. A battered and bleeding little girl might just hand a medic a live grenade and die with him.

Rightly or wrongly, Ben's orders to school the young of the Tri-states in the tactics of war had been driven home. They had been taught for nine years to defend their country, and that is what they were doing.

The hospitals finally had to be blown up with artillery; they were unsafe to enter because the patients were armed and ready to die. Everywhere the U.S. fighting men 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 troops had to kill every warm-blooded animal they found. There was no way of knowing what animals had been infected—not in the early stages. The government troops became very wary of 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 see come leaping at a person, snarling and foaming at the jaws.

The troops could not drink any of the water found in the Tri-states. Dr. 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. The Rebels didn't retreat in any given direction, leaving that area clean. They would pull back, then go left or right and circle around, coming up behind government troops to harass and confuse them, or to slit a throat or two. For the Rebels knew the territory, and they had, for nine years, been training for this. And they were experts at their jobs.

The bloody climax came when the government troops could not even remotely think of taking prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel, of any age or sex getting close to them. Then the directive came down the chain of command: 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 time to take a human life; and all the training in the world will not prepare a person for that moment.

Sometimes in combat, the mind will click off, and a soldier will do the necessary 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. Make an easy, practiced roll to one side; quickly slam home a fresh clip; resume firing position, always aiming for the thickest part of the enemy's body, between neck and waist.

Your weapon is jammed. Clear it. Cuss it. Grab one from a dead buddy. Fire through the tears and the sweat and the dirt.

Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until it's empty and will never reload, so caught up in the heat and the horror of combat is he. Pull the trigger over and over; feel the imaginary slam of the butt against the shoulder; kill the enemy with nonbullets.

The yammering, banging, metal against metal makes it difficult to think. So you don't. The screaming, the awful howling of the wounded and the yelling of the combatants blend into a solid roaring cacophony in your head. An hour becomes a minute; a minute is eternity. God! will it never end? No! don't let it end; the high is terrific, kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, reaching the climax.