William W. Johnstone (17 page)

Twenty-one

 

“There it is,” Sonny Boy told the bizarre-looking gang leaders and their lieutenants and bodyguards gathered at Fort Klamath.

“What does Hartline have to say about it?” Grizzly asked, standing up and stretching. A huge man, six and a half feet tall, weighing almost three hundred pounds, some of it gone to fat, but much of it still muscle.

“He don’t. I didn’t talk to him about it.”

“I’m ‘bout tired of Hartline and that slick-lookin’ Russian,” Popeye said. “Both of ‘em act like their shit don’t stink. They just too damn high and mighty for my tastes.”

Popeye was a freak; looked like a freak, and knew it. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, attractive about the man. His forehead was large and knotty, his eyes bugged out. He was skinny with a pot belly. Both arms had been broken and set badly; they were crooked. One eye was brown, the other blue; both were crossed.

Popeye had no redeeming qualities. None. They all shared that in common, but Popeye was the worst of the lot. He could kill man, woman, or child with absolutely no remorse. He could have sex with man, woman, or child, and enjoy it equally.

“Let’s pull out,” Skinhead suggested. “Hit the road and fuck with Ben Raines and them Rebels of his’n.”

Skinhead was bald. After the bombings, all his hair fell out. He was short, stocky, ugly, and not only was he vicious looking … he was vicious. He was also stupid. His IQ might hit 85 if he was lucky.

“That your vote?” Sonny Boy asked.

“Yeah.” Skinhead slobbered down the front of his dirty shirt. Skinhead slobbered a lot – especially during sex.

Sonny Boy looked at Grizzly.

“You?” Grizzly nodded his big head. “Yeah. I’m with Skinhead.”

“Me, too,” Popeye said.

“Hartline ain’t gonna like it,” Sonny Boy reminded them all.

“Fuck Hartline,” Popeye said.

As a matter of fact, Hartline had no objection to the warlords pulling out. As a matter of fact, he thought it to be a fine idea. As a matter of fact, he was sick to death of the motorcyclists.

Filthy, ignorant lot.

“I think that’s a grand idea, Sonny Boy,” Hartline told the warlord. “I know it’s been boring for you around here. I was about to suggest that you boys take to the field and make trouble for Ben Raines.”

“You was?” Sonny Boy asked.

“Of course. You and your people are far too valuable to sit around just doing nothing.”

And besides that, you all, to a man, stink like hogs and I’m going to have to de-louse my office after you leave.

“Yeah? Well, you right,” Sonny Boy said.

“If I might make a suggestion?” Sam said with a smile.

“Whatever flips your dress up, man.”

Sam resisted an impulse to shoot the bastard right between the eyes.

“Don’t try to meet the Rebels head-on. As good as you are, they’re too strong; you’ll be heavily outnumbered. I would suggest ambush. Hit and run. And by all means, take as many of the Rebel women as possible. Do with them as you see fit.”

“ ‘At ’airs a right good idea,” Grizzly spoke up.

Skinhead nodded his head and slobbered his agreement.

Popeye’s eyes bugged out and he grunted.

Hartline managed to hide his grimace of disgust.

Sonny Boy stood up and the others followed suit. “We’ll be seein’ you, Sam,” he said.

“I’m so looking forward to it,” the mercenary said with a sigh of relief that they were finally leaving.

“How ‘bouts them ol’ boys back east of here?” Grizzly asked.

“We’ll hold them in reserve for the time being.”

The warlords trooped out.

Sam called for an aide.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take those four chairs outside and burn them,” he ordered. “Then find some bug-killer and spray my office.” He scratched his head. Jesus, he had
fleas!

At the end of the week, Ben ordered a halt to his rapidly advancing Rebels. They were meeting practically no resistance, and that worried Ben.

He called for a meeting of his field commanders.

They met in Redding, in what was left of a motel near the airport. Harris was there; the man Ben had left in charge at Redding. George from Red Bluff. John Dunning from Santa Rosa. And a Pete Ho from Ukiah. Dan had flown in from the northern part of the state. Ike and Cecil.

The meeting room had been cleaned up, and a large map of California was nailed to the wall. Ben stood up, a stick in his hand for a pointer.

“Look at the territory we’ve taken,” he said, placing the stick on the map. “We control everything from Highway 20 south to the Bay area. Everything north of Highway 299 to the Oregon line. Practically everything east of Interstate 5. And none of us has met enough resistance to stop a flea. Why? Give me some input.”

Dan studied the large map for a moment. “I think, General, we are being suckered. But for what and why, I haven’t a clue.”

“I got the same feelin’,” Ike said. “My recon teams report that from the coast …” he rose and walked to the map – "from right about here" – he punched a blunt finger at Fort Bragg and traced it over to what had once been state and national forests and parks area, “… to here, there are heavy concentrations of IPF troops. Too goddamn many for us to punch through. Why? Why would the Russian mass his troops there?”

Cecil walked to the map, studying it for a moment. “I have reports that large numbers of troops are massing just south of Highway 299. From the coast to Weaverville.” He looked at Ben. “I told you about that, Ben.”

Ben nodded his head. “Yes. So Striganov doesn’t want us to flank him. Either from the north or south. What options does that leave us?”

“Straight ahead,” John Dunning said.

“That’s right,” Ben said. “Right into the wilderness areas. Take a look, people. From north to south between Highways 20 and 299. Trinity National Forest, Six Rivers National Forest, Yolla Bolly Wilderness area, Mendocino National Forest. That’s where the Russian wants us. He’s trying to play our game.”

“General,” Dan spoke. “There is no way he could effectively cover that much ground. He’s got us outgunned, but he doesn’t have that many troops. That’s about five hundred miles deep, and at its widest point, about two hundred miles west to east. He can’t have that many men.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Ben agreed. “But he knows we couldn’t possibly hack our way through the wilderness; that would take us forever. We’d have to use existing roads. That’s where he’s set up ambush sites.”

“You have a plan?” Pete Ho asked.

“Oh, yes,” Ben said with a smile. “We hold what we have taken thus far. We rest, we eat, we sleep, and we do nothing – nothing except stay very alert. Either Hartline or Striganov will become impatient. One or the other will bust loose and do something.”

A Rebel walked into the meeting room. “General, our listening post at Iron Gate Dam just received a message from the kids up in Oregon. The warlords have broken loose from Hartline and are heading out. Five, six hundred of them. Looks like, from the direction they’ve taken, they’re going to head east, then cut south, come up behind us.”

Ben glanced at Cecil. “It’s your baby, Cec. Take off and good luck. If you need help, get on the horn.”

Cec nodded, gathered up his aides, and quickly left the meeting room.

“How are the girls?” Ben asked.

“Seem to be fine. They report picking up a half-dozen more kids. I told Iron Gate to tell them to hold their position and wait for further orders.”

Ben nodded. “Tell them to get back across the line into safe territory No point in them staying up there.”

“Yes, sir.” The man hesitated.

“Something else?” Ben asked.

“Yes, sir. Iron Gate reported that the girls have mixed it up with two patrols. One patrol of outlaw bikers loyal to Hartline, and the other a regular IPF patrol. The girls left one biker alive – after they cut off his privates and cauterized the wound with a heated knife blade. They killed all the IPF bunch.”

“Jesus!” Ben muttered.

Ike’s smile was tight. “You remember the first rule of guerrilla warfare, Ben. Don’t get taken prisoner by the women.”

“Only too well,” Ben said. He thanked the messenger and waited until the man had left, closing the door behind him. He turned to face the group of field commanders. “Any questions?”

“Do you suppose Cecil will need some help with those outlaw bikers?” John Dunning asked. “They can be terribly vicious.”

The Rebels in the room smiled.

“Yes,” Pete Ho said. “That bunch, the ones aligned with Sam Hartline, came through Ukiah above five months ago. Their leader, of that bunch, was some cretin named Popeye. At the time, my group of resistance fighters was up in the hills, knocking heads with the IPF. When we returned, victorious, I might add, the town had been looted, men and women killed, and several young girls taken prisoner. We never saw the kids again. I’ll offer my people to assist General Jefferys.”

Dan turned his head so the civilian freedom fighter could not see his grin.

Harris, out of Redding, said, “It was Grizzly’s bunch of bikers who rolled through our town. They’re much worse than any IPF people I ever saw. They kill and torture for no apparent reason. From what I am able to understand, General Jefferys only has a battalion of Rebels. I don’t mean to second-guess you, General Raines, but I think he’s going to need some help in dealing with these outlaw bikers.”

Ike could not contain his laughter.

The civilians looked at the ex-Navy SEAL, not understanding the laughter; not knowing the why of it.

Ben waited until Ike’s laughter faded. He faced the group. “People, listen to me. You are all now a part of the Rebel organization. So let me be terribly blunt. I want you all to understand the Rebel philosophy; let there be no misunderstandings concerning what we do and how we do it. We don’t take prisoners, people.
We do not
take prisoners. Ever.”

Ben let that sink in, his eyes flicking from one civilian to another.

“Never?” Pete Ho asked softly.

“Not any more,” Ben told him.

“What do you do with those who offer to surrender, General?” George asked.

“Once the fighting starts, George, it’s too late. The enemy can surrender en masse, or not at all. Those are the rules I’ve laid down. Striganov and Hartline know it. And the same rules apply to any Rebel. You’d all better know that going in.”

“I don’t know whether I could shoot any unarmed man,” Harris said. “I mean, I’ve never done it.”

Harris was suddenly very much aware of Dan Gray’s extremely cold eyes on him. The unblinking gaze made the man very uncomfortable.

“Unless the people are standing stark naked in front of you,” Ike said, “how do you know they’re unarmed? Then there is this to consider: these people are your enemies. They have, to a person, committed acts so hideous as to be unspeakable. They have taken oaths to destroy the Rebel movement. Striganov wants a pure Aryan nation. Where does that leave you, Pete?”

The Chinese-American lifted his shoulders and spread his hands silently.

“Hartline wants war,” Ben picked it back up. “And he’ll switch sides faster than a snake can strike. Sam is pure mercenary. He is not a soldier of fortune. The side that can offer him the most is the side he’ll choose. These warlords and outlaw bikers are scum. They don’t care if the country ever rises out of the ashes of destruction. I have more feelings for a roach then I do for them.

“You all wondered why Ike was laughing a moment ago. He was laughing because Cecil will deal with this filth and trash and scum in the same manner that we’ve dealt with them over the years – with extreme prejudice. No negotiating with them. No deals. No pity. No mercy. We just shoot them out of the saddle. On sight.

“The Rebel dream is to rebuild this nation. To have schools and hospitals and churches and libraries. To once more be able to produce. To build something for future generations. Outlaws and warlords and roaming gangs of thugs and punks and dickheads have no place in that society we dream of. None at all. We didn’t tolerate them in the old Tri-States, and I will not tolerate them now.”

Ben looked at the group of civilians; looked at them all. Gave each man a full ten seconds of unblinking stare.

“You are either one hundred percent for the Rebel movement, or you are one hundred percent against it. That’s the way it has to be, for now, at least, and that’s the way it’s going to be. Give that some thought, people. For I will not tolerate traitors.”

Ben walked out of the room.

Twenty-two

 

Ben stood alone outside the motel meeting room, his thoughts jumbled and disorganized. Then, one by one, he began separating them and assigning positions of numerical importance within his head.

Same old story, he thought, remembering the conversation back in the meeting room.

People still cling to the concepts of law and order as it existed back in the days when the nation was whole. They simply cannot, or will not, accept the glaring fact that the entire world, as far as we know, is in a state of anarchy: dog-eat-dog, the strong roll right over the weak, the lawless reign unchecked until they are shot dead.

Sometimes, even though he knew it was not true, Ben felt like a man alone.

The feelings expressed back in the meeting room could be boiled down to what Ben had called for years the Soldier Syndrome.

All the nice pretty people want a nice pretty society. But they won’t fight for it. The Soldier Syndrome. You go fight my battles for me; and then, when you’ve done it … go away, ‘cause we don’t want your kind around here.

You’re not nice like us.

And no, we don’t want to hear about the terrible, awful things you had to do to make us safe. Just make us safe, and then go away.

Those so-called “nice people” just cannot, still, after all that’s happened, they still cannot understand that one simply does not attempt to pet a rabid animal.

One simply destroys it.

Ben turned as the door opened. Dan and Ike stepped out to join him.

“I think they’ll stand, General,” Dan said.

“But they don’t like it,” Ike added.

Ben nodded. “Sometimes I just want to give up. Just pull back, claim territory, rebuild to our liking, and to hell with the rest of the people.”

“I know, Ben,” Ike said. “I know.”

“It would be a grand thing,” Dan said. “A simple house, a garden, a lady, perhaps some children. I could work the land, have some cows for meat and milk. And together we could live peacefully. It would be a grand thing,” he said wistfully.

“We had it in the Tri-States,” Ike said. “And I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t miss it.”

Ben looked at his close friends. “Do either of you ever think about the fact that we’ve been fighting other peoples’ battles, off and on, for fifteen years? And it never seems to stop. Is this our destiny? Is this our hell? Is our philosophy so alien to others? Or is it so simple it’s complex? What in the hell is it that people are clinging to?”

Both men knew Ben did not expect a reply, so neither offered one.

“Shit!” Ben said.

Ike grinned and clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Destiny, Ben? Hell? Maybe it is. But maybe it’s just that we’re all so goddamned hard-headed we won’t give up on a dream. You ever think about that?”

Ben smiled and hitched at his web belt. “Well, boys, let’s follow that dream.”