Hatred in the Ashes, page 12
There was very little left of the town. A few houses, a couple of other buildings, and a small church. Ben pulled over and parked on the side of the road, Marcie right behind him. They got out and talked it over.
"The church doesn't look as though it's been touched," Marcie pointed out, staring at the empty House of God.
"Occasionally, even punks won't desecrate a church."
"Maybe they're afraid of the wrath of God."
"Could be. It'll be getting dark in a very few minutes. Pick a spot for us to bed down."
"What's left of that old store and gas station over there," she replied, pointing.
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"Not the church?"
"No. I wouldn't feel right about that." She looked at him, her eyes and expression serious. "Would you?"
Ben shrugged. "I can't say it would bother me one way or the other."
"It would me."
They pulled the trucks around to the rear of the building and checked it out. Everything that could be used had been taken, of course; the store had been looted many times.
"You clean out a spot for us, Marcie, and I'll get the gear out of the trucks."
They fixed a place behind a counter to spread out their sleeping bags and Ben opened two packets of "field rats." He looked at the rations, distaste evident in his eyes.
"I hate to kill a cow, because so much of the meat would be wasted," he said, "but I am becoming very weary, very quickly, of these damn things."
She laughed at his expression. ?They're keeping us alive, Ben."
"Doesn't mean I have to like them."
"Where do we head next? In the morning, I mean?"
"North toward Interstate 20. Just south of it, we'll find a county or state road leading east and take that route."
"How long before we're in Rebel territory?"
"Probably another hundred miles or so, straight east. I think there's a settlement at what used to be Fort Stockton, but I can't be sure of that. Those people may have been forced to pull back. We'll stay off the main highways and stick with older, less traveled roads."
"The gangs should be fewer the closer we get to secure areas, right?"
"I would think so. People who live in the SUSA won't put up with crap from punks. Stealing is a very uncommon occurrence in the SUSA."
"How do you keep kids from pulling pranks?"
"You don't. No society ever has, or ever will. Pranks are one thing, stealing someone's vehicle is quite another.
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Home invasions will get the offenders killed very quickly in the SUSA.
Our law enforcement units don't kick in doors at night and hotdog around as used to be the case in America before the collapse. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time it wasn't necessary, and was done only as an intimidation tactic by an increasingly desperate government."
"Desperate?"
"Attempting to impose their steadily growing socialistic actions on those who were opposed that form of government."
"Did any agents ever kick in your door?"
Ben shook his head. "No. They knew I was one man who would greet them with gunfire if they ever pulled that type of shit on me. I told them so when they visited me one time ... during the day."
"What did they say when you told them that?"
"The older agent didn't say anything. The younger one told me it wasn't smart to make threats against federal agents."
"And you said?"
"I told him I wasn't making threats. Just stating a hard fact."
They got a good night's sleep, and were on the road just after dawn. The gas tanks were filled to capacity, and the trucks were running well. Now if they could just get out of punk country and make solidly controlled Rebel territory-a big if, considering they had over a hundred miles logo.
They saw no signs of human life on the run over to Highway 18. There they turned north, and a few miles later passed through what was left of a small town. The town had been destroyed, with only a few burned out hulks of buildings remaining.
They drove on to the town of Crane-through the burned-out business district and into what had once been
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part of the residential area. It was in ruins, now nothing but block after block of devastation. Ben drove out to the airport and stopped.
"The batteries for the radio I got with the other supplies back at Fort Davis are long out of date, and weak," he explained. "I wanted to get closer before attempting to make contact with my people. This is as good a spot as any to give it a try. Keep your fingers crossed."
Ben tried three times to raise friendlies on the radio. Nothing. He knew the batteries were just about gone. One more try should do it. Then?
Well, they would drive. What choice did they have? He shut the radio off.
"We'll let it rest for a few minutes. These old batteries really don't have much juice left in them. I'll make some coffee while we're waiting."
"Any danger of the gangs around here hearing those transmissions?''
Ben shook his head. "Not unless they have some very sophisticated equipment."
They smoked and drank coffee and talked for a few minutes. He finally reached for the radio. "One more time should do it."
"One way or the other?" Marcie asked.
"That's about it, Kiddo. One way or the other."
"Try it. If you can't raise anyone ... let's get back on the road."
Ben winked at her and hit the send button. "This is General Raines.
Anybody listening?"
The voice that came back was weak but clear. "General Raines. This is rescue five niner. What is your location, sir?"
"Airport at the town of Crane. You anywhere close?"
"Minutes away, sir. Are you hurt?"
"Negative on hurt. I can't smoke this location, Rescue. Can you find it?"
"Affirmative, General. Hang tight."
"Ten four. Is my team all right?"
"All your team members OK and back at Base Camp 139
One. Three gunships now joining me. ETA your location approximately twenty minutes."
"That's a ten-four. There will be two to pick up."
"Two of you?"
"That's affirmative. Raines out." He laid the nearly dead radio aside and looked at Marcie. "It won't be long now."
She sighed. "A long, hot bath. I'll believe it when I hear the water running."
"A long, hot shower and then a whiskey and water and the evening paper,"
Ben said. "I feel as though I've been out of touch for a month instead of only a few days."
"It's been a busy few days."
"It has, indeed." Ben got to his feet. "Let's get the trucks away from the hangar, and visible. I wouldn't want them to miss us."
They pulled the trucks out close to the old runway and stood waiting.
"What will those gunships do?" Marcie asked.
"Destroy anything and anybody who gets too close to this location during the pickup."
Within minutes the hammering sounds of the big blades slicing the air reached them. The choppers were soon visible. The gunships began a wide circle of the area, making sure no bogies interfered with the pick up.
The big rescue chopper circled once, then settled down.
Ben helped Marcie inside, then put all the weapons taken from the dead and wounded in the chopper. He climbed in, shook hands with the crew chief, and sat down, buckling himself in and putting on his headset.
"Let's go home," he said into the mike.
"Affirmative, general," the pilot said. "On our way."
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141
Chapter Thirteen
The chopper carrying Ben and Marcie had just refueled at a Rebel outpost and with the extra tanks had enough fuel to make it to a base close to the Louisiana line. After refueling, the chopper hammered on into Base Camp One.
Cecil met Ben at the landing pad and the two old friends shook hands, Cecil saying with a grin he could not conceal, "Ben, you old warhorse.
It's so damn good to see you!" Then his smile faded.
Ben stared at him for a moment. "What is it, Cece? Come on, your jaw just dropped down and hit your shoe. Give!"
"It's Anna, Ben."
"I asked if she was all right. I was assured she was. What happened, Cece?"
"We picked up your team and the plane's crew just hours after you all jumped. We didn't know where in the hell you were-"
Ben waved him silent.?Forget about me, Cece. I'm here. What about Anna?"
"Agents from Osterman's side had been planted here 142
about a couple of years ago. We captured one, and he broke and confessed-"
"What about Anna!"
"They kidnapped her, Ben."
"But... why Anna? That doesn't make any sense."
"Because Tina is with West most of the time, and no one in their right mind would try to take Buddy. You and I have both seen him kill three men in seconds with his bare hands. No, they know you and Anna are close. She was the logical choice."
"Logical choice to do what, Cece?"
"To grab and use as leverage."
Ben was silent for a moment, staring at his longtime friend. "All right, Cece, OK. Leverage against me for them to gain ... what? I'm not the president here, you are. I hold no political office. What the hell do they hope to gain by kidnapping a girl not even twenty years old?"
"They plan to try her for treason, Ben, among other charges. And hang her."
"Are you fucking serious? Treason? Anna is not a citizen of the USA.
She's a citizen of the SUSA. How the hell could she be tried for treason?"
The other Rebels were giving Ben and Cecil a wide berth, standing well away from the two men who gestured and talked at the edge of the tarmac.
Ben's team was not at the airport. They were with a group of other Rebels, Scouts mostly, who were getting gear together, certain that Ben would call on them for a rescue raid to get Anna. Marcie had been whisked away to a hospital for a good checking over by Rebel doctors.
Most Rebels and no civilian even knew of the kidnapping. Cecil had clamped the security lid down tight, and not one word of it had leaked to the public.
"I don't understand any of this, Cece," Ben said, maintaining a firm grip on his temper. He took his friend's arm and led him off the tarmac and toward a line of vehicles. "But I'm going to get Anna back home, safe and unhurt,
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you can bet on that. And I don't give a good goddamn who I have to kill to accomplish that."
Cecil held up a hand. "I know, Ben. I know. We're all working toward that goal."
"Working ... how?"
"Through diplomatic channels."
"Fuck diplomatic channels," Ben said bluntly. "We're talking about a criminal act here. An international act of high conspiracy. We're talking about spies and the kidnapping of a citizen of an internationally recognized sovereign nation. Diplomatic channels can go suck eggs. I want Anna back. I want her back right fucking now. And by God, that is the bottom line."
"This is not the fault of those citizens living outside our borders, Ben." Cecil spoke calmly. Inwardly he was not at all calm. He was furious. "Let us handle this our way."
"All right, Cece. Seventy-two hours," Ben said, his voice tinged with cold anger. "I'll give you that much. I want Anna back in seventy-two hours. Unhurt. And there'd better not be a bruise or a scratch on her.
That's final."
Ben abruptly turned away and walked toward a line of military vehicles.
He reached a group of soldiers and pointed toward a Hummer. "Who's driving that vehicle?"
"Ah ... no one, sir."
"Fine," Ben said. He got in the HumVee and drove off.
Standing on the tarmac, Cecil watched Ben leave and quickly turned to an aide. "Get all the members of the emergency council together right now.
We've got seventy-two hours before only God knows what breaks loose."
Ben drove to his house and cleaned up, showering and carefully shaving.
He had not shaved in several days, and he did not shave his upper lip now. He was well on his way to growing a moustache. He dressed in civilian clothing and drove to a large shopping center miles from his home. At a drugstore he bought several boxes of a popular men's hair coloring. He returned to his house and carefully read 144
the instructions for the use of the product. He stored the hair coloring in his medicine cabinet and went into the den, sat down in his recliner, and picked up the phone, punching out the number of Scout HQ.
"This is General Raines. Let me speak to one of my team members, please.
That's fine, I'll wait. Certainly, Sergeant. Yes, Jersey would be perfect."
Ben waited until Jersey was located and brought to the phone. "Little Bit, Ben here. I'm fine. OK. Now listen to me carefully...."
After giving Jersey instructions to pass on to the other team members, Ben went outside to his 'borrowed' Hummer.
At one of the many Rebel motor pools Ben spoke to the senior sergeant in charge, a longtime friend who had been seriously wounded some years back and pulled out of the field.
"Jesse, I want a late model sedan with a mill under the hood that nothing can catch. I want a hidden compartment-somewhere-to store various types of weapons, grenades, and ammo. The best tires on it.
You've got seventy-two hours to do it. Can you do it?"
"Hell, yes, I can do it! I've already got several cars. I keep them for our security people. The compartment won't be any problem at all. It'll be waiting for you."
"Oh, I'm not through, Jesse. I want a valid USA plate on it. How about that?"
"What state?" he asked without hesitation.
"Let's do Illinois. I was born there, and plan to drive through there to familiarize myself with it."
"Let's don't. Let's use California. That state is still so fucked up they can't run a check on anything. I'm serious, General."
"Suits me, Jesse."
"You growing a moustache, General?"
"Thought I might."
"Looks good on you."
"Thanks. Ah ...Jesse ... this car business-"
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"I know about Anna, General. I've still got an eyes only clearance with Rebel security. From this point on, I never saw you, and don't know a thing about any car."
Ben smiled at his friend. "Thanks, Jess."
"Now hit the trail and let me get to work. Oh ... General?"
Ben turned around.
"I'll have a valid California driver's license waiting for you. I've got a buddy who'll take your picture and fix you right up. Whenever you're ready."
"How about tomorrow morning?"
"Sounds good. Meet you here at o nine hundred?"
Ben nodded, smiled, and left the motor pool.
Ben drove over to an armory and had a long chat with another old friend, making arrangements to pick up some items in a couple of days.
He was just about ready. A few more items to pick up. A couple more arrangements to take care of.
Ben drove back to his house and sat down in his recliner. Seventy-two hours to wait. If Anna was not released and on her way home by then ...
a lot of people were going to pay a very heavy price.
In blood.
Ben left his house only a few times during the next three days. He talked with Cecil on the phone several times every day, with Cecil assuring him that everything humanly possible was being done ... through diplomatic channels, of course.
Ben's patience with diplomacy-or the lack of it-was growing very thin.
With only a few hours left to go before the deadline ran out, Ben picked up the telephone in his den on the second ring.
"Ben?" Cecil said. "Madame President Osterman has requested a few more days. I've agreed to extend the deadline for seventy-two more hours."
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"Is that right?" Ben's reply was devoid of the steadily growing rage within him. "Tell me, Cece. Just who on Sugar Babe's staff is dragging their feet on this matter?"
"The usual crew, Ben. All her left-wing cronies. They're making some demands that I am just not prepared to take seriously."
"I see." Ben did not give a damn about hearing the specifics of the demands. As far as he was concerned, every demand made by Osterman and her left-wing dickheads was illegal and totally without merit. He wanted Anna back, and that was that. And he would get her back ... one way or another.
"All right. Keep me informed, Cece."
"I sure will, Ben. Daily."
Ben returned to his small study and to his computer, where he had spent much of his waking hours the past few days. He now knew the names of all of Osterman's inner circle; he knew where they lived and how they spent their free time pursuing hobbies: golf and jogging, mostly.
The FBI, the Secret Service, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms ... those agencies no longer existed. They had been replaced practically overnight with the FPPS: The Federal Prevention and Protective Service. Ben knew once the fancy title was stripped away it still amounted to only one thing: the Secret Police. And he knew that the men and women who made up the FPPS were no more than thugs and bully boys-many of them reasonably well-educated but still no better than Hitler's Gestapo of decades past. The dedicated and decent members of what used to be known as the FBI, the ATF, and the Secret Service had either retired voluntarily or had been kicked out.
The left wingers had finally seen their long sought after dream turn into hard reality. The United States of America was under a hard system of socialism. Everybody was equal. No one was better off than anyone else.
"Yeah, sure," Ben muttered. Then he laughed bitterly.
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"It took a while, Mister Orwell, but your prediction finally came to pass, full-blown."
Ben leaned back in his office chair and studied the information on the screen for several moments. He shook his head in disgust at what he read, then began the procedure for shutting the system down.
While that was occurring he glanced at the pages he had printed out that day, committing to memory the important information.
