Out of the Ashes (33 page)

“They'll never accept anything other than what we have,” Cecil said.

“Yes,” Ben said. “I know.”

They all left, leaving Ben with his thoughts.

Badger had been waiting in the outer office, as usual. When the group left, he strolled in without announcement, as usual.

“What's up, General?”

“Want to go to Richmond next Monday?”

“Not really. I like it here. But if you go, I go.”

Ben laughed. “Badger, one thing I've always admired about you is your bubbling enthusiasm.”

Badger sat down, cradling his AK-47 across his knees. “Yes, sir,” he said solemnly.

 

The three jets, formerly corporation jets—state airplanes, now—flew in formation toward Richmond. In the center jet were Ben and Salina, Cecil and Lila, Ike, Voltan, Steven, and Badger. In the other jets rode two teams of Rebels. Ben's personal teams. Eighteen men and six women.

All regular Rebels were good at their jobs, experts, but these twenty-four were among the best—or worst, depending upon one's point of view. They were, for the most part, silent as they blasted through the air, for to a person, they all knew war was just around the corner.

At the field in Richmond, they were met by VP Addison, several aides, and a dozen secret service agents. Ben suspected there might be a full brigade of troops lurking about the airport, and that thought amused him. He shook hands with VP Addison and grinned.

“No brass bands playing? No red carpet? No throngs of cheering people?” Ben asked. “My, you people don't like me very much, do you?”

The VP stared into Ben's eyes. “I don't like what Logan has planned, Raines. It wasn't my idea.”

“I know it. And that will be kept in mind.”

A half-hour later, they pulled into the drive of the new White House. The weather was dismal in Richmond, and Ben didn't expect Logan's welcome to be much better.

Badger stepped out first. “Wait here, sir,” he said to Ben. The bodyguard walked up the steps of the White House and stationed himself beside one of the huge pillars. The secret service men on duty held their hands away from their sides, to show him they had no intention of reaching for a gun.

“Just keep that thing on safety,” they requested.

Badger nodded.

Standing beside the limousines, an aide muttered, “The president is not going to be terribly thrilled about that man and his machine gun.” He glanced at Ben. “What do you think is going to happen, sir? Do you believe we're planning an ambush, or something?”

Ben looked at the aide. Without smiling, he said, “I wouldn't be a bit surprised.”

A piece of old verse popped into Ben's head:

“Some gate,” Ben muttered.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” an aide asked.

Ben shook his head and walked up the steps.

The visitors from the Tri-states were ushered into the White House, taken upstairs, and seated in the president's office. The contingent of Rebels remained downstairs, having coffee and chatting with the secret service agents; both groups attempted to make the best of a nervous situation.

The press was very much in force, snapping pictures and asking questions.

Logan made his entrance, strolling in all smiles and cordiality. The head of the Joint Chiefs was with him. Ben immediately distrusted the general. Russell had been a major in Vietnam; a politicking, ass-kissing coward.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Logan smiled. “Welcome to the White House. So nice to see all of you.”

And if you expect us to believe that, Salina thought, you're a bigger fool than you look. But she smiled in return.

Ben shook hands with Logan and smiled a grim smile at General Russell. The two men immediately understood each other's position; Ben realized that while America had a president, Logan shared the power with the military. Ben knew then why free elections had been postponed year after year. The military was setting up to take over total control of America. The rumors his intelligence people had intercepted and decoded were true. But Ben also knew there was discord among the military; not all commanders wanted the military involved in government, and the troops were taking sides . . . quietly.

The silent message in General Russell's eyes was easy to read: Play along with me, Raines. Take my side.

Ben minutely shook his head and the general smiled and fired a silent dispatch: You've had it, Raines.

Ben returned his unspoken reply: When you try, General—you're a dead man.

The messages concluded, there were a few moments of small talk about nothing at all until Mrs. Fran Logan gushed in, all smiles and southern hospitality, for everyone except Ben. She was very cool to Ben. She hesitated for just the smallest second before shaking hands with Cecil (it rubs off, you know), but then breeding took over and she gallantly took the offered hand, fighting back an impulse to wipe hers on her dress. A few moments later, the ladies left, much to the disgust of Salina and Lila. In the Tri-states, all government meetings were open.

“Gentlemen,” Logan said, “we have a great deal to discuss—shall we get on with it?” Without waiting for an answer, he ordered coffee sent in. There was quiet in the large room until the aide poured the coffee and left. General Russell stood across the room, away from the seated party from the Tri-states.

“If you wish to rejoin the Union, Raines,” Logan said, “it can be arranged.”

I just bet it can, Ben thought. “What's the catch?”

Logan smiled and General Russell laughed aloud. The President said, “Absolutely no diplomat in you whatsoever, right, Ben?”

“Lack of diplomacy is just one of my many virtues. I'll ask again: What is the catch?”

“Straight from the hip?”

“Shoot.”

“Your dictatorship has to end.”

“There is no dictatorship in the Tri-states. I was elected by popular vote.”

Logan waved away his words as if they had not been spoken. “You must fall in line with the other forty-seven.”

“No way.”

“You must open your borders, allowing any person who so desires to live in the Tri-states.”

“No way.”

“Your laws must conform with the rulings of our Supreme Court.”

Everyone from the Tri-states laughed openly at that.

Logan flushed, then said, “The gun law must cease.”

Ben placed cup and saucer on a coffee table. “Here is what we will and will not do, Logan: I will not tolerate your federal police coming in and setting up in our area. Our system of government works for us, and that is all that matters. No gun control; no flower-plucking, sobbing social workers telling us how to deal with punks. And no mumblings from
your
Supreme Court.”

“Raines, I'm offering you statehood in return for a few concessions.” He glanced at General Russell, then swung his gaze back to Ben. “You know, of course, what is going to happen if you refuse?”

Ben's stare was cold. “And you know what will happen if you wage war against us.”

Logan laughed. “I don't believe you have those . . . zero squads.”

But VP Addison looked worried.

Logan said, “You must know we have the power to crush you like a bug. We didn't for a while; I'll admit that. But now we do.”

“Yes, you probably do, Logan,” Ben said. “But all you'll accomplish is a civil war, and it will, in all probability, tear this country apart.”

“Raines, you've done some good things out there—I won't, can't, deny that. I could even find a place for you on my team. I could use you. But your state has to fall in line.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then the Tri-states is through.” Logan said it maliciously.

“Are you going to give the orders to kill all the tiny babies and all the old and sick, Mr. President?” Cecil asked. “We have the good life, free of crime and red tape, and you just can't stand that, can you?”

Logan flushed, but kept his mouth shut. Addison felt sick at his stomach. General Russell smiled.

“Logan,” Ben said, “I came here with a hope of working some . . . type of arrangement with you. To live peacefully. Different ideologies, certainly—it's a different world, now—but still with some hope we could get together and live in peace. But your concept of peace is infringement on the personal liberties of law-abiding, taxpaying citizens. I'll never tolerate that system again—never. Logan, those zero squads are real. They exist. You know what is going to happen to you if you start a war with us, and to every member of Congress who agrees with your plan.”

“I will unite the states,” Logan said. “And I will restore proper law and order. We cannot exist separately.”

Cecil smiled. “You mean, you won't let us exist.”

Logan ignored the black man. He glared at Ben. “I'm going to destroy your state, Raines.”

“You've been warned, Logan.”

“I don't believe in fairy tales, Raines. Good day.”

 

Back home, Ben went on the Tri-states' radio and television, telling the people of the events in Richmond. Anyone who wanted to leave was warned to get out immediately.

A few left, most stayed. They began gearing up for war. President Logan ordered a state of emergency and ordered all airlines and trucks and buses to cease—at once—any runs into the Tri-states. Phone service was cut—jammed. Troops set up roadblocks on the borders of the Tri-states and refused to allow any resident of the United States to enter the area. The Canadian Government cooperated only half-heartedly with Logan's requests to seal off their borders; Ben and his people had gotten along well with the new Canadian Government. But in the end, it went along with Logan.

The freeze was on.

“I'm asking you again, Salina; pleading with you. Get out while there is still time.” Ben looked at the set of her jaw and never asked her again.

The central government of Richmond began dropping leaflets all over the Tri-states, urging its citizens to revolt against Ben, to leave.

A number of citizens of Butte built a huge sign on the outskirts of town, built it of rocks painted white, flat on the ground, the sign was immense, its seven letters telling the pilots exactly what they thought about the contents of the leaflets.

 

FUCK YOU

 

“How long can we last?” Ben asked his department heads.

“Medically speaking,” Dr. Chase said, “years.”

“We have food enough for years.”

“Fuel enough for years.”

“Ammunition enough for years.”

“It won't be years,” Ben told them. “They'll wipe out the Indians first, knowing we can't move to help them because we're blocked in here. They'll hit us in mid-spring, after all the snows are gone. The weather will be perfect fighting weather—cool. Troops move better in that kind of weather.

“All right, mine the strip; enlarge it, pull it in a couple of miles at least. Turn it into hell. Munitions factories go on twenty-four-hour shifts effective immediately. We've got about ninety days before the balloon goes up.”

 

As Ben had predicted, the government of the United States decided they would give the Indians their comeuppance.

“The reservation lands will always be yours,” the federal agents told the Indians. “However, any land you seized following the war goes back to the government, and to the people . . . if we can find them.”

“Why?” the Indians questioned.

“Because it doesn't belong to you.”

“It belonged to us a thousand years before you people got here. Look, we just want to live like decent people, that's all. There is plenty of land for all.”

“Your suggestion will, of course, be taken into consideration. However, during the interim, you will have to return to your reservations.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” One does not ever say no to a federal agent—unthinkable. How impudent!

“No. We're staying where we are.”

“Then I'm afraid we'll have to take action to move you and your people.”

A smile greeted those words. “Look around you, federal man. Tell me what you see and hear.”

The federal men tensed as they heard the snicking of levers pushing live ammunition into gun chambers. They heard the rattle of belt-fed ammo being worked into weapons. They saw the determination of these people to stand and fight for what should have been theirs years before—
was
theirs years before.

“This land is our land,” the Indians said. “You'll have to kill us to move us.”

When the first troops went in to move the Indians, the Indians did not fire the first shot. Instead, they tried to reason with the commanders. But the troops had their orders and the Indians had their pride.

 

When the first shot was fired against the Indians, Ben knew any early victories they achieved would be short and hollow ones. For they were too few, and the troops were too strong.

And Jeb Fargo and his people were too full of hate.

Reports of torture and rape began filtering out and into the Tri-states. In some instances, Indians who had surrendered were lined up and used for target practice. Girls as young as ten and eleven were raped; boys were sexually mutilated, left to bleed to death.

“And we're next,” Salina said.

She was heavy with child.

Ben ordered every resident into service. He told them to put on their gear and prepare to fight, or to pack up and try to surrender at the borders. No one left. The Tri-states was blacked out during the night.

Thousands of men, women, and teen-agers pulled on field gear, took up arms, and waited for war.

“I told you the shit was gonna hit the fan.” Ike smiled at Ben.

 

The Indians fought bravely and well with what they had, but they didn't have a chance—not against long-range artillery and planes and Cobra gunships and Puffs and paratroopers and marines—those who chose to fight that is, and quite a few did not.

The government, at Jeb Fargo's proddings, began its policy of extermination, with the help of many Indian-hating whites in the areas.

There was no sense in it. There was ample land for all, and the land claimed by the Indians was not that large. But governments rule by fear, and they are always right. Governments must always live under that premise.

The fighting was bloody and savage and senseless. The only good coming out of it was the death of Jeb Fargo. At the end, ragged and dirty and sick and hated, the American Indians fought what most believed was their last fight for their land.
Their
land. Most were hunted down and exterminated. The poor pitiful few that remained were herded onto reservations and left.

The government had won again—almost.

For the government did not know that a company of regulars from the Tri-states was with the Indians. When the officer in charge of that detachment saw which way the battle was going, he pulled his men and more than a thousand Indians—from various tribes—out and into Oregon. There, they waited for orders from General Raines.

When the last bastion of Indian defense fell, Ben and his people knew they were next; their time had come.

The strip had been turned into an area of hell: mines, punji stakes, barbed wire, booby-traps. Foot soldiers could and would move through it, but it would be at a fearful price—while the nation's leaders sat back in Richmond, dining in comfortable surroundings and sipping wine from crystal goblets.

It always comes down to the soldiers.

Gen. Ben Raines called for a meeting with civilian and military leaders. “We're next,” he told his people. In his hand he held a communique that had been hand-delivered to the eastern border by government messenger. “Congress has voted to enter into war with us if we do not surrender within twenty-four hours. They say because we have formed an illegal state, and aided the Indians in their fight against the central government, we are traitors and must be treated as any other power attempting to subvert or bring down the democratic government of America.

“If any of you want to pack it in, I sure won't blame you. I know we don't have a chance in here, and we are too many to run. We'll hold out for several weeks—six max. Then we've had it.”

No one left or spoke.

“All right, here it is. We still have some holes the troops don't know about. Most of the women with small children didn't want to leave, but they had to. Some of them have made it out.” He shuffled his booted feet. “Most of them didn't. Start the others out immediately, with guides and supplies. If any of us get out of here, we'll regroup in Canadian sector five.