Out of the Ashes (37 page)

“Paul, call that young man over here.” President Logan gave his last order.

When the secret service agent hailed him, Badger punched the button trigger of the deadly attaché case. It would blow in thirty seconds.

“Sir!” a secret service man called to VP Addison. “What's wrong, sir?”

“Stop them!” Aston said, gasping for breath.

“Stop who, sir?”

Aston rushed past the man, ran down the steps. In his haste, he stumbled, rolling down the steps, gashing open his head, cracking his skull. He was flung into darkness. The secret service men ran to help him.

“Hello, there, young man,” President Logan said to Badger. “Lovely day, isn't it?”

Badger grinned as he finished his silent count of twenty. He stepped up to the president, the force side of the attaché case toward Logan. “General Raines sends his compliments,” Badger said. And just before the heavy charge blew them all over the White House lawn and into history, Badger added, “You rotten son of a bit—”

Burke—first speech on conciliation with America

 

Ben looked about him, but he was not really seeing the several hundred men and women that made up his personal contingent of the western-based Rebels. No, his mind was far away. He was seeing Salina in the dim light outside that motel—he could not remember exactly where it was. So long ago, he sighed, but yet, only yesterday.

And now, his sigh deepened, I am past middle age, and she is dead, rotting in a forest. And my son—dead—as are all the others who fought and died for what they believed.

On both sides, he carefully, reluctantly, reminded himself.

General Krigel had his eastern-based Rebels ready to go, as did Conger in the mid-north, Colonel Ramos in the southwest, and General Hazen in the midwest.

Now, in the swamps, the mountains, the deserts, and the badlands and woodlands, many of the marines and paratroopers and SEALs and Rangers and Green Berets and Air Force personnel and regular infantrymen who had refused to fight anymore against the Tri-states, and had deserted, were gathered, awaiting Ben's orders to go. The Rebel dream had not died; it was as strong as before. Whether it would bloom as a beautiful child, or become as evil as a cancer, only time and history would know.

And now, it was time: Ben would give the orders and guerrilla warfare would once more shake the country, and possibly, the rebuilding world.

Again.

God! He was so weary of fighting.

Ben shook away his thoughts of things and people past and dead and said, “Badger completed his assignment. Logan is dead. VP Addison is hospitalized in a coma. Many military units are in revolt against the government; some others want to take over the government, continuing Logan's dictatorship. It's time for us to make our move toward rebuilding our dream of a free state.”

Ben looked at the men and women around him: at Ike, sitting on a log, his right boot off, looking at his big toe sticking through a hole in his sock; at his adopted daughter, Tina, cradling a CAR-15 in her arms; at Jerre, who stood by his side. At the Indians who had waited for his return; at Judith, reporter-turned-warrior; at James ever calm; at Cecil, Ph.D. with an AK-47 in his hands; at Dr. Chase, at least seventy, and still as tough as a mountain goat—and just as ornery.

Ben had to smile. The people who surrounded him were of all persuasions and races: black, white, red, yellow, tan, brown. At least here, he thought, the color line is broken. But God, at what cost?

“Dad?” Tina pulled him back to the present, then lost him as Ben turned his eyes to the valley that stretched before them.

There were mountain peaks far in the distance. A gentle haze lay over the area. It was so lovely and so lonely in its peacefulness, so quiet and beautiful.

Once again, Salina slipped into his thoughts, and his heart ached for her. He felt no guilt for his feelings. Jerre knew he was, and would always be, in love with Salina. At least a part of him.

He stood up from the rock he'd been sitting on. Ben was tired, but he knew he could not let it show. Could never quit.

He looked at his Rebels, the people ready to die for what they felt was right. He buckled his web belt, adjusted the canvas clip pouch, and picked up his old Thompson.

“All right, people,” he said. “Let's do it.”

 

 

 

Windsor Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022

 

 

 

 

Eighth Printing: August 1996

ISBN: 978-0-7860-1953-3