William W. Johnstone (19 page)

None of the commanders told their people, not yet, but they knew that once Ben started this push there would be no turning back for any of them.

Two things awaited them: victory or the grave.

Cecil returned to his battalion in the eastern part of the state. Ike returned to his people waiting just south of Clear Lake and began moving them out in small teams, toward the IPF’s main battle lines. Dan headed back north and began breaking up his people into teams, sending them out toward the northernmost IPF lines. As Ike was doing, Dan’s people would be moving into position on both sides of the IPF lines—whenever that was possible. That part of the operation was iffy, for if only one behind-the-lines team was discovered, the entire mission might well be jeopardized.

Ben had already begun sending teams west of Interstate 5, moving them toward the heavy timber and dense wilderness areas.

Ben found Lora and knelt down in front of her, taking her hands. “I’ll be back. You look after things around this place, okay?”

“Okay, Ben.”

“Keep your eyes on Sylvia, Lora. And don’t trust her too far.”

“She’s a traitor, Ben,” the girl said.

“I know.”

“I thought she liked you, Ben. I mean … liked you a lot.”

“So did I, Lora. When did you first suspect her?”

“When she started taking long walks in the woods, by herself. The underground people followed her; some of their kids told me about it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you already knew.”

Ben smiled. “What did she do in the timber, girl?”

“Met with dark people.”

“Dark … like Cecil?”

“No. Not that dark. But darker than a good sun tan.”

Members of the Islamic Peoples Army. But why? Why would she do it?

Ben had to find out the why.

“I wonder what they talked about?” Ben said, directing the question as much to himself as to the child.

“I don’t know. They never could get that close. But …” She hesitated, then made up her mind. “The underground people know where the dark people are hiding. They can kill them whenever you want them dead.”

And Ben realized then that for all his grand dreams of schooling for Lora and the others like her, and taking into consideration how much he liked her and she liked him, Lora would never give more than a part of herself; the larger part would remain true to the silent code of the wilderness. Her future was as surely set in place as Ben’s. Her formative years were behind her, her destiny outlined.

“You’d like to go back to your friends, wouldn’t you, Lora?”

“A big part of me would,” she said quickly.

“How about school and parties and having fun like other kids, Lora?”

“You don’t miss what you never had, Ben.”

“I want you all to learn to read and write, Lora. All of you.”

“And if we do that for you, Ben?”

“Then the choice of what you want to do and how you want to live the rest of your lives will be up to you.”

“It’s that important to you?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her head. “All right, Ben. We’ll do it. For you.”

And Ben knew where they would go, probably en masse, once the rudimentary teaching was concluded. Back to the timber.

He ruffled her hair and stood up.

“You’re always going to have to have eyes and ears for you, Ben Raines,” the child said. “That will be us.”

“You take care, Lora.”

“See you, Ben.”

In his Jeep, Ben looked at his driver. “I would like to see what type of societies will flourish a hundred years from now. I certainly think it will be very interesting.”

James Riverson walked up to Ben’s Jeep and smiled at him. “The spokesperson for the woods-children pass along their wishes, Ben?”

“Sure did.”

“I wondered when they’d tell you. And how. Their life may be hard, Ben, but it’s one they’ve chosen.”

“Maybe I can save a few of them by education.”

“Maybe.”

“But you wouldn’t bet on that, would you, James?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Ben. How much did Lora know about … the person we discussed?”

“A hell of a lot more than I did. Or any of our intelligence people.”

“I thought she might. Don’t worry about her, Ben. The person in question won’t be able to trick Lora. That is one sharp cookie.”

“One sharp cookie?” Ben laughed. “That expression dates you, James.”

James joined in the laughter. “After we kick the ass off the Russian and kill Hartline, what then, Ben?”

“Then we stick the Hot Wind on ice.”

“The bikers and outlaws and warlords?”

“We deal with them, too.”

“Never stops, does it, Ben?”

“Well, ol’ buddy, if you’ll recall, we started this back in … ‘88 or ‘89. Hell, I can’t remember what year it was.”

“History will, Ben,” the huge Rebel said gently. James Riverson was one of the gentlest and most easygoing men Ben had ever known. Until he got mad. Then he was awesome.

“I hope you’re right about that, James. But if it is to be recorded, people are going to have to know how to
read
it.”

“Our people will know how to read it, Ben. Our grandkids and their kids and so on up the line. You’ve seen to that.”

Other Rebels had gathered around the Jeep, standing quietly, listening to the exchange between the general and the highest ranking sergeant in the Rebel army.

Ben had offered James officership many, many times in the past. He always refused it, feeling and knowing he could accomplish more as a command sergeant major.

“That isn’t enough, James. Education is the key to wiping out savagery and barbarism and it’s the only way to bring this nation back from the ashes. And I will destroy anyone or anything who tries to prevent me from accomplishing that.” He winked at James. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out, Sergeant Major.”

“That dates
you,
Ben!” James said with a laugh.

He moved away, yelling orders.

“What’d the sergeant major mean by that, General?” Ben’s driver asked.

“That was a line from a very popular TV show of years back,” Ben explained. “I think Clint Eastwood used to star in it.”

The driver blinked. “Who is Clint Eastwood?”

Ben and his people rode as far as they dared and then stepped down. From here on in, they would walk.

“Recon out,” Ben ordered.

The recon teams began moving out.

Ben looked up at the sky. It would be full dark in another two hours. They could cover a lot of ground in that time. Ben took a sip of water from his canteen and squatted down, his team commanders gathered close-by.

“No point in going over it again,” Ben said. “You all know where you’re supposed to go and what to do when you get there. But I’ll tell you now, this is one hell of a gamble. If the Russian has troops that I’m unaware of … well, we might find ourselves in a box with lid nailed down.”

“Seems like everything we do is a gamble, General,” a Rebel captain said. “I think we’ve all got to be pretty good odds-makers by now.”

Ben stood up and pulled his Thompson off right-shoulder sling. “Let’s go, gang.”

As the recon teams had reported, there were no IPF troops between Interstate 5 and the edge of the great wilderness area. The Rebels force-marched until four o’clock in the morning. That put Ben’s team less than two miles from the tiny town of Paskenta, on California state road A9. Ben called a halt, put out guards, and told the rest of his people to get some rest.

Five hours later, Ben’s eyes popped open. It was rare for Ben to sleep more than four or five hours at any stretch. And he seldom took naps.

He bathed and shaved with cold water out of a camp bucket and began applying camouflage cream to his face. Black, green, and bark brown. Finished with his face, he painted the backs of his hands.

As he walked the silent camp, he noticed that those Rebels who had slept their fill were busy with face paint. Getting ready.

Moving up to his forward outpost, Ben slipped into the ditch beside the Rebel manning it. “Seen anything?” Ben asked.

“Nothing lately, sir. But someone is on the roof of that building just to left of that old gas station.”

Ben took his Steiner Commander binoculars from their case and sighted the building in. The 7x50 glasses brought it in close. He did not have to worry about sun glinting off the lenses for it was still morning and the sun was to their backs. Exactly as Ben had planned it.

“Damn!” Ben cussed.

“What, sir?”

“They’ve got an electronic listening device mounted up there. It looks like a good one, too. Those things can pick up sound from a mile away. Maybe even farther than that. Depends on the make. Shit!”

He once more studied the building through the long lenses.

“How’s that ditch running up to the right of the building?”

The sentry’s eyes twinkled and a smile cut his young face.

“Yeah,” Ben said, smiling. “That’s what I figured.”

“They’re just to the left of that clump of trees, General. They went in about two hours ago.”

“Type of grenades?” Ben asked. He was not the least irritated that some of his people had taken the initiative. Raines’s Rebels were taught that.

“Firefrag, sir.”

Probably the most lethal hand grenade every produced.

The firefrag is a combination of fragmentation and incendiary.

“Pray they don’t get detected,” Ben said. “Everybody has to jump off at precisely the same time.” He looked at his watch. “Sweat-out time,” he said.

Striganov was in a rage, storming around the office, shouting and insulting anyone who happened to have the misfortune to come near him.

His XO stood at formal at-ease in front of the general’s desk, waiting out the tirade.

General Georgi Striganov finally wound down and sat down heavily in his padded leather desk chair. His face was flushed, his blood pressure up.

“How?” he said to his XO. “How does the son of a bitch know these things?”

“General Raines?” the XO asked.

“Who the fuck else am I talking about, you idiot!” Striganov screamed.

It was at that moment that the XO realized that what he had been fearing for some months was true. General Striganov was borderline insane. He had suspected, but now he felt his suspicions were true. The XO was a soldier, one hundred percent the Universal Soldier. But he preferred the type of soldiering that conformed to the Geneva Convention. Rules to follow. He did not like torture or other maltreatment of prisoners. Especially against fellow officers. That was unconscionable. And the perversions the general had so recently begun to enjoy. Sick. Sex with mere children. Sick. Sick. Sick.

But he had been with General Striganov for years.

And his thoughts of betrayal made him ill. But something had to be done. But what?

Perhaps a meeting with General Raines? … “… Goddammit, pay attention to me!” Striganov was screaming. “Yes, General. I was thinking …”

“When I want you to think, I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, General.”

“We are alone now. We can expect no help from Hartline. It’s confirmed that he has gone over to the wog. We know there has been a pull-out of Raines’s troops. So he’s going to strike. Question is, where?”

“He’ll use guerrilla tactics, sir!”

“Nonsense! He’ll hit us hard at one point and try to break through. I know that. I know how Raines’s mind works.”

“Yes, sir.” I have to confide in somebody, the XO thought. We have to stop the general before we lose everything we’ve fought too hard to attain.

But who?

Striganov rose and walked swiftly to a wall map of California. He punched a spot. “There! Right there is where that damnable Raines will strike.”

Wrong, the XO thought. You’re wrong. You’re losing your grasp of reality, Georgi. And something has to be done. Quickly.

But Striganov was giving orders. “Move everything from the coast to Weaverville north to form a line from Crescent City to Yreka, west to east. Order artillery out, immediately. Then I want you to—”

“
No!
” the XO screamed. “No, goddamn you, no.” He fumbled for his sidearm, pulling out the pistol.

“What?” Striganov said, turning, his face paling in shock. “How dare you!” he shouted.

The XO jacked back the hammer on the pistol. “Listen to me closely, Georgi. You’re sick. You’ve got to have help. I respect and admire you, Comrade, but I’ve watched you deteriorate, mentally, over the months. Please, Georgi, let me help you.”

“Put that gun down! Put it down and we’ll say nothing about this outrage. But do it now.”

“I can’t!” the XO’s voice was choked with scarcely controlled emotion. It was tearing his guts out to disobey the man he had served for so many years.

Striganov took a step toward his desk, his hand outstretched for the button panel.

“Don’t do it!” the XO shouted.

“You won’t shoot me,” Striganov said.

“I will if I have to. Don’t make me wound you, Georgi. Please. I’m begging you.”

The office door suddenly banged open, startling both men.

General Georgi Striganov’s executive officer pulled the trigger.

“One more hour,” Ben muttered. “I hate waiting.”

He looked at his watch.

It was a minute later than the last time he’d glanced at it.

Twice he had detected movement on the rooftop through the long lenses. Those troops up there must be roasting beneath this hot sun, he thought. But that was good. They would not be as attentive with sweat running into their eyes.

He wondered how Ike was taking the waiting.

“Goddammit, I hate waiting!” Ike bitched.

Ike and his team were poised on the northernmost finger of Clear Lake, just outside a small town. An IPF outpost had been spotted and pinpointed. But unlike Ben’s team, Ike had managed, due to the terrain, to get close enough for their small 60 mm mortars to be effective.

He glanced at his watch. “Come on, come on!” he muttered.

He wondered how Dan was taking it.

“Thank you,” Dan said to his batman. “There is nothing like a good hot cup of tea to refresh one. Please join me, Carl.”