William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“No,” she was quick with her reply. “I think at first he would not believe it; if he did accept it as truth, he would be appalled.”

Doctor Chase put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you going to the eastern base at all, Jerre?”

“No,” the word was quietly spoken. Quietly and quickly. “I think it best that Ben not have me to worry with and about, especially now that I’m pregnant.”

“Plans?”

“Northern California. Our base up near the Oregon line.”

“That’s Doctor Canale’s territory. Good man. I’ll talk with him before you leave. I hate to see you leave, kiddo.”

“Don’t get maudlin,” she grinned at him.

“Heaven forbid!”

She looked around her. “I wonder if Ben’s dream will ever come true?”

By August of 1989, everyone who was coming into Ben’s dream society… was in. The three-state area looked like the world’s largest supply dump—and probably was. Ben had ordered his roaming units of Rebels to take everything that wasn’t nailed down—bring it with them to the three-state area. Entire towns had been stripped bare. Every ounce of gold and silver and precious gem had been carefully searched for and taken. Billions of dollars of gold, silver, and precious stones were now under guard in Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana. These would be used to back the new currency.

The few survivors in the three states were in almost total confusion due to lack of organization; something nearly all governments discourage. For local militia, except those under strict government control, cannot be established in the United States, not for more than a hundred years. Most governments are based on fear: fear of the IRS, fear of the FBI, fear of the Treasury Department, fear of the state police, fear of the tax collector—fear of everything. That is the only way a massive bureaucracy can function. For if the people are armed and organized, and of one mind, the people might decide that federal judges and the Supreme Court don’t have the right to dictate how taxpayers should run their lives; and those taxpayers just might decide to start hanging murderers and rapists and child molesters—those they didn’t shoot from the outset, that is.

And the people (who, so the myth goes, comprise the government and are supposed to tell government what they want, and the government is then supposed to do what the people tell them to do)… well, that would mean the people would truly be in control. Big Brother doesn’t like to think about that ever happening. Scary.

When everyone who was coming in… was in, Ike’s wife, Megan, had asked Ben, “What are you going to call your new state, Ben?”

Ben looked at her, surprised. “Mine? This is not mine. Call it Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. What else?”

“Who is the governor?” Ben was asked. “The leader—the man in charge?”

“There isn’t any,” Ben said.

“Well, then, Ben Raines… I guess we’ll just have to have us an election.”

“Just don’t nominate me,” he said. “I’m a writer, got a lot to do. I’m not a politician.”

And Ben could not understand why everyone had smiled at that.

Ben watched the bodies of the dead government agents and mercenaries being buried in a mass grave. After being stripped of all weapons and clothing, they were dumped into a huge, bulldozed-out pit, covered, and forgotten. No records were kept as to who was buried in the pit.

“I don’t think we’re going to have that year you wanted,” Ike said.

“Maybe not, but we still are not going on the offensive. The new people need more time in training; several more months. Besides, I want to see what the press does with this,” he waved a hand toward the mass grave.

Even in a police state with censorship of the press, hundreds of men and women can’t come together in a shooting war without the press playing it up. When the military failed to follow up on the battle in the Smokies, the press put it all together and the headlines screamed.

CIVIL WAR BETWEEN FEDERAL POLICE

AND RAINES’S REBELS

MILITARY WILL TAKE NO PART

Now it was settled. The breach had widened to the point of open war. Lowry had Congress ask for the help of the National Guard and Reserve troops.

Many commanders refused.

Ben and his Rebels waited and trained.

August 1, 1999

The Great Smoky Mountains

Ben Raines stood looking at the tired group of new people. All that was left of the bunch from new people from a half dozen states. They had been ambushed in transit, only a hundred and fifty had made it out alive.

Ben stood on a manmade podium in a natural outdoor amphitheater about a mile from Base Camp One.

“All right, people,” his voice jerked them to mental attention, eyes forward. Three hundred eyes studied the human legend standing before them. A shade over six feet, one hundred and eighty pounds, hair streaked with gray, blue eyes. Hard looking. “Welcome to Base Camp One. You have now reached the point of no return. From here on, there are but two ways to leave the Rebels: we win the fight, or you die. Those are your only choices.

“To my left is Colonel Ike McGowen, to my right is Colonel Cecil Jefferys. Colonel McGowen is your training officer, so get ready for the roughest time of your life. Colonel Jefferys is my XO. Now let’s get to it.

“Guerrilla warfare is a dirty business. Several of you men fought in Vietnam; you know firsthand what I’m talking about. For you inexperienced people, guerrilla warfare is this: hit hard and run like hell. For the enemy, guerrilla warfare is fear, confusion, disorganization, distrust, and terror. No great thundering land and sea-battles. No clearly defined battle lines. Guerrillas pop up anywhere, do their jobs, and get out. The enemy doesn’t know where they come from or where they’re going when they’re through.”

A hand went up from the ranks of the new people. Ben nodded his acknowledgment and said, “Name, please?”

“Steve Mailer. How much time will we have, General?”

“Hopefully, six months. It’s enough time, for you’ll be mixed with combat-experienced men and women when the full unit is formed.” Ben smiled. “I read about your… incident. You seem to be well-versed in firearms. Pistols, at least.”

“When I saw how our government was… the direction it was taking, I began giving myself lessons in firearms.” For a moment the slender young man was flung back in time…

The agents had entered his office and faced him, smiling and arrogant. “Where’s the old broad?”

Steve gritted his teeth. “Mrs. Rommey took the rest of the afternoon off. I trust that meets with your approval?”

“Watch your smart mouth, schoolteacher. Turn around, face the wall, and spread your feet.”

Steve had smiled. “Man’s rapidly dwindling individuality will someday end with an act of frightened, submissive obedience, groveling at the feet of near-cretins. I have no intention of being a party to that final fall of the curtain.”

“Huh?” one agent asked.

“It means, fuck you!” Steve said. He raised the pistol and turned. The angle of his body had prevented the agents from seeing the .38. He fired twice into each man’s chest. He fanned their bodies, taking their weapons, then ran out the rear door…

“…you all right?” Steve caught the last of Ben’s question.

“Oh. Yes, sir. I was recalling the… incident in my office.”

“First time to kill a man?” Ike asked.

“Yes, Colonel.”

“It won’t be the last,” Ike told him.