William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“Can you guarantee your plan will work?” the VP was interested, leaning forward, eyes shining. “Will there be torture?” A tiny dribble of spit oozed from one corner of his mouth.

Cody did not notice the flow, but Hartline did, and thought: a lot of repressed emotions in the VP. A lot of dark, covered emotions. “Yes,” Hartline smiled. “I surely can.”

“Do it,” Lowry ordered. “And start here in Richmond. Film it, too. I wanna see it.”

While you beat your meat, Hartline thought. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

The warm days of late summer passed quickly for the Rebels in the Great Smoky Mountains. They were up with the sun and trained until dusk. They were all nut-brown from the sun and lean and hard from the training. Long, lung-straining uphill runs were twice a day; push-ups, sit-ups, duck-walking uphill until one’s legs felt muscle would surely rip from bone. Brutal demanding physical training was a fact and a part of everyday life. They learned rappelling, demolitions, how to make homemade bombs from chemicals found in any farmer’s supply outlet.

They were taught disguise techniques, running the gamut from street beggar to businessman to apple Annie. Reflexes were honed down to a razor-sharp edge.

In close combat training, Ike circumvented the unnecessary and went straight to the killing blows. A few of the new people were hurt during this, one was killed, but the training never stopped.

The mountains exploded with the sounds of grenades and mortar and automatic weapons fire. In rifle training, both Ben and Ike were adamant on one point.

“You’ve all got to become expert shots. In many instances, the enemy will be wearing flak vests, body armor; so you’ve got to learn to hit the leg, the arm, or the head. The leg or arm is good in one sense. Knock a leg out from under a man and he’ll lie on the field and scream. That’s demoralizing to his buddies and pretty soon someone will come to his aid. Then you can kill them.”

Hartline and his men, backed by FBI agents with warrants charging several newspeople with treason for refusing to cooperate with the congressional mandate to submit all copy before airing, entered the Richmond offices of NBC. This was to be the test network.

Hartline, carrying an M-10 SMG, shoved the elderly guard away from the doors, knocking the man sprawling, and marched into the executive offices. He jerked one startled VP of programming to his feet and hit him in the mouth with a leather-gloved right fist. The man slammed against a chair and fell stunned to the carpet.

“Here, now!” a news commentator ran into the room. “You can’t do that.”

One of Hartline’s men butt-stroked the newsman with the butt of his AK-47. The man’s jaw popped like a firecracker. He was unconscious before he hit the carpet, blood pouring from the sudden gaps in his teeth.

“Where is the bureau chief?” Hartline said. “Or whatever you people call the boss. Get him in here, pronto.”

A badly shaken young secretary stammered, “It isn’t a him—it’s a her. Ms. Olivier.”

“Well now,” Hartline smiled. “That’s even better. Get her for me, will you, darling?”

Before the secretary could turn, a voice, calm and controlled, spoke from the hall. “What is the meaning of this?”

Hartline lifted his eyes, meeting the furious gaze of Sabra Olivier. He let his eyes drift over her, from eyes to ankles and back again. “You kind of a young cunt to be in charge of all this, aren’t you, honey?” he asked.

“Get out!” Sabra ordered.

The words had just left her mouth when Hartline’s hand popped against her jaw, staggering her. She stumbled against the open door, grabbing the doorknob for support.

“Dear,” Hartline said, "you do not order me about. I will tell you what I want, then you see to it that my orders are carried out. Is that clear?”

“You’re Sam Hartline,” Sabra said, straightening up, meeting him nose to nose, no back-up in her. “Vice President Lowry’s pet dog.”

Hartline never lost his cold smile. He faced the woman, again taking in her physical charms. Black hair, carefully streaked with gray; dark olive complexion, black eyes, now shimmering with anger; nice figure, long legs.

Sabra turned to a man. “Call the police,” she told him.

Hartline laughed at her. “Honey, we are the police.”

Sabra paled slightly.

The man on the floor groaned, trying to sit up, one hand holding his broken and swelling jaw.

Hartline said, “Get that pussy out of here. Toss him in the lobby and have that old goat call an ambulance to get him.” He looked at Ms. Olivier. “We can do this easy or hard, lady. It’s all up to you.”

“What do you want?” she said.

“For you to cooperate with your government, stop taking the Rebels’ side in this insurrection. And to submit all copy for government approval before airing.”

“No way,” Sabra said, and Hartline knew he was dealing with a lady that wasn’t going to back up or down. Yet. “Then you want it hard,” he said, the double-meaning not lost on her, as he knew it would not be.

Her dark eyes murdered the mercenary a dozen times in a split second. Her smile was as cold as his. “I never heard of anyone dying from it, Hartline.”

“Oh, I have, Sabra-baby. I have.”

The students at the University of Virginia, after hearing of the government takeover of the NBC offices and studios in Richmond, marched in protest at this blatant violation of the First Amendment. But this was not the 1960s; the newly federalized police had no restrictions on them as the police in the ‘60s had.

They were met with snarling dogs and batons and live ammunition. The Dobermans and shepherds literally tore one marcher to bloody rags; three others died from slugs fired from M-16s; another died from severe head wounds from a beating. Dozens were arrested in the process, beaten bloody.

VP Lowry ordered classes suspended at the university and the doors closed and locked. Only hours after the takeover at NBC, the faculty and many students refused to leave the building, barricading themselves in the dorms and classrooms. They were driven out by tear gas, and maced as they ran almost blindly from the buildings into the street. There, they were manhandled and bodily thrown into vans to be transported to local police stations.

Many people do not realize just how precious the Bill of Rights is… until they no longer have it.

“All right,” Sabra Olivier said to Hartline. “Stop it—stop your men. I’ll cooperate.”

The moaning and screaming of her female employees had finally broken her spirit. As Hartline knew it would. And he had not touched Ms. Olivier. Yet.

Hartline nodded to a man standing by the door to the office. Within seconds, the screaming and moaning had ceased.

“You see,” Hartline smiled at her. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

If looks could kill.

Sabra watched, a curious look in her eyes as a Minicam was brought into her office, carried by an agent. She did not understand the smile on Hartline’s lips.

The mercenary pointed to a TV set located just behind her desk. “Turn that one on.”

She did as instructed. A naked man appeared on the screen. She recognized him as one of her anchormen and also knew this was live. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I said I’d cooperate.”

“This is just a little insurance, Sabra-darling,” Hartline replied. He picked up a phone on her desk and punched a button. “Do it,” he ordered. He looked at Sabra. “Watch, darling.”