William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

In the east, General Krigel was having a fine old time in his searches for weapons. Krigel had been the first ranking officer to refuse to fight in Tri-States.

The commander of the federal forces, Major General Paul Como, stood listening to Brigadier General Krigel, growing angrier by the second.

“The bridges around the area been cleared?” Como asked. He knew they had not.

Krigel cleared his throat. “No, sir. The Navy SEALs have refused to go in. They say they won’t fight against fellow Americans. Some of the people in Tri-States were SEALs.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what they were! I gave orders for the SEALs to clear those bridges. I ought to have those bastards arrested.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I would sure hate to be the person who tried that.”

Como ignored that, fighting to keep his anger under control. He glanced at his watch. “All right, then—the hell with the SEALs. Get the Airborne dropped. It’s past time. What’s the hangup?”

“The drop zones have not been laid out.”

“What!”

“Sir, the Pathfinders went in last night, but they all deserted and joined the Rebels. To a man.”

"What!" Como roared.

“They refused to lay out the DZs. Sir, they said they won’t fight fellow Americans, and anyone who would is a traitor.”

“Goddamnit!” Como yelled. He pointed a finger at Krigel. “You get the Airborne up and dropped. Start and push—right now. You get those fucking Rangers spearheading.”

Krigel shifted his jump-booted feet. The moment he had been dreading. “We… have a problem, sir. Quite a number of the residents of the Tri-States… were… ah—”

“Paratroopers, Rangers, Marines, Air Force personnel.” The CG finished it for him. “Wonderful. How many are not going to follow my orders?”

Krigel gave it to him flatly. “About fifty percent of the Airborne have refused to go in. No Rangers, no Green Berets, no SEALs. About thirty percent of the Marines and regular infantry refuse to go in. They said, they’d storm the gates of hell for you, with only a mouthful of spit to fight with, but they say these people are Americans, and they haven’t done anything wrong. They are not criminals.”

The news came as no surprise to General Como. He had discussed this operation with General Russell, during the planning stages, and Como had almost resigned and retired. But General Russell had talked him out of it. Como was not happy with it, but he was a professional soldier, and he had his orders.

Krigel said, “General, this is a civilian problem. It’s not ours. Those people in there are Americans. They just want to be left alone. They are not in collusion with any foreign power, and they are not attempting to overthrow the government. Paul,”—he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder—“I still get sick at my stomach thinking about those Indians. Granted, we didn’t do those things, but we were in command of the men who did—some of them. It was wrong, and we should have been men enough to have those responsible for those… acts shot!”

General Como felt his guts churn; his breakfast lay heavy and undigested. He knew well what his friend was going through; and Krigel was his friend. Classmates at the Point. But an order was an order.

Como pulled himself erect. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You’re a soldier, General Krigel, and you’ll obey orders, or by God, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Krigel snapped, losing his temper. “Goddamn it, Paul, we’re creating another civil war. And you know it. Yes, I’m a soldier, and a damned good one. But by God, I’m an American first. This is a nation of free people, Paul? The hell it is! Those people in the Tri-States may have different ideas, but—”

"Goddamn you!" Como shouted. “Don’t you dare argue with me. You get your troopers up and dropped—now, or they won’t be your troopers. General Krigel, I am making that a direct order.”

“No, sir,” Kigel said, a calmness and finality in his voice. “I will not obey that order.” He removed his pistol from leather and handed it to General Como. “I’m through, Paul—that’s it.”

General Como, red-faced and trembling, looked at the .45 in his hand, then backhanded his friend with his other hand. Blood trickled from Krigel’s mouth. Krigel did not move.

Como turned to a sergeant major, who had stood impassively by throughout the exchange between the generals. “Sergeant Major, I want this man placed under arrest. If he attempts to resist, use whatever force is necessary to subdue him. Understood?” He gave the sergeant major Krigel’s .45.

The sergeant major gripped General Krigel’s arm and nodded. He didn’t like the order just given him. He’d been a member of a LRRP team in ‘Nam—back when he was a young buck—and the idea of special troops fighting special troops didn’t set well with him. American fighting American was wrong, no matter how you cut it.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said, but was thinking: just let me get General Krigel out of this area and by God, we’ll both link up with Raines’s Rebels. Us, and a bunch of other men.

General Como turned to his aide, Captain Shaw. “Tell General Hazen he is now in command of the 82nd. Get his troopers dropped. Those that won’t go, have them arrested. If they resist, shoot them. Tell General Cruger to get his Marines across those borders. Start it—right now!”

Shaw nodded his understanding, if not his agreement. The young captain was career military, and he had his orders, just as he was sure Raines’s people had theirs.

“Yes, sir.” He walked away. “Right away, sir.”

General Como blinked rapidly several times. He was very close to tears, and then he was crying, the tears running down his tanned cheeks. “Goddamn it,” he whispered. “What a fucking lash-up.”

“You all right, General?” an aide inquired.

Krigel shook his head to clear away the fog of memories. He brought himself to the present with a visible effort. Como had been killed on the tenth day of the fighting in the Tri-States; killed by a little girl with a .45-caliber pistol.

Ironic, Krigel thought. Como had spent several years in ‘Nam. No desk-soldier, Como spent as much time in the field with his men as possible. Hadn’t gotten a scratch.

“Sir?” the aide persisted.

“What? Oh… yes, Captain. I’m fine,” Krigel curved his mouth into a smile. “I was… lost in memories for a time.”

“The Tri-States, sir?”

“Yes. You were there, too, weren’t you, Van?”

“Yes, sir. For eight days. I… walked away from my unit on the morning of the ninth day. Couldn’t take any more of it. That… raping got to me.”

“And the torture?”

“I wasn’t a part of that, sir, and neither were any of my men. But I saw what was left of a woman after some… guys got through with her. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“No,” Krigel sealed the statement. “No, you won’t, Van. I saw some of it in ‘Nam—done by Americans. You don’t forget it—you just learn to live with it.”

“Yes, sir. I was kinda hopin’ you’d say you eventually forget it.”

“I wish,” the general said, accompanying that with a sigh. “Everything loaded, Van?”

“Yes, sir. Ready to roll.”

“All right. We’ll cut southwest through Ohio until we pick up Interstate 75 at Cincinnati. We’ll stay on that most of the way into the mountains. That’s where we’ll link up with Ben.”

“You know General Raines, sir?”

Several officers and enlisted personnel had gathered around.

“Yes, I do, Van. Not well, but I know him.”