William Johnstone: Fire in the Ashes

Tanks topped, the Rebel said, “Have a nice, safe journey back home, boys.”

Then he was gone.

Taxiing away, the copilot said, “Al Cody is gonna have a fit about this.”

“Fuck Al Cody,” the pilot said tersely. “Man, if I knew how to go about it, I’d join the Rebels now.”

“Well, hell! Why didn’t you ask back there?”

“Did you feel like making chit-chat with that .45 in your neck?”

“Shit, no!”

“Then just fly the plane; don’t ask stupid questions.”

The Air Force personnel were released unharmed; all but four of them who had elected to fight. They lay stretched out in an empty hangar, their bodies covered with blankets.

“If you men are smart,” the leader of the Rebel unit told them, “you’ll walk off this base the instant we leave and don’t look back. ‘Cause the word is goin’ out: you are either one hundred percent for us, or one hundred percent against us. Just like the government mentality, boys, no gray in the middle. If that’s the way they choose to fight, it’s okay with us.”

“How do we join you?” one asked.

“Just walk out with us.”

“That suits me, man.”

Nine of the airmen walked out with the Rebels.

Ben Raines’s movement was once more rolling, picking up steam with each tick of the clock.

Five hours later, in Richmond, Al Cody stood in silent trembling rage as he viewed what was left of his men. He walked out of the plane and stood in the darkness on the tarmac. His fists were clenched and his voice choked with anger as he spoke.

“I’m going to find you, Ben Raines. I swear it. I’m going to find you and publicly hang you. And I’m going to enjoy it immensely.”

Cody walked away from the death-plane. He was a short, stocky man with iron gray hair and the belief that his government could do no wrong. Al believed if his government made a rule, it didn’t matter if ninety-nine percent of the people were opposed to it—it was the law, and by God the public would obey it, and if they didn’t they could damn well pay the price by being branded a criminal.

Cody stopped on the tarmac and ran blunt fingers through his hair. He turned his cold expressionless blue eyes on a senior agent who waited by his car.

“Get Ben Raines. Break the back of the Rebels. I don’t care how you do it or how many men it takes—just do it.”

“Some of the men are swearing dire revenge about this,” the agent jerked a thumb toward the plane. “They’re talking about anything goes, sir. They’re saying find the Rebel sympathizers and break them, any way we can.”

Cody fought against his inner feelings. He felt revulsion at the thought of torture. It cut against the grain of his Christian upbringing. But… these were trying times. These Rebels were no better than those damned Irish IRA men and women—terrorists, murderers.

“Do it,” Cody spoke through clenched teeth.

“But Senator Carson and the president…?”

“We’ll keep silent and maintain a low profile on this for as long as possible. If any reports get out, we deny them—right down the line. President Addison is a weak sister; Senator Carson is getting old. Don’t worry about them. I think now we must fight fire with fire. Get Sam Hartline. Have him meet you tomorrow and lay it out for him. Tell him to get his boys rolling.”

“Jeb Fargo and his bunch tried their hand against Ben Raines,” the senior agent reminded his boss. “You know where that got them. Dead.”

“And Kenny Parr,” Cody recalled. He sighed. “They are terrorists, Tommy. That’s how we have to look at the Rebels. Break them, Tommy. Just do it.”

Al Cody got in his car, tapped the driver on the shoulder, and drove away into the still-rainy night.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy Levant said softly. “But I don’t have to like it.”

The FBI of the late 1990s bore no resemblance to the crime-fighting Bureau of old. They were more an anti-guerrilla unit than an anti-crime organization. Organized crime, per se, was practically nonexistent; the bombings of 1988 had seen to that—worldwide.

The Bureau had men and women working on cases involving murder and rape and extortion and government-related criminal cases, but by and large they were pitted against Ben Raines and his Rebels.

And the men and women who made up the new FBI were not the highly educated and dedicated personnel of old. The bombings had not only changed the face of the United States, but had drastically altered the lifestyles of its remaining citizens. Factories and shops were once more rolling and producing, yes, but life was still a struggle for many of the survivors. Just putting bread and meat and potatoes on the table was an effort for many citizens… not just in the United States but worldwide.

The government, in the eyes of many, was failing the citizens. Ben Raines, on the other hand, had carved a working, workable, enjoyable, and productive society out of nothing and had done it in practically no time.

Why? asked the citizens. Why can’t this government do the same?

But government chose not to answer that—not to the satisfaction of the questioners. For if the government were to reply truthfully, that would reveal to the citizens that big government really didn’t work—and had not in years. One senator had glumly stated that Ben Raines’s form of government was so simple it was complex…

In Tri-States, the people were pulled together for many reasons: to conserve energy, to stabilize government, for easier care, and to afford more land for the production of crops, as well as to afford better protection for the people in health care, police, fire, and social services.

The elderly, for the first time in their lives, were looked after with care and concern and respect. They were not grouped together and forgotten and ignored. Careful planning went into the population centers of Tri-States. People of all age groups were carefully grouped together in housing and apartments. The elderly who wished to work and could work, were encouraged to do so. They could work until they tired, then they went home. Nothing was said whether they worked one hour or eight. No children’s games were played among the adults; no needling or pushing. There was nothing to prove. The knowledge of older citizens is vast and valuable; older citizens can teach so many things—if only the younger people would listen. In Tri-States they listened.

In order for this to work the pace must be slowed, the grind eased, the honor system restored; the work ethic, in both labor and management, renewed. It was.

In Tri-States, there was no such thing as the three-martini lunch and an hour’s nap. In Tri-States, management worked just as hard as labor, or they got out. Permanently.

Here, for the first time in decades, there was no welfare, no ADC, no WIC, no food stamps, no unemployment; but what took its place was jobs for all, and all adults worked. Those who would not because they felt the job was beneath their dignity, or because of laziness, apathy, and/or indifference, were escorted to the nearest border and given a good boot in the butt. They were told not to come back. If minor children were involved, the kids were taken from their parents and immediately adopted by a family in Tri-States.

Harsh treatment? Yes. Totally unconstitutional by American standards? Yes.

But it worked.

“Al Cody will never sit still for this,” Ben told his personal contingent of Rebels two days after the ambush of FBI agents. “We’ve got to move and do it quickly.”

Doctor Chase stood on the fringe of the group, glaring disapprovingly at Ben. The old doctor muttered something about Ben’s ancestry and walked away. “Man ought to be flat out on his back in bed,” Chase growled.