William Johnstone: Fire in the Ashes

“I don’t believe you,” Samuelson said.

Samuelson was jerked to his feet and pulled and dragged down the hall. Hartline stood smiling before a closed door.

“Believe, Mr. Samuelson,” he said. “Believe.” He pushed open the door.

Spring drifted slowly and softly into early summer. A strange peace lay over the country; but both sides knew it was a prelude before violence. A quiet before the nation erupted into civil war.

One eastern-based cell had been destroyed. Samuelson and his daughter Ruth were being held under tight security at the base Hartline used for training purposes. Samuelson had been wrung dry of all useful information. The man was only a shadow of his former self. He had been broken both physically and mentally. His daughter, Ruth, had been sexually abused with such frequency she had broken mentally and was past any point of saving. She sat in her cell and sang children’s songs. She had pulled all the hair from her head.

On June 1, 1999, a semi-military court, made up of military men and women loyal to Cody and Lowry, Hartline mercenaries, and two extremely frightened citizens from a local town, sentenced Samuelson and his daughter to hanging for high treason against the government of the United States.

The trial lasted twenty minutes. Father and daughter were hanged the following morning, at dawn.

In Washington, President Addison sat in his private quarters with Senator Carson. The old senator from Vermont, usually quite eloquent, was decidedly coarse when he finally spoke.

“The shit is about to hit the fan, Aston.”

“And there isn’t a goddamned thing any of us can do about it.”

“True.”

“I’m really just a figurehead, aren’t I, Bill?”

“That’s about what it comes down to, yes.”

“I have given serious thought to resigning.”

“Don’t. I have this hope that after a few weeks or months, when my colleagues see how bloody and awful and needless this war is they’ll come to their senses and turn against Cody and Lowry. If that happens, we’ll need you in the White House.”

The president shook his head. “It won’t happen, Billy. You’re dreaming. I see things much clearer now. Logan was grooming Lowry all along; but kept him in the background deliberately. I’m remembering things now that I considered minor and unimportant when they occurred.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m remembering all the times Hilton met with Lowry. I know Dallas Valentine was having an affair with Logan’s wife, Fran, but now that I look back, I believe Lowry was, too.”

“The lady certainly stayed busy, didn’t she?” Carson said dryly.

“Quite. I’m recalling some inner-office about Lowry being the man in the shadows, so to speak; about him actually being the brains behind Hilton Logan all the time. Sure. Jeb Fargo was run out of Mississippi and settled in Georgia—just outside of Atlanta.” Aston smiled. “Where is Lowry from, Bill?”

The old man stirred in his chair. “Georgia. Smyrna, I believe. You’re putting it all together, Aston.”

“Finally. And far too late.”

“Maybe not. This may be all I need to convince enough people in both houses of a power play.”

“Providing they are not involved in it.”

“Unfortunately, I have thought of that, also.”

“And your conclusion?”

“I think some are involved. How many…?” He shrugged his shoulders.

“That father and daughter who were hanged this morning. Samuelson. Gruesome business. I wonder what Raines’s thinking is on the matter?”

Ben was once more a hundred percent physically. And at that moment, he was one hundred percent angry. Not a hot raging anger, but a cold deadly one. He stopped his restless pacing and turned to Ike. The ex-SEAL was sitting patiently in the squad tent, a CAR-15 across his lap.

“We’ve got to start all over again, ol’ buddy,” Ben said.

“True.” Ike waited. When Ben didn’t immediately speak, Ike said, “You’re not blaming Samuelson and his kid?”

“Oh, hell, no, Ike! There isn’t a man or woman in this world that wouldn’t break under the right kind of torture. No, I’m not blaming them. I’m just sick that it happened.”

“Twelve cells smashed. More than two hundred people taken,” Cecil said. “It makes me physically ill to imagine what is happening to those people at this time.”

“I try not to think about it,” Doctor Chase said. He glanced at Ben. “Are you going to retaliate, Ben?”

Ben was slow in replying. Chase was about to repeat the question when Ben said, “Yes… I am. But not in the manner that is expected of us.”

“Arm the people?” Cecil said.

“Yes, but there again, we’re going to move slowly. I spent a sleepless night last night. I’ve thought it out carefully, and my mind is made up.”

The men waited for Ben to give the order to start the killing.

“Cody and Hartline are going to be very disappointed in the Rebel movement for the next six months to a year, I’m thinking.” Ben smiled at the startled and puzzled looks on the faces of the men. “We are going to rebuild—from the ground up. We are going to reopen old training bases in the mountains and the deserts; we are going to stockpile and train and we are going to keep our heads down low; so low if we got any lower our buttons would be in the way.”

Ben began his restless pacing. It was his habit when deep in excited thought. “One year from this date, gentlemen, we are going to strike. We are going to hit so hard, and in so many places, with such force, we are going to knock the pins right out from under Cody, Hartline, and the members of Congress who support them. On June 2, 2000, we are going to take this government and give it back to the people.” He smiled. “At least take the first step, that is.

“Ike, get on the horn and get our field commanders ready to receive. I want the message coded and scrambled. Tell them there will not be one incidence of revenge or retaliation for the hanging of Samuelson and his daughter or for the breaking up of the cells. Not until I give the word. Any Rebel who disobeys this order will be subject to court-martial, and I will personally shoot that person.

“One year, gentlemen. One year. When civilization takes its first struggling steps into the year 2000, that is when we strike.”

The meeting was over.

Outside the tent, out of earshot, Cecil said, “I thought Tri-States’ undertaking was a mammoth operation. But Ben’s about to start taking some giant steps, Ike.”

Before Ike could reply, Doctor Chase said, “Well, boys, I’ll say this for the crazy goddamn gun soldier: if anyone can do it, he can.”

By mid-summer of 1999, the survivors of the bombings of 1988 came full-face with hard reality: America was in the grip of a police state.

All police were federalized; they could cross city limits, lines, county lines, state lines. The Federal Bureau of Investigation seemed to change overnight, turning into an organization of frightening proportions. Some citizens compared the new FBI to Nazi Germany’s Gestapo of years past.

One word against the government in Richmond would bring the police or the FBI thundering to a person’s door. No warrant needed; no knock required.

The Big Eye and the Big Ear seemed to be everywhere. No one knew whom to trust. The government would pay handsomely for information of citizens disloyal to the government. An informant would get extra rations of meat and sugar and gas and clothing.

Shortly after the worldwide bombings of 1988, when Hilton Logan was installed as president of the United States, the government began its program of collecting all handguns and high-powered rifles and the relocating of citizens. Logan settled as much of the east coast as could be, avoiding the “hot areas,” filled with deadly radiation. As a result, many states, especially those states not a part of the bread-basket region, were practically void of human life.