William Johnstone: Out of the Ashes

Ben’s stare was cold. “And you know what will happen if you wage war against us.”

Logan laughed. “I don’t believe you have those… zero squads.”

But VP Addison looked worried.

Logan said, “You must know we have the power to crush you like a bug. We didn’t for a while; I’ll admit that. But now we do.”

“Yes, you probably do, Logan,” Ben said. “But all you’ll accomplish is a civil war, and it will, in all probability, tear this country apart.”

“Raines, you’ve done some good things out there—I won’t, can’t, deny that. I could even find a place for you on my team. I could use you. But your state has to fall in line.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then the Tri-states is through.” Logan said it maliciously.

“Are you going to give the orders to kill all the tiny babies and all the old and sick, Mr. President?” Cecil asked. “We have the good life, free of crime and red tape, and you just can’t stand that, can you?”

Logan flushed, but kept his mouth shut. Addison felt sick at his stomach. General Russell smiled.

“Logan,” Ben said, “I came here with a hope of working some… type of arrangement with you. To live peacefully. Different ideologies, certainly—it’s a different world, now—but still with some hope we could get together and live in peace. But your concept of peace is infringement on the personal liberties of law-abiding, taxpaying citizens. I’ll never tolerate that system again—never. Logan, those zero squads are real. They exist. You know what is going to happen to you if you start a war with us, and to every member of Congress who agrees with your plan.”

“I will unite the states,” Logan said. “And I will restore proper law and order. We cannot exist separately.”

Cecil smiled. “You mean, you won’t let us exist.”

Logan ignored the black man. He glared at Ben. “I’m going to destroy your state, Raines.”

“You’ve been warned, Logan.”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales, Raines. Good day.”

Back home, Ben went on the Tri-states’ radio and television, telling the people of the events in Richmond. Anyone who wanted to leave was warned to get out immediately.

A few left, most stayed. They began gearing up for war.

President Logan ordered a state of emergency and ordered all airlines and trucks and buses to cease—at once—any runs into the Tri-states. Phone service was cut—jammed. Troops set up roadblocks on the borders of the Tri-states and refused to allow any resident of the United States to enter the area. The Canadian government cooperated only half-heartedly with Logan’s requests to seal off their borders; Ben and his people had gotten along well with the new Canadian government. But in the end, it went along with Logan.

The freeze was on.

“I’m asking you again, Salina; pleading with you. Get out while there is still time.” Ben looked at the set of her jaw and never asked her again.

The central government of Richmond began dropping leaflets all over the Tri-states, urging its citizens to revolt against Ben, to leave.

A number of citizens of Butte built a huge sign on the outskirts of town, built it of rocks painted white, flat on the ground; the sign was immense, its seven letters telling the pilots exactly what they thought about the contents of the leaflets.

“How long can we last?” Ben asked his department heads.

“Medically speaking,” Dr. Chase said, “years.”

“We have food enough for years.”

“Fuel enough for years.”

“Ammunition enough for years.”

“It won’t be years,” Ben told them. “They’ll wipe out the Indians first, knowing we can’t move to help them because we’re blocked in here. They’ll hit us in midspring, after all the snows are gone. The weather will be perfect fighting weather—cool. Troops move better in that kind of weather.

“All right, mine the strip; enlarge it, pull it in a couple of miles at least. Turn it into hell. Munitions factories go on twenty-four-hour shifts effective immediately. We’ve got about ninety days before the balloon goes up.”

As Ben had predicted, the government of the United States decided they would give the Indians their comeuppance.

“The reservation lands will always be yours,” the federal agents told the Indians. “However, any land you seized following the war goes back to the government, and to the people… if we can find them.”

“Why?” the Indians questioned.

“Because it doesn’t belong to you.”

“It belonged to us a thousand years before you people got here. Look, we just want to live like decent people, that’s all. There is plenty of land for all.”

“Your suggestion will, of course, be taken into consideration. However, during the interim, you will have to return to your reservations.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” One does not ever say no to a federal agent—unthinkable. How impudent!

“No. We’re staying where we are.”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to take action to move you and your people.”

A smile greeted those words. “Look around you, federal man. Tell me what you see and hear.”

The federal men tensed as they heard the snicking of levers pushing live ammunition into gun chambers. They heard the rattle of belt-fed ammo being worked into weapons. They saw the determination of these people to stand and fight for what should have been theirs years before— was theirs years before.

“This land is our land,” the Indians said. “You’ll have to kill us to move us.”

When the first troops went in to move the Indians, the Indians did not fire the first shot. Instead, they tried to reason with the commanders. But the troops had their orders and the Indians had their pride.

When the first shot was fired against the Indians, Ben knew any early victories they achieved would be short and hollow ones. For they were too few, and the troops were too strong.

And Jeb Fargo and his people were too full of hate.

Reports of torture and rape began filtering out and into the Tri-states. In some instances, Indians who had surrendered were lined up and used for target practice. Girls as young as ten and eleven were raped; boys were sexually mutilated, left to bleed to death.

“And we’re next,” Salina said.

She was heavy with child.

Ben ordered every resident into service. He told them to put on their gear and prepare to fight, or to pack up and try to surrender at the borders. No one left. The Tri-states was blacked out during the night.

Thousands of men, women, and teen-agers pulled on field gear, took up arms, and waited for war.

“I told you the shit was gonna hit the fan.” Ike smiled at Ben.

The Indians fought bravely and well with what they had, but they didn’t have a chance—not against long-range artillery and planes and Cobra gunships and Puffs and paratroopers and marines—those who chose to fight that is, and quite a few did not.

The government, at Jeb Fargo’s proddings, began its policy of extermination, with the help of many Indian-hating whites in the areas.

There was no sense in it. There was ample land for all, and the land claimed by the Indians was not that large. But governments rule by fear, and they are always right. Governments must always live under that premise.

The fighting was bloody and savage and senseless. The only good coming out of it was the death of Jeb Fargo. At the end, ragged and dirty and sick and hated, the American Indians fought what most believed was their last fight for their land. Their land. Most were hunted down and exterminated. The poor pitiful few that remained were herded onto reservations and left.