And the firestorm was gathering strength as the fires of hate were fanned—the hatred of those opposed to living under any type of socialistic government had been intense, and had grown hotter as time passed and more and more personal liberties were taken away from citizens.

  The resistance fighters were taking out their discontent on the Black Shirts.

  Half a dozen of the pilots wisely aborted attempts to land in the middle of the maelstrom and roared off into the night skies. Those Black Shirts who were just unassing the choppers and had not found cover were cut to pieces by the resistance fighters.

  One more chopper was damaged by several grenades and was forced to set down hard. Ben and those grouped with him opened fire on the chopper with everything they had. Several rounds finally punched—or somehow made their way—through the impact-loosened windshield and hit the pilot. In his panic, or final death throes, the pilot managed to really screw up matters for those on board. The chopper surged upward violently for fifty or so yards, slowly turned onto its side, and came crashing down to the ground.

  Scratch one chopper and all the Black Shirts on board.

  “Let’s get out of here, Ben!” Lara urged.

  “No!” Ben’s reply was sharp. “We finish it. We don’t leave until it’s over. Pass the word.”

  “OK, Ben. You’re the boss.”

  The town’s residents wisely stayed inside while the shooting was going on. They knew the area’s resistance groups had gathered, and were aware that the town’s police were locked in their own jail, but there was very little that any of them could do about the situation. Most of the residents were members of the socialist/democrat party, and didn’t believe in any private ownership of firearms.

  They were, one might conclude, victims of, and prisoners in, a situation of their own doing.

  Those residents of the town who were moderately conservative in their thinking but for whatever reason did not wish to take part in the revolt sat in their homes and wondered what this night would bring.

  It was bringing death to any Black Shirt who refused to lay down his weapons and pack it in.

  “Got some here who want to surrender, General!” a member of Chuck’s group called as the gunfire was winding down.

  “All right,” Ben returned. “Stick them in the jail and get someone to see to any wounded.”

  “Ben Raines!” The shout came from behind a small building a few seconds later. “We know that’s you out there. Listen, we’ve had it. We give up!”

  “Suits me,” Ben shouted. “Come on out with your hands in the air. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “We won’t. I promise. Don’t shoot.”

  The fight was over. The Black Shirts were confined to a two block area of the town in the park and they began wisely giving up, calling out to the resistance fighters.

  “Get the town’s doctors and nurses out here,” Ben told Chuck. “Let’s see to the wounded.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot more than they would do for us,” Chuck told him.

  “You serious?”

  “You bet I am. I’ve seen it.”

  “So let’s show them we’re better people.”

  “If you say so, General.”

  “I say so. Lara? While we’re doing that, you find out how the other groups are doing, how many towns have been taken by our people.”

  “Will do.”

  Ben walked over to the group of Black Shirts and looked at them under the glow of a streetlamp, slowly and one at a time. It made them very nervous. They were scared, and none of them were making any effort to hide their fear. They had all studied extensive dossiers on Ben Raines and the Rebel philosophy, and knew that once a person or group had been declared an enemy of the state one’s life expectancy could be very short. There was no middle road with Tri-Staters. You were their friend and you stayed the hell out of their business, or you were their enemy.

  “You men and women have a choice now,” Ben finally said after several minutes of walking up and down the line of Black Shirts. “You can quit your jobs and stop being an enemy of the SUSA, or I will turn your names over to my people and we will send teams in to hunt you down and kill you. No matter how this war goes—win, lose, or draw—if you continue to work against us you’re dead. Think about it.”

  The Black Shirts stared at him in silence. The resistance fighters stared at him in silence. Both sides wondered if Ben really meant it.

  “A decade ago,” Ben continued, “the federal government tried to smash us out of existence. They failed, and most of those who took an active part against us were killed by members of what were called Zero Squads. They were called Zero Squads because the odds of their returning from their assignments were just about zero. Those who fought against us died. The killing went on for months. Think about it.”

  “Then what our government says is true—you people are nothing but thugs and murderers,” a woman Black Shirt said. “That isn’t war.”

  Ben smiled at her. “War is a matter of winning or losing, lady. It isn’t nice. But I have to laugh at your suggestion of us being thugs and murderers. That’s ridiculous! What do you people think you are, angels in black? You damn government agents kick in doors in the middle of the night and shoot citizens for merely attempting to exercise their constitutional rights. And you have the unmitigated gall to call us thugs and murderers? That’s laughable and absurd!”

  “We’re obeying the direct orders of the Congress of the United States,” a male Black Shirt said. “They make the laws, we enforce them.”

  “Just obeying orders, huh?” Ben asked. “Sure, you are. That’s the same things Nazi war criminals said at the trials right after the Second World War. You people should read some history. It’s being repeated here.”

  “Are you comparing us to Hitler’s SS people and the Gestapo?” a Black Shirt asked.

  “Hell, yes, I am! What’s the difference? The government you work for has been trying for several decades to rid the United States of men and women who believe in the true interpretation of that document called the Constitution of the United States.” Ben held up a hand. “I’m not going to stand here in the middle of the night and argue with you. You’ve all been brainwashed by the left-wing, your minds warped by the babblings of Osterman and her supporters. When we pull out of here, you’re all free to go—after we take your ID’s. Just remember what I told you. This is your only chance. You continue to fight us, you’re dead.” He looked over at Chuck. “Take their ID’s and escort them out of here, please.”

  Ben walked down the block, very much aware of the citizens of the town peeking out through the curtains at him.

  “Son of a bitch!” a citizen yelled, throwing open the front door of his house.

  Ben hit the ground behind a tree.

  The citizen opened fire, the shotgun blast tearing bark off the tree.

  Ben crawled up on his knees just as the man fired again. This time the pellets blew a side window out of a car parked by the curb.

  “You goddamn, right-wing bastard!” the local shouted.

  Ben gave him a burst from his CAR and the man screamed and fell halfway back into his house, the shotgun falling onto the porch, his legs bloody from the slugs.

  A half-dozen freedom fighters ran up to Ben, another half dozen onto the porch, a couple of them kneeling down beside the fallen man.

  “Are you all right, General?” a woman called from the porch.

  “I’m fine,” Ben said, getting to his boots. “How is the citizen?”

  “He caught lead in both legs. But he’ll live to vote for Osterman . . . again.”

  “You’re damn right, I will!” The wounded man moaned the words. “Claire Osterman is the greatest president this nation has ever had.”

  “He must have fallen on his head,” Ben muttered. “The man is delirious.”

  Those freedom fighters standing around Ben laughed.

  “Tom Dickson,” a man said. “I’ve known him for years. And for years he’s been an asshole.”

  “A little higher, and I would have given him a new one,” Ben replied.

  That brought another laugh from those standing around Ben.

  “Secure the town,” Ben ordered. “Disarm all Osterman supporters, and arm all those who support freedom—but warn them they might die for supporting freedom.”

  “Most are ready to do just that,” Chuck said. “So the second civil war has begun, right, General?”

  “It’s really begun, Chuck.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  By noon of the next day dozens of small towns all over the USA had been seized by various groups of men and women who were weary of being dictated to by the federal government. The federalized police, the mayors, and the town councils had been locked up. For a while, at least, the yoke of federal oppression had been cracked. Osterman sent in hundreds of federal agents, and by dark on the second day of the revolt about half the communities had been retaken by federal agents. A lot of blood had been spilled, on both sides of the political issue. In those communities that had been retaken by Osterman’s goons, retribution against the freedom fighters was swift and terrible, but in most areas it did not have the effect Osterman had hoped for. Instead of crushing the spirit of those who desired to be free of federal control over their lives, it served only to strengthen their resolve.

  Small groups of men and women who heretofore had been standing on the sidelines suddenly elected to step forward and be heard, to arm themselves with whatever they could find and take an active part in the growing and increasingly violent revolt.

  Madam President Claire Osterman suddenly found she had a lot more than Ben Raines to deal with: she had a building revolution in every state that made up the USA. She and her socialistic allies were now facing a very nasty guerrilla war.

  “A guerrilla war cannot be contained in a nation this size,” some of the cooler thinking of Osterman’s advisors warned her. “Just a few determined individuals can wreak havoc.”

  “Nonsense!” said those advisors who knew as much about warfare as they did the mating habits of the troglodyte. “We just catch the leaders of the revolt and execute them ... publicly. That will take the steam right out of the movement and it will die. That’s all there is to it.”

  The room erupted into a shouting match between the advisors . . . none of whom really knew what the hell they were talking about.

  Those military leaders who were in attendance remained stoically silent. They knew the present administration hated the military (loathed was the word once used by the president). Not a single civilian present had ever served in any branch of the military. Guns frightened them.

  Someone called for coffee and sandwiches to be sent in. It was going to be a very long afternoon.

  Ben read the latest reports from around the nation and smiled. “It looks pretty damned good,” he said, laying the reports to one side. “Better than I anticipated.” He took a sip of coffee and lit a smoke. “We’ve got the Feds in a box, in a way. If they pull any units off the border with the SUSA, my people will pour across and do an end-around and really give Osterman’s people a good butt kicking. Osterman just doesn’t have enough Federal agents to handle all the hot spots in the USA. Lara, how is it looking as far as the individual units getting together?”

  “Really good,” she replied, smiling and holding up a thick folder of communiques received over the past twenty-four hours. “The groups in ten states so far have come together under a loose bond of cooperation. But what they need is some real professional leadership.”

  “Someone to kick their asses and make them see they can’t go it alone,” Chuck said.

  “I could arrange for people to go in,” Ben said. “But if they do, they’re going in as commanders, not advisors. That has to be understood up front.”

  “Many of the groups won’t go for that,” Lara told him. “That’s been the problem for years. They all want to be independent.”

  “If they insist on staying independent, each with their own uncompromising ideas of how a government should be run, then they’ll lose this fight. Hell, no one in the SUSA agrees with our philosophy one hundred percent. But it’s the most workable form all of us could come up with and still have a government. Some are opposed to a national driver’s license, others to a national health plan, others to this, that, or the other thing. But the pros still far outweigh the cons.”

  “I’ll talk to as many groups as I can,” Lara said. “See what they think.”

  “Do that. But advise them the Constitution is the document we base our government upon. I don’t give a damn if it’s five hundred years old, or was written day before yesterday. The original document and the philosophies of the signers and framers stand.”

  “Ben, many of the people up here just don’t agree with your ideas about using force to defend personal property,” Lara reminded him.

  “It’s the oldest personal right in history,” Ben said. “Probably been in existence since humankind crawled out of the caves or climbed down out of the trees. That fresh-killed dinosaur tail belongs to me and my mate, and if you try to take it I’m going to take this club and bash your head in. Lara, no one has the right to take anything from anybody—if they don’t want them to—without due process of law. Many of the problems society faced before the Great War and the following collapse were created because we got away from the basics. Many in power began making excuses for those who broke the law. That will not happen in the SUSA.”

  “All of us here agree with it, General,” Dave said. “We’re with you a hundred percent.”

  “Fine. Now let’s go take us an airport.”

  “Now?” Chuck asked, astonishment in his tone.

  “Why not?” Ben asked. “It’s as good a time as any.”

  The airport in Plattsburg lay just a few miles outside the park boundaries. It had been repaired and updated and reequipped, and the new runway was long enough to handle Rebel aircraft.

  “Perfect,” Ben said, studying the layout through binoculars. He lowered the long lenses and looked at Chuck and Lara. “We’ll take it tonight.”

  “Just like that?” Chuck questioned.

  “Sure. All it takes is a little nerve and a few people.”

  “And how do we hold it?” Lara asked.

  “The same way. It’ll just be for a few hours. I’ve got a unit of Rebels standing by to join us. As soon as we launch our attack, planes already in the air and over the Atlantic will turn west and be on the ground within two hours.”

  “And those militia people over in Vermont you spoke with this afternoon?”

  “They’ll be seizing some territory of their own. Relax, folks. It’ll go smooth as silk and honey.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, General. You’ve done this a thousand times,” Chuck said. “Or more. An op this big is something new for us.”

  “It’ll be good practice for you,” Ben told them. “With any kind of luck we can pull it off without shedding a drop of anybody’s blood.”

  Chuck looked very dubious. “Osterman has beefed up security around every airport in the nation, General. That’s the very first thing she did when the war started.”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “No big deal. If the security people have any sense at all, they won’t put up a fight. I hope they don’t. If they fight, they’ll die. It’s just that simple.”

  “Simple for you, General,” Marty said.

  “No,” Ben said. “That’s the way you win battles, Marty. Fighting a war with complicated ‘rules of engagement’ is not the Rebel way. We go in to win. Period. That’s why we’ve been so successful over the years. Anything less is a stupid way to fight a war.”

  “When do we go in?” Belle asked.

  “At full dark. The planes are airborne now. Tankers are up ready to refuel. Right now, let’s grab a bite to eat and get a bit of rest.”

  Ben and seven other people, including Lara, walked into the main terminal building at full dark. They had confronted and disarmed three security people outside without any trouble. As soon as the airline employees behind the counter spotted Ben and his team they stepped back and put their hands in the air. They were not armed, and wanted no trouble.

  One young uniformed security guard had other ideas, though. He had visions of being a hero, and grabbed for his pistol. Those ideas got his legs knocked out from under him by a burst from Lara’s CAR.

  “The rest of you stand easy,” Ben said. “Do that, and nobody else will get hurt.”

  “You’re Ben Raines,” a civilian blurted.

  “That’s right, mister.”

  “My God!” a woman said. “He’s going to kill us all!”

  Ben laughed at that. “Oh, I don’t think so, lady. Not unless you pull a pistol out of your purse and point it at me.”

  “I don’t own a gun,” the woman said haughtily.

  “Good for you,” Ben told her. “That makes our job all that much easier.”

  “Control tower is ours,” Lara said, after listening to her headset for a few seconds.

  “Any trouble?” Ben asked.

  “None.”

  The two other security guards in the main terminal stood quietly with their hands in the air while Ben’s people took their weapons. They had no intention of becoming dead heroes. The young guard who had his pins knocked out from under him lay on the tile floor and moaned in pain.

  “I thought I heard a shot a moment ago,” Ben said.

  “One security guard got stupid,” Belle told him. “All it got him was dead.”

  “Pity,” Ben said.

  “Yeah,” Dan replied. “I’m deeply touched.”

  “You people are savages!” a man yelled. “Nothing but filthy savages.”

  “Another Osterman supporter,” Lara remarked.

  “You damn right, I am!” the civilian yelled. “She’s the greatest president this country has ever had. And she’ll have you traitors hanged.”

  Ben yawned. “I thought you socialist/democrats didn’t believe in the death penalty.”