“A Russian leader said pretty much the same thing, decades ago,” Ben reminded the Nazi leader. “He was wrong, and so are you. You might kill me, Hoffman, but the Rebel movement will go on, and eventually, be victorious. You don’t have much sense, but I think you have enough to know that.”

  Hoffman lost it. He exploded in anger and started cursing Ben, in German, Spanish, and English, the profanity all jumbled up in languages.

  Ben laughed at the man and signed off. He turned to his team and said, “That will blow the lid off, gang. He’s got to recoup his verbal losses. He’ll hit us hard and hit us soon. Put everybody on full alert.”

  “I can’t understand why he radioed on an open frequency.” Beth said.

  “He’s so arrogant he felt his troops would get a morale lift by listening to the conversation,” Ben said, moving to a wall map. “It never occurred to him that he would come off second best.” He studied the map for a moment. “I’m guessing now, but I’ll bet that he’ll probably move up artillery and start pounding us. All along this line. He’ll try to punch through. Corrie, send a runner and tell Chase to pack up and move out. Have him shift all his MASH units back twenty miles. Right now!”

  Ned Hawkins of the New Texas Rangers had entered the room and was standing quietly, listening. “Have we lost Texas, General?” he asked.

  Ben shook his head. “No.” He studied the map for a moment longer. Then he smiled grimly. “But we’re going to let Hoffman have some territory. We’ll let him punch through,” he jabbed a finger at the map, “along this line, and commit his troops. While he’s doing that, we’ll be doing an end-around and harass the hell out of him on three fronts. From the south, east, and west. But we won’t be able to do much in bumble-bee size teams. We’ll reform in company strength and make him fight us along a line that conceivably could stretch for a thousand miles. He’ll have to match us unit for unit or we’ll be all over and around him by infiltration.”

  Ike had walked in with Doctor Chase. “Just as soon as we do the end-around and counterattack, Hoffman will order General Jahn’s paratroopers to surface and hit our northern people hard,” Ike said.

  “Yes. So, Ike, you and Rebet take your battalions and all the latest reinforcements and move north, up to the thirty-sixth parallel. That’ll put nearly seven thousand people under your command. You’ve got to keep Jahn’s paratroopers contained and off our backs. As soon as Hoffman makes his push, Jahn might regroup into a major force and strike ...” His eyes searched the big wall map north of the thirty-sixth parallel, “... somewhere. And he might decide to stay in small units and wage a guerrilla war. I don’t know.”

  “Whichever way he goes, we’ll hold them, Ben,” Ike said. “But where does this put you, Ben? As if I can’t guess.”

  Ben smiled. “In the field, Ike. I’m reforming my company and heading south. We can’t afford to let even one able-bodied person stay back in this fight.” He winked at Ike. “And I do a pretty fair job out there in the field.”

  Ike nodded his head. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Ben. I’m through with that.” He stepped closer and stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Ben.”

  Ben shook the hand. “Same to you, Ike.” He dropped the hand and smiled. “Maybe someday we can all sit around and reminisce about this.”

  Ike returned the smile, but like Ben’s smile, it was forced. Both men knew this was root-hog-or-die time. That they would never see each other again after this moment was a real possibility.

  Chase knew it, and walked to the table and poured three drinks, about two fingers each. “Drink up, boys. This is no time to be maudlin.”

  The men clinked glasses. Ben said, “To victory.” He looked over at Jersey. “Right, Jersey?”

  She smiled. “Kick-ass time, General!”

  TWO

  At dawn, Hoffman’s big guns had been moved into position and opened up. From the ruins of Forth Worth-Dallas west over to Midland, Hoffman’s gunners lobbed in rounds. But they fell on no Rebel positions. Ben had guessed accurately and shifted his troops. The incoming rounds created a lot of sound and fury but the Rebels sustained no casualties. And as Ben had predicted, when the big guns fell silent, Hoffman’s troops massed for a northern push across I-20. They surged across, and found nothing.

  Hoffman stood just north of the smoking ruins of Abilene, a look of confusion on his face. That was quickly replaced by fury when a runner handed him a message.

  “Rebels are attacking our flanks and hitting hard to the south of us,” Hoffman said. “Have we had any word from General Jahn?”

  “General Jahn has been forced to regroup in order to combat the multinational force operating to the north of us,” Hoffman was informed.

  “Five Division is ranging far ahead of the other columns, sir,” a young captain said, excitement in his voice. “The swastika is flying proudly over the cities of Dallas and Fort Worth. We are victorious!”

  Hoffman stared at the young man. “How many Rebels has Five Division killed?”

  “Why ... ah ... none, sir. But they have taken prisoner a group of people believed to be agents of the Rebel government. They deny it, of course. They claim to be from something called the Church of the Only Holy Way and they are demanding protection.”

  Hoffman continued to stare at the young captain. “Protection from what?”

  “Us, sir.”

  “Send them to Colonel Barlach,” Hoffman ordered. “He’ll get the truth from them.”

  That would be the last time anyone would ever hear from the members of the Church of the Only Holy Way, whose members believed in nonviolence and who would not pick up a gun and fight for their dubious beliefs.

  Hoffman clenched his fists in anger. “Have there been any Rebels reported killed?”

  Hoffman’s aides stood in silence. Their muteness gave the Field Marshal the answer to his question. His thousands of men had not killed a single Rebel.

  “We have conquered nothing and we are victorious over destroyed cities and miles of desolation,” Hoffman said. “We have not spilled one drop of Rebel blood.” And I have led my troops into a box, he admitted silently.

  Hoffman walked away from the group, to stand silently in the shade provided by what remained of one wall of a burned out building. “Ghosts,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m in a battle with shadows and invisible whirlwinds. I can’t win this way. It’s impossible. How can we be victorious over an enemy who will not stand and fight?”

  An aide approached him. “Sir? Your quarters are ready and the battle maps are up and accurate to the hour.”

  “By all means,” Hoffman said, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Let me view this ravaged land and all its conquered and beaten people.”

  Hoffman stood in his quarters and looked at the huge map. He shook his head. “We’re in a box,” he finally spoke. “I led us right into a box.”

  “But one that we could break out of anytime we wished,” a staff officer said.

  “And go where?” Hoffman asked, touches of desperation in his voice. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his face with his hands. “Call in my generals,” he said. “We have to have a meeting. We cannot continue like this. We are accomplishing nothing.”

  “We could advance, sir,” a colonel spoke. “We could move right up to the thirty-sixth parallel.”

  Hoffman looked at the older man. They just don’t understand, he thought. But I do. In all our years of war, we have relied on massive troop strength to conquer the people.

  We should have stayed in South America.

  He pushed that thought from him. But it wouldn’t go far. It stayed in the back of his mind, nagging at him like an invisible but very vocal old hag.

  We should have stayed in South America.

  Shit! Hoffman silently raged.

  Our supply lines have been cut, Hoffman thought, swiveling in his chair to face the map that he hated to look at. We have outdistanced what few trucks are getting through from the south. My elite shock troops are fighting for their lives against General McGowan and the multinational forces a hundred miles to the north and if I try to send troops in to beef up my paratroopers, the Rebels will ambush them. Most of my terrorist teams have been found and wiped out. Those two idiots to the east, Moi Sambura and Wink Payne are no help at all. Luis Carrero and his followers have proved to be less than worthless. All talk and no action. That’s what I get for putting much faith in a former Los Angeles street gang leader, a black radical, and a white redneck.

  We should have stayed in South America.

  “Get my generals in here,” Hoffman said wearily. “Order all troops to halt advances.” He slammed a hand on his desk. “Goddamnit!”

  Ben and his company had worked their way up close to the southernmost contingent of General Schmidt’s third division. The rolling prairie country along the North Concho was very deceptive, and the Rebels had used that to their advantage, leaving their vehicles several miles away and advancing on foot and crawling on their bellies. Dusk was settling over the land, and the Rebels smelled fresh blood.

  “Scouts report no more than two companies occupying the town,” Corrie said. “Nearest reinforcements are forty-five miles to the northwest, thirty-five miles to the east, and forty-five miles to the north. The south is empty.”

  “Field Marshal Hoffman has called for a meeting of his generals,” Beth reported. She was monitoring the Blackshirts’ frequencies. “Hoffman is slightly pissed.”

  Jersey, lying beside Ben, said, “Hoffman stepped on his dick this time.”

  Ben softly chuckled. “How close in are the Scouts?”

  “Inside the town at five locations,” Corrie said. “They’ll create a diversion at your orders. Blackshirts are digging out their field rations now and getting ready to settle in for the night.”

  “Five minutes,” Ben said. “We’ll let them enjoy a few bites of their last supper. Any word from Ike?”

  “Kicking the hell out of Jahn’s forces. Ike says the multinational force is some of the best he’s ever seen. The countries really sent the top people. Fifty of the Israeli IDF captured two hundred and fifty Blackshirt paratroopers.”

  “What’d they do with them?” Ben asked.

  Corrie just looked at him.

  “That’s what I figured,” Ben muttered. He took a sip of water and checked his Thompson, pausing as Corrie held up a hand and listened intently to her earphones. “What is it?”

  “The troops in town just surrendered to the Scouts.”

  “They did what!”

  “Packed it in. Gave up. Scouts say come on in. The town is secure.”

  The company of astonished Rebels stood up and walked into the tiny town just as dusk was settling over the land. The Blackshirts sat on the curbs and sidewalks, their hands on top of their heads.

  A low murmuring began as the Blackshirts spotted Ben, ambling along, carrying the old Thompson. Ben caught the phrase being used and it amused him.

  “El Lobo! El lobo espectro!”

  They were calling him the Ghost Wolf.

  Ben stopped in front of one young officer, a lieutenant, and stared down at him. The young man refused to meet Ben’s eyes.

  Ben turned to Lieutenant Ballard. “Jackie, what’s going on here?”

  “We haven’t been able to figure that out yet, sir,” she replied. “At first, we thought it might be some sort of trick. But now I believe these men are really scared to death of you.”

  A Spanish-speaking Rebel walked up. “They believe you possess supernatural powers, General. They think you’re a shape-changer. And apparently so do a lot of other Blackshirts. But we can’t get a fix on where it started.”

  An idea sprang into Ben’s mind. “Make sure someone is monitoring the Blackshirts’ radio at all times. Start interrogating these people. Find out if these men joined Hoffman willingly, or were conscripted. I’ve got a hunch it’s the latter. I also have a hunch they don’t have much in the way of education. We just might have found the fatal flaw in Hoffman’s armor. He’s spent years building a mighty army, but he forgot to educate his people. Get cracking.”

  Ben walked the line of Blackshirts. None of them would meet his eyes. They were terrified of him. More than a few of them crossed themselves when Ben drew near.

  Ben heard mutters of “Silent Death,” and “Ghost Walker,” when he came close to the surrendered soldiers. He paced up and down the line, saying nothing, just staring at the men, who still refused to meet his gaze.

  Jackie Ballard walked up and motioned Ben to one side. “You called it, General,” she said. “These are conscripts. About half of Hoffman’s army are draftees. They have no stomach for this fight. Most of them despise Hoffman and his methods. But the army was the only way to receive food and shelter and medical care for themselves and their families. It seems that Hoffman has taken over several South American countries and one either serves Hoffman, in one way or the other, or gets himself or herself enslaved or dead. The troops serving in the southern sector are nearly all conscripts. Only the hard-core are at the front.”

  “I’m getting the impression Hoffman’s army is built on shifting sand,” Ben replied. “How about education?”

  She shook her head. “Very poorly educated. Many can neither read nor write much beyond a third grade level. They’re very superstitious.”

  Ben nodded his head in understanding. The average age of Hoffman’s troops was about twenty-one or so. That meant that when the Great War struck the earth, these men were children, and mentally, had not grown much beyond that.

  All right, Hoffman, Ben thought. You still have us outnumbered, but I’ve found the chink in your armor.

  “What are we going to do with these people, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Yet. But I’m working on it. Let’s get something to eat and bed down. First thing in the morning, I want to speak with the officers and senior sergeants.”

  Ben and his team pulled out of the town at dawn, and headed for another location, taking the two companies of Blackshirts with them. The captured troops had proved themselves to be friendly and cooperative and seemed very much relieved to be prisoners of the Rebels.

  The Rebels headed south, stopping about twenty-five miles later at the ruins of a tiny town. They were deep in enemy territory, but the bulk of the enemy was far to the north of them, and Ben felt they were in little danger. He was not surprised to find nearly a platoon of Blackshirts in the ruins of the town. Upon sighting the Rebels, they threw up their hands and grinned. Captain Garcia, commander of the surrendered Blackshirts, had told Ben to expect it.

  “They do not wish to fight North Americans, General,” Garcia said. “What they wish to do is to join your Rebel army.”

  “They would fight their friends?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Garcia said quickly. “But they would fight against the regular troops of Hoffman. Their friends will all surrender if you give them a chance to do so. Field Marshal Hoffman made a very bad mistake in forcing these men to join his army. Perhaps if he had not threatened their families if they did not join, things would have been different. Many of these men are from the many Indian tribes of South American countries. They can be very fierce fighters, for that is their heritage, but only if they choose to fight. You see, General, Hoffman deliberately kept these people uneducated. But just because one has little formal education does not mean that person is estupido. These people have seen that in your army, there are people of all colors, all faiths, all working together. Hoffman is a smart man, but he is also a very arrogant one. And he is surrounded by arrogant men.”

  The lieutenant in charge of the platoon of Blackshirts who had just surrendered approached Garcia and Ben, a package in his hand. Jersey leveled her M-16 at him.

  “Wait!” Garcia said. “He means your general no harm. He has very little English, so he is going to show you his intentions.” Garcia spoke in rapid-fire Spanish, too fast for Ben to follow, and the lieutenant nodded his head and opened the package and smiled.

  The package contained civilian clothes.

  The lieutenant pulled at a pocket of his black shirt. “Muy malo,” he said. He pointed to the civilian clothes and then to Ben’s denim shirt. “Ver’ good!”

  Ben understood the simple message. He looked at Garcia. “All your people have civilian clothing?”

  Garcia smiled. “Si. We have been waiting for you. Many more would like to join you, but they are afraid that El Lobo will shoot them before they can make their intentions known.”

  Ben looked at Garcia for a very long moment. If he made the wrong choice, the situation could well turn into a massacre for the Rebels. For once the surrendered black-shirts were armed, they would outnumber the Rebels in Ben’s immediate command.

  He looked at Lt. Ballard. “Jackie?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I believe them, General. I think we’ve just found ourselves some much-needed allies.”

  Ben nodded his head slowly. He looked at Jersey. “How about you, Apache?”

  “I say we go for it, General,” Jersey told him. “If we could come up with two or three additional battalions, and stay to the south of Hoffman’s lines, we could really start kicking the shit out of him.”

  Ben opened his map case and spread the map out on a fender. “Captain, show me where you know there are troops waiting to join us.”

  Garcia pointed to a half dozen locations, running toward the east. “All along here, General. Two, maybe three thousand men and women. One to two companies at each location.”

  “The ranking officer?”

  Garcia shrugged as only a Latin can do. “I guess that would be me, General. I was to be promoted to Major next month. My papers had already been approved. I am jump-qualified and jungle-trained. The equivalent to your old American Army Ranger.”

  “All right, Jorge,” Ben said. “You’re now a Colonel in the Rebel army.” Jorge Garcia’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Get out of those damn Blackshirts and into civilian clothes. We’ve got a war to win.”