Ben checked his watch: seven forty-five. The cleaning crew should be leaving any time now. His own people were ready to move into place. First the water would be cut off to cripple the sprinkler system. Then his people would move in, a couple at a time, on the outside, planting explosives around the building. Then, at the last moment, vehicles would be moved into place, blocking all streets, preventing fire engines from getting to the building. Just as the explosives blew, mortar crews would begin lobbing in HE rounds. The building might not be totally destroyed, but it would suffer extensive damage, and millions of records would be lost.

  “There go the first of the cleaning crew,” Jersey whispered to Ben.

  Ben lifted his night binoculars and watched the men and women exit the building. “Two more crews to go,” he said.

  “Everyone is sitting on ready,” Corrie told him. “Mortar crews waiting for the word.”

  “Won’t be long now.”

  The minutes ticked by until finally all the cleaning crews had left the building and the doors were locked for the night.

  “Get the explosives in place,” Ben said. “And set the timers.”

  That would present no problem, for the streets were nearly deserted due to the rationing of gasoline. “Cut off the water,” he ordered.

  The same scene was being played out all over the USA, in a dozen states.

  A few minutes later Corrie said, “Water is off, Boss.”

  “Seal this area.”

  The vehicles were moved into place.

  “Streets are sealed,” Corrie reported.

  “Everybody clear?”

  “Clear.”

  “Mortar crews ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Ben looked at his watch and counted down the seconds. The explosives went off with a tremendous crack. Glass from the building windows flew in all directions. The first six rockets from the mortars landed, and that only added to the noise and confusion.

  “Pour it on!” Ben said.

  “Federal Police on the way,” Corrie told him after hearing from a spotter located blocks away.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben replied. “It’ll be their last run.”

  Two dozen 81mm and 60mm mortar rounds had smashed into the building, and more were on the way when the first Federal Police car came screaming into view. The siren stopped abruptly as a rocket from a shoulder-held launcher turned the patrol car into so much burning, smoking junk. There would be no survivors from the rocket attack.

  The Federal Building was now on fire, flames beginning to dance around and smoke pouring out of the shattered windows.

  Ben took a final look and said, “Let’s get out of here. That building is ruined.”

  Corrie gave the orders and Rebels and freedom fighters began backing away. Buddy’s spec op people would fight a rear guard action until everyone was clear.

  “FPPS people coming,” Corrie said.

  “Black Shirts?” Ben asked.

  “Yes. A lot of them.”

  “We stand and fight,” Ben replied without hesitation. “Pass the orders. Let’s give Osterman and her American gestapo a hard lesson.”

  A few seconds later, local freedom fighters stationed on rooftops began dropping grenades down onto the cars and trucks carrying the Black Shirts. Others opened up with automatic weapons fire. Still others waited with rocket launchers to finish off any who might break clear of the gauntlet.

  It was the beginning of a very bloody night in the city.

  The hammering of gunfire and the crash of grenades and rockets reverberated throughout the section of the city, and Rebels and freedom fighters fought it out with the Federal Police and the Black Shirts. Until now, Osterman’s people had met only slight resistance from small disorganized groups, which for the most part were not well-armed and were sorely lacking in leadership. But this was very different: this was hard-core guerrilla warfare in America.

  Ben and his team rounded a corner in an alley and came face-to-face with a group of Black Shirts. The Rebels instantly hit the ground and opened fire. The Black Shirts, not nearly so well-trained or experienced in combat, hesitated. That hesitation cost them their lives.

  Ben opened up with his CAR, and his first burst knocked several of Osterman’s Black Shirts spinning and down to the concrete of the littered alley, kicking and groaning and bleeding.

  Cooper lobbed a grenade that took out several more of the Federal Black Shirts and Lara, Jersey, Corrie, Anna, and Beth finished the very brief firefight in the alley.

  “Get their radios,” Ben ordered. “Let’s listen in.”

  The Rebels learned very little. There was not much on the Federal frequency except the excited and frequently frantic yelling of Black Shirts as they confronted teams of Rebels and freedom fighters.

  “Where the hell are the local cops?” a Black Shirt yelled.

  “I think they’re staying out of this,” came the reply. “At least many of them are.”

  “The yellow sons of bitches!”

  Lara looked at Ben in the darkness and smiled knowingly.

  “The police are wising up,” Ben said. “I had hoped they would.”

  “If it will just spread nationwide,” Beth said.

  “Some will stay out of it,” Ben replied. “Others won’t. Time and blood will tell the story. Let’s go. Our work here is finished for this night.”

  The night the freedom fighters took the offensive, fifteen new federal buildings were destroyed in the USA. Not one civilian was injured or killed. Millions of records were destroyed, and the night’s activities dealt a crushing blow to the morale of Osterman’s people.

  Claire Osterman had felt her socialist/democrat party, her FPPS, and the federalized police had any situation that might develop under control. She could not have been more wrong. She had forgotten that many Americans have a habit of shoving back when pushed. A certain type of American will take only so much pushing before they start talking violence and forming resistance groups.

  Millions of those types of Americans had given up on the USA and moved to the SUSA. There were still hundreds of thousands living in the USA who felt the Osterman administration had strayed too far away from the Constitution, and they wanted a return of many of their lost rights.

  About ten percent of those still living in the USA were willing—or rather, had the courage—to shed blood to see the return of those rights. Those were the men and women who made up the freedom fighters. The other ninety percent were good talkers and complainers, but short on guts. As one Cajun had told Ben, “Those folks have alligator mouths and hummingbird asses.”

  Along the thousands of miles of battlefront, the Rebels were holding firm. The Federals had advanced in a few places, only to be thrown back within hours. The Rebels did not want any land of the USA. They only wanted to be left alone and to live their lives in peace.

  “But if this crap continues for any length of time,” Ben told Buddy over coffee, “I will order an offensive launched against the USA. I won’t put up with this much longer.”

  “President Jefferys feels the same way, Father. He told me so personally.”

  “I know that Cec is getting itchy about this matter. But I want to give the USA enough rope to hang themselves.”

  “That isn’t very original, Father.”

  Ben smiled at his son. “I’ll try to do better next time.”

  “Thank you. What’s next for us?”

  “Wait and see what Osterman does. I have a hunch she’ll pull some units off the line down south and send them up here to try to stop us.”

  “They’re certainly spinning their wheels down there,” Buddy said with a grin. “They gain two miles, we throw them back three miles.”

  Ben nodded his head in agreement. “If she does send troops up here after us, they’ll be mercenaries. The USA’s troops are badly split about fighting us.”

  “Some units are, yes,” the son gently corrected the father. “But many others have had years of brainwashing, and are totally opposed to our way of life.”

  “And all that was happening right under our noses,” Ben mused softly. “I guessed as much all along—oh, hell, what am I saying, I knew it for a fact—but never gave it a whole lot of thought.” Ben sighed. “That is, until it all reared up and smacked me in the face.”

  “And here we are.”

  “Better here than in Africa,” Ben said.

  “I heartily concur.”

  “Ike on the horn, Boss,” Corrie said, sticking her head into the room.

  Ben walked into the makeshift communications room and sat down behind the equipment, taking the mic. “Go, Ike.”

  “Ben, congrats on the operation the other night.”

  “Thanks, Ike. Everything went off without a hitch, as planned. What’s up where you are?”

  “Tired and pretty well demoralized Federals in several places, Ben. We’ve got militia and other resistance groups fighting the Feds in Oklahoma, Missouri, Kentucky, and West Virginia, and they’re really giving the Feds fits.”

  “I heard about that. Groups are rising up all over the USA, Ike. But that isn’t why you bumped me. Come on, ole’ buddy, what’s on your mind?”

  “We’ve just received pretty good intel that Madam President Osterman has people all over the world busy recruiting mercenaries, Ben. Thousands of them.”

  “What does Mike say about it?”

  “It was his people who reported it.”

  “Then it’s firm, Ike.” Ben paused for a few heartbeats. “Well, the news doesn’t come as any surprise. She really doesn’t have any other choice. Her options are severely limited. Our problems are going to come if she can get some sort of air force put together.”

  “She’s not having much luck there. Eyes in the Sky tells us that China is involved in their own civil war, and it’s a bad one. There are millions dead, and it’s just getting started.”

  “You’re building up to something, Ike. Come on, what’s really on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking it may be time for us to go on the offensive.”

  “I’ve been mulling over that very thing,” Ben said. “It’s almost, but not quite, time for that. It all depends on what Osterman does next.”

  “And if she does fuck up?”

  “Depends on the severity of her action. If she hires these mercenaries she’s after—and I’m sure she will if she can find them—then we’ll go on a rampage. We’ll head straight up into the heartland of the country. Search and destroy, scorch and burn.”

  Ike whistled softly. “You have been giving it some thought, haven’t you, Ben?”

  “If she gets dirty, we’ll get dirtier. She just doesn’t know how mean I can be.”

  Ike laughed. “But I do, ole’ buddy. Are you thinking hit teams?”

  “That is something I’ve been giving a great deal of thought. But it isn’t time yet for that.”

  “I agree.” Ike paused again.

  “I thought as much. Pick at least ten teams and start training them, though. If it comes to assassination, we’ll go after the movers and shakers in Osterman’s administration.”

  “Will do, Ben.”

  “Eagle out.”

  Ben hooked the mic and stood up. Buddy had been listening, a grim expression on his face. “You think it will come to that, Father?”

  Ben nodded his head. “Yes, I do. I’d be willing to sit down with Claire Osterman and try to hammer out some form of compromise, but it would be meaningless. She wouldn’t keep her word, wouldn’t be satisfied. The left-wing liberals never do, and never are. I know. I’ve been watching them operate ever since I was a young man. Years back, the conservatives worked out a compromise concerning gun control, but the liberals wouldn’t let it alone. They always wanted more and more and more. Everything has to be all their way. They just kept pushing until ... well, you know what happened. You’re a student of history.”

  “Yes, I know what happened. And because of that knowledge I would be very dubious of any agreement with such a person as Osterman, or with anyone who is a supporter of hers. They are simply not trustworthy.”

  “The bastards are power hungry, too,” Ben added. “Among other things.”

  “I think I’ll leave before you really get wound up,” Buddy told him.

  “Good. Go away. I have work to do.”

  Chuckling, Buddy left the room.

  Ben smiled and sat down behind a desk. He opened a map and began studying it. He would like to push further south in New York State, but knew that would be very risky. The population increased dramatically the further south one went. However, he also knew he might not have any choice in the matter. He could not keep his people static.

  One of the problems Ben faced with the local groups was that they all had a lot of axes to grind. Retribution against those people in their communities who openly and solidly supported Osterman and her socialistic policies could very easily get out of hand.

  Ben couldn’t blame the local resistance groups one bit for feeling vindictive toward those men and women who happily and willingly wiped their asses with the Constitution and then shoved it in the faces of those who dared to disagree with that action.

  Ben sighed and leaned back in the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  A moment was all he was allowed. Corrie walked into the room. “Boss, the FPPS just arrested half a dozen members of a local militia group. Osterman just made the announcement the trial was going to be a short one.”

  “And then?”

  “The six will be hanged for treason.”

  “No, they won’t,” Ben stood up and reached for his CAR. “Get Chuck and Lara. We’ve got some planning to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The six freedom fighters were being held in a downtown jail in New Syracuse, in a very heavily guarded facility. A team from Buddy’s spec op group checked out the prison and reported back.

  “It can be done, Father,” Buddy told his dad, “but not easily.”

  “You don’t think it’s a setup?”

  “I don’t believe so. The place is literally crawling with Black Shirts.”

  “We don’t have time to try to get a blueprint of the place. It’s so new that if anyone tried that would be a dead giveaway that something was up.”

  “It’s going to be loud and risky, Father,” Buddy warned.

  “Can’t be helped. Osterman’s supporters have to be shown that we will do exactly what we say we’ll do. These people are under the command of the army of the SUSA. They’re Rebels. And we take care of our own.” Ben stood up and slammed a fist onto the desktop. “So let’s do it, Buddy. ”

  “My people are ready to go. Do we take any of the local groups?”

  “Only the most experienced among them. This is not going to be any place for amateurs.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as possible. We can be there in a few hours. Pick the fastest route to the city and send teams of your people ahead to neutralize any roadblocks.”

  “I have to point out anything like that will tell the Feds we’re on the way.”

  “Can’t be helped. Let’s do it, boy.”

  Standing back a few yards from the father and son, Jersey smiled and said: “Kick ass time!”

  Buddy’s people did not finesse the taking out of the Fed roadblocks. They blew them wide open with rockets and rolled on through without giving the dead and wounded a second glance. Ben and his group were right behind the lead team of Scouts, pushing the Scouts hard.

  The dozens of teams of Rebels and resistance fighters rolled through small towns on their way to New Syracuse. They met no trouble from the local police.

  One local chief radioed to the FPPS HQ in New Syracuse: There is no way in hell I’m going to sacrifice any of my people to the Rebels. These people are out in force and out for blood, and by God it isn’t going to be mine or my mens’.

  I am ordering you to throw up roadblocks and halt this Rebel advance, was the answer.

  I have four words for you, the police chief radioed back to the Black Shirt. Fuck you. I quit!

  That sentiment seemed to be shared by all the local police.

  The FPPS pulled as many guards as they could from around the jail and threw up roadblocks on the highways leading into New Syracuse from the north. They did not have the force or the will to match the fury of the Rebels. The Rebels and the freedom fighters tore through the roadblocks and slammed their way toward the jail.

  The citizens watched from their homes as hundreds of Rebels and resistance fighters poured into their newly rebuilt city.

  The men and women who made up the FPPS were bullies, but they were not fools. Those who were guarding the jail carefully laid their weapons on the ground and stood quietly with their hands in the air as the jail was completely surrounded by Rebels and resistance fighters. Many of them muttered somewhat brief but very sincere prayers.

  Not a single shot was fired as the Rebels took control of New Syracuse.

  Ben walked through the crowd of surrendered FPPS people until he was face-to-face with an older man who had been pointed out as the commander of the detachment.

  “Your name?” Ben asked.

  “Jim Barnes.”

  “Well, Jim, you and your people got smart this night. We’ll see if the smarts continue. For now, get those six freedom fighters out here.”

  “Freedom fighters!” the commander of the FPPS blurted. “You call these terrorists freedom fighters? Are you serious, General Raines?”

  “Yes, Commander. I am very serious. Get those men and women out here. And they’d better be walking and without injury.”

  “If they were hurt, General,” Barnes said, “they were injured while being arrested, not while in custody.”

  “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You work for Osterman, Jim. Do I have to say more?”

  “I work for the United States of America. I enforce the laws of this government.”

  “I don’t intend to stand in the middle of the street debating the dubious merits of socialism with you. Get those prisoners out here—right now!”