“They won’t be enough,” Taylor said. “Not against the Rebels.”

  Blanton slammed a hand on the desk. “That’s it. By God, that’s all. I’ve had enough of you. You are relieved of duty—immediately!”

  “That suits me just fine,” Taylor said tightly. “You sanctimonious dipshit!”

  General Taylor was gone within the hour, taking two battalions of troops loyal to him with him. On his way out of the mountains, on his way to Ben’s location in Indiana, Taylor was amused to find the entire contingent of Blanton’s elite guard, limping back to the mountain hideout, minus boots and pants and equipment. The only thing hurt about them was their pride.

  The leaving of the generals did not upset Revere; their taking over a division of troops did. But not for long. The division he’d been holding in reserve was ready to go and counting all the small units he had in hiding all over the country, he was confident he had enough men to overwhelm both Raines’s Rebels and Blanton’s FIB. Still, he waited to see what Raines was going to do.

  Ben shook hands with General Max Taylor and waved the man to a chair. “Any relation to that other Maxwell Taylor?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t think so. Hell of an outfit you’ve got, General,”

  “Call me Ben. Yes, it’s a good outfit. General . . .”

  “Call me Max.”

  “Thank you. I won’t ask you to fight against Blanton’s. . . ah, FIB.”

  Taylor laughed. “He never did get it. Never could figure out what we were laughing about. Well . . . Blanton’s not thinking straight. He’s a man obsessed... but he’s obsessed with doing what he thinks is right.” He stared hard at Ben. “Like someone else I just met.”

  “This nation became too diverse for democracy to work, Max. There were too many dissatisfied taxpayers who felt they had no representation in Washington; and I’m one of them.” He pointed toward his troops. “And thousands more just like me camped right out there. It would have worked if the original meaning of the Constitution had been adhered to. But it wasn’t.”

  The career soldier nodded his head. “I know, Ben. I know. I’m no liberal-lover. The left-leaning members of congress did as much to ruin this nation as the Great War.”

  The two men were generally in agreement. Ben said, “The troops you brought with you?”

  “Top-notch soldiers.”

  “I’ll give you two more battalions, Max. Eleven and 13 Batts. Keep that gang of punks and street slime off my back when the shooting starts.”

  “You got it.”

  “You draw up a list of equipment that you need, and don’t short yourself on artillery.” He smiled. “We have the very best.”

  Max grinned. “Yeah, I know. You stole it from us!”

  General Taylor took the four battalions, backed up by heavy armor and artillery, and moved out. Once across the river, he split his forces and set up four resistance points; not so far apart that one could not quickly reenforce the other in case of attack. By doing that, he closed much of the route the punk army could take. The Great Lakes, especially Lake Michigan, blocked much of the northern route, the Rebel-controlled Southern United States cut off the southern route. That left the punks only a very few bridges over the Mississippi, then they had to cut south to avoid Lake Michigan. They could not take any Canadian route, for that would put them into direct conflict with Revere’s forces. So if they wanted to butt heads with Raines’s Rebels, they first had to get through the lines that General Taylor had thrown up.

  Big Foot Freddie was placed in command of all the gangs, and he was having a hell of a time figuring out how to get across the Mississippi River without first tangling with Taylor’s battalions. His recon people—many of whom were ex-servicemen—reported that Taylor had tanks and artillery up the ying-yang. The last thing Big Foot Freddie wanted was to mix it up with a bunch of main battle tanks, for he had nothing in the way of weapons to stop them.

  He sat down at his HQ in Nebraska and scratched his head. “Shit!” he summed it all up.

  Generals Forrest, Holtz., and Thomas pulled Blanton’s army out of hiding and began whipping them into shape. They all had a gut-feeling that the showdown was not far off. Revere had moved his people closer, stretching them out from New York State down into Ohio.

  Civilians were getting the hell out of the area in contention. There was a wild exodus of cars and trucks and motorcycles and horse-drawn wagons and buggies heading out in all directions. The mother of all battles was about to give birth.

  Ben tried one more time to reach some sort of settlement with Blanton. Corrie got the president on the horn and Ben took the mic.

  “Blanton, without our help, Revere is going to eat you for lunch. It’s going to take him some time to do it, but he’ll get it done. Getting yourself killed is not going to see your lofty ideals bear fruit. I don’t particularly care for clichés, but half a loaf is better than no loaf.”

  “Will you and your Rebels swear allegiance to the United States of America and help me make this nation whole again?”

  “No, Blanton, we will not.”

  “Then we have nothing left to discuss, Raines.” Blanton broke off.

  Ben had deliberately spoken to Blanton on an open net. There was no need for secrecy now, everybody knew where everybody else was. He handed the mic to Corrie just as she received incoming.

  “General Revere, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Nick.”

  Hundreds of miles away, Revere/Stafford chuckled. “I wondered when you’d put it together, Ben. How you been, partner?”

  “Better than nothing, Nick.” He cut his eyes as Denise walked into the CP. She had lost weight and gained a hell of a lot of muscle tone during an accelerated Rebel training course. He nodded at her and she smiled.

  “You want to throw in with me, Ben?” Nick asked.

  “You know better.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do, at that. But . . . I had to ask. Ben, you’re going to fuck up bad by fighting me. Surely you know that.”

  “We’re both going to get bloody.”

  “Doesn’t have to be, Ben.”

  “Sure, it does, Nick. You couldn’t make it living under Rebel law, and I won’t live in a dictatorship, and that’s what you have in mind.”

  “Last chance, ol’ buddy. You better think about it.”

  “I don’t have to think about it. But there is something you better understand, Nick. When you come after me, you damn well better finish the job. For if you leave just one Rebel alive, they’ll track you down and cut your throat while you’re sleeping some night.”

  There was a long pause before Nick keyed the mic. “Yeah . . . I heard that about you folks. But, Ben . . . I have to take that chance. We all do. You, me, Blanton, and the punk gangs out west. It’s showdown time. All bets are down and the dice are hot. So ... may the best man win.”

  Ben smiled. “Oh, I will, Nick. I will.”

  Blanton had listened to the exchange in the comm room. He was so angry he was trembling. He clenched his hands into fists and cussed. “That arrogant bastard!”

  “Beg your pardon, Mister President,” General Holtz said. “But Raines is not an arrogant man. He is just a very capable one and a brilliant leader.”

  “He and his Rebels have fought all around the globe, sir,” General Thomas said. “And they have never been defeated.”

  “And I’m not sure we can defeat him,” General Forrest said glumly.

  “Nonsense!” Homer scoffed. “God is on our side.”

  The generals all sighed at that.

  “Go to middle alert, Corrie,,” Ben ordered. “Immediately. Everybody in body armor. Berets are stowed except for specials ops people and scouts, and helmets are the headgear from this moment on.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to Denise. “How was your basic training and indoctrination courses?”

  “Rough,” she answered quickly. “You people don’t ever let up, do you?”

  “We can’t afford to, Denise. We’re always outnumbered.” He noticed she had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. “Your assignment?”

  “Eight Battalion.”

  “That’s my son’s group. Buddy. He runs a good outfit. Just be glad you’re not assigned to Thermopolis’s unit.”

  “Thermopolis? Why?”

  “A little con artist named Emil Hite and his Great God Blomm.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “If you’re confused now, I don’t want to be around if you ever meet Emil,” Cooper said.

  Ben laughed and said, “Come on. I’ll walk you over to 8 Batt. You look like you need the exercise.”

  Denise rolled her eyes at that and followed Ben out the door. She was unaware that it was a very long walk over to 8 Batt’s billet and that this was the way Ben staked his claim. By the time they reached 8 Batt, every Rebel in camp would have seen the General personally escorting the pretty lieutenant to her unit. Not one male would have the nerve to ask her for a date. And Buddy would get the message as well. She would more than likely be assigned to the comm van and for the most part kept out of harm’s way; as much as any Rebel is kept out of danger. Jersey kept a respectable distance behind the pair, her M-16 always ready.

  “Hello, Pete!” Ben shouted to a tank commander. “Ready to rock and roll with Revere’s boys and girls?”

  “You betcha, General.” He eyeballed Denise’s derrière and dropped down the turret to spread the word.

  “Sonny!” Ben called to a young captain. “How’s it goin’, boy?”

  “Everything’s copacetic, boss.”

  “All right.” Ben waved to a platoon leader. “Carol. Your gang ready?”

  “Ghompin’ at the bit, Chief.”

  “Keep your powder dry.”

  She laughed and waved.

  Denise stopped cold in her tracks when she caught sight of a wild-looking band of motorcyclists, all working on their Harleys. Men and women, tattooed and unshaven and uncurried. “What in the name of God is that?” she pointed.

  Ben laughed. “Oh, that’s Leadfoot and Beerbelly and the Sons of Satan. Over there is Wanda and her Sisters. They used to be outlaw bikers who fought against me—briefly. They decided to throw in with us a few years back. Outstanding fighters. Leadfoot!”

  The huge man straightened and turned around and grinned. “Yo, boss!”

  “Ready to bang some heads, gang?”

  “You damn right, General!” Wanda called. She looked at Denise and said, “My, my!”

  Denise blushed as they walked on. “She is, ah . . .”

  “Yeah. Bi. She was just kidding with you. Believe me. Anyone of that bunch would fight to the death to protect a fellow Rebel.”

  “Hey, Little Bit!” a sergeant yelled to Jersey.

  “How’s about you and me takin’ a stroll in the bushes tonight?”

  “I lost my taste for dirt sandwiches when I was a little girl,” Jersey said. “So stick it up your kazoo, Bernie, and spin on it.”

  Bernie laughed and winked at the general.

  “Political correctness is not observed much around here, is it, General?” Denise asked.

  “More than you might think, Denise. Jersey and Bernie have known each other for years. And Bernie is a happily married man with four kids. What you just heard is a game they play. Political correctness got all out of hand just before the Great War. It became ridiculous. Believe me, if a stranger said to Jersey what Bernie just said, he would be stretched out on the ground now with a broken jaw from a butt-stroke.”

  “And Jersey’s punishment for that?”

  “Punishment? You have to be joking. No punishment. If he politely asked her for a date, she could either accept or politely decline . . . and he wouldn’t push the issue. Common sense has taken the place of textbook law in Rebel society, Denise.”

  “I have a lot to learn,” she admitted.

  “Oh, not so much as you might think. If you made it this far, you’re in. How many in your training class washed out?”

  “About half. Now I see what you mean. They couldn’t take the freedom!”

  “That’s it, Denise. For generations, Americans had Big Brother telling them what to think, what to do, how to do it, what to eat, what to drink, how to brush their teeth, how to dress, how to drive their cars, what kind of homes to live in, how much insurance they should have, where to send their kids to school, what they could and couldn’t be taught, etc., etc., ad nauseam. Then the speech and thought police moved in toward the end. Political correctness and all that. Here, Denise, the individual pretty much is in charge of his or her own destiny. You see, Blanton is fighting for the old democratic party ideology: control of every aspect of your life.” He tapped the small red, white, and blue striped flag with the circle of eleven stars sewn on the sleeve of her BDUs. “We’re fighting for freedom.”

  Ten

  Doctor Lamar Chase had flown in and was ramrodding and haranguing his medical personnel when Ben and Denise walked up to Buddy’s location.

  “Why don’t you retire and go sit on your front porch in a rocking chair?” Ben asked him. “And stop yelling at people.”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business,” Chase fired back. He looked at Denise, then back to Ben. “Robbing the cradle again, eh, Raines?”

  “Old goat,” Ben muttered. “He married a woman young enough to be his granddaughter,” he said to Denise.

  Chase waggled his eyebrows. “Nice work if you can get it.”

  Denise laughed at both of them and Chase went off, yelling at some of his medics.

  “I gather Doctor Chase has been with you a long time?” Denise asked.

  “From the very beginning. Just a handful of us got together after the Great War and decided to form our own nation.”

  “I remember,” she said softly. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

  “The government, what there is of it, in one way or the other, has been fighting us ever since. And this time won’t be any different. At least fifteen nations around the world are rebuilding, patterning their new governments after the Rebel way. That’s got to tell an open-minded, thinking person that we’re doing something right. But Blanton either can’t, or won’t, see it.”

  Buddy walked up. Denise noticed that the family resemblance was strong. Eyes, hair, square jaw. But while Ben was tall and rangy, Buddy’s musculature was heavy, his arms and shoulders packed with muscle. Denise also noticed that the young man’s expression was serious.

  Ben picked that up immediately. “What’s wrong, son?”

  “We just got the message a moment ago. Revere’s army is on the move against Blanton’s forces. They should make initial contact in a week.”

  “Put all troops on high alert, son.”

  “Yes, sir. The lieutenant assigned to me?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you both later on.” Ben turned and began walking back to his CP, Jersey right behind him.

  “Interesting man, the general,” Denise remarked.

  Buddy smiled. “That’s one way of describing him. Come on, let’s get you settled in. Things are about to pop.”

  Indeed they were. Revere, showing his experience and knowledge as a commander, sent troops of his new division in a probing action against Blanton’s army, holding his more experienced and battle-hardened troops in reserve. His plan was to let Blanton’s army score a few minor victories against the inexperienced troops and build a false sense of superiority. Then Revere would launch a major offensive using his mercenaries and smash through.

  On the same day that Ben learned of Revere’s declaration of war, he learned that to the south, an unholy and unusual alliance had been formed, brought together by agents of Revere. The warlords and cult leaders, Al Rogers, Bandar Baroshi, Carl Nations, Jeb Moody, Carlos Medina, and Jake Starr, had combined their forces to fight against Raines’s Rebels.

  “Shit!” Ben said. “Four fronts. Corrie, get Cecil on the horn.” Ben waited for a moment, then took the mic. “Cec, get some of your people on the road and block Jake Starr’s movement north. Contain him in Florida.”

  “Will do, Ben.”

  “And you keep your butt out of it. You’re not yet ready for the field.”

  “Spoil-sport,” Cec muttered. But he knew Ben was right.

  “Corrie, have General Taylor shift two of his battalions to stop this Carlos Medina person. That’s going to allow some of the punks to slide through, but it can’t be helped. They’re not even a fair paramilitary group. These others are far more dangerous.”

  “I’m on it, Boss.”

  Ike walked in the CP and stood quietly while Ben gave the orders. When Ben noticed him there, he asked, “What are we going to do, Ben?”

  “Take out these warlords first. Then I guess we’ll either fight Blanton’s people or Revere’s troops.”

  “Or both,” Ike said grimly.

  “Yeah. Or both. Probably both. Take two battalions and deal with this Jeb Moody, Ike. I’ll take Dan and we’ll handle Al Rogers and his bunch of kooks. Tina and Pat O’Shea can take care of Carl Nations. We’ll give Bandar Ali Shazam Baroshi to Striganov and Rebet. Keep everybody else in reserve. Let’s shake our tailfeathers, folks. We’ve got work to do.”

  Al Rogers had settled along the Illinois/Indiana border, stretching his people out from Danville in the north down to Lawrenceville in the south. It was not good ambush country. Ben rolled his two battalions, plus armor and artillery, up to the border and sent people in to look the situation over.

  “Not good,” the scout said, reporting back. “Rogers hasn’t evacuated women and kids from Danville. For that matter, none of the towns along the entire route north to south is loaded with women and kids.”

  “He knows we do our best not to harm noncombatants and kids,” Ben said. He smiled and turned to Corrie. “Tonight we move south. Start the LowBoys and the tankers out now. Head back east, like we’ve changed our minds, and at 41, cut south. Cross over the Wabash at Mount Caramel and then we’ll head north. We’ll take Al out one town at a time, working north, pushing them ahead of us, main battle tanks spearheading. Let’s go.”