“That’s ten-four, Ben.” He stuck a piece of home-manufactured gum in his mouth. “You seen Jerre?”

  “Briefly. How did you know she was here?”

  “A little birdie told me.”

  “My kids have big mouths.”

  “Actually it was Cecil. She brought the twins down to Base Camp One for safekeeping. He said they have their mother’s good looks and your eyes.” He chewed and grinned at Ben.

  Ben met his longtime friend’s eyes and returned the smile. “Corrie, make a note to have Jerre assigned to Ike’s command.”

  Ben did not assign Jerre to Ike—he had no intention of doing so—but he did have his friend sputtering for a few moments. Ben had made up his mind to try and make friends with Jerre, if at all possible, and to not be so mean to her as before—as Corrie, Jersey, and Beth had said he had been. Personally, Ben thought he had been cool and aloof rather than mean, but perhaps women looked at it differently.

  He went looking for her, and found her helping to set up an aide station on Telegraph Road, just south of I-255. Ben stood in the door, watching her, until she felt eyes on her and turned slowly.

  Ben felt a tug at his heart. She was one of those women who would be beautiful as long as she lived. He had all sorts of things he had to say to her; things like, “Let’s be friends,” for starters.

  It all died in his throat.

  She stared at him for a moment. “Something, General Raines?”

  Ben shook his head. “It’s nothing, Jerre. I just wanted to tell you to be careful, kid.” He backed out of the building and walked away.

  The other people in the room discreetly averted their eyes and tried very hard not to listen.

  Jerre walked to the door and stood watching as Ben walked away. There were a lot of things she would have liked to say to him, such as, “Ben, why can’t we be friends?” But the words hung in her throat. She sighed and shook her head, walking back into the room and helping the others unfold cots, to be used when the wounded began arriving.

  Ben walked up Telegraph Road, past the Interstate, and turned toward the river, making his way through the National Cemetery, located between the old VA hospital and Jefferson Barracks Park. A dozen Rebels trailed along behind and beside him. At the bluff overlooking the river, Ben cut his eyes south, to the Jefferson Barracks Bridge. Ike had anticipated Ben’s move and had his divers wire the bridge early that morning, in the predawn hours.

  Ben did not like to destroy bridges, for he knew with each bridge he destroyed, another vital link spanning rivers would be forever gone . . . forever at least in his lifetime, and more than likely never to be rebuilt.

  Leadfoot, the commander of the outlaw biker Rebels, walked down to join Ben by the river. The outlaw bikers were the newest additions to Ben’s Rebel Army, joining up only a few weeks past.

  “You know this Lan Villar, General?” Beerbelly asked.

  “I know him. He’s pure scum. But very, very intelligent and very, very dangerous. So is Kenny Parr. You know about the Hot Wind, Khamsin. We’re looking at possibly ten thousand troops just across that river.”

  “And a couple more thousand comin’ at us from the rear.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And when we kick these asses, they’ll be more comin’ out of the woodwork at us.”

  “That’s right. It’s been that way for over a decade. No reason to think it won’t continue.”

  “When I was outlawin’, I kept thinkin’: why don’t Ben Raines just carve out a pretty good section of country, secure it, and forget about the rest? But that wouldn’t work, would it, General?”

  “No. It’d be just as bad, or worse, as it is now. We’d be in a constant state of readiness and swamped with refugees pouring in. Eventually we’d be overwhelmed from the outside.”

  “How come Base Camp One is never attacked, General?”

  Ben smiled. “Because that is the one place where I have allowed nuclear weapons to be set up. Our one fifty-five’s and eight-inchers have nuclear capabilities and we have the warheads. I will always have a secure zone, Beerbelly.”

  The secure zone, known as Base Camp One, now encompassed a half-dozen parishes in North Louisiana, with a standing army of more than two thousand men and women, not counting the doctors, scientists, technicians, and others who kept the factories and hospitals and labs going twenty-four hours a day. Not even Khamsin, Ashley, Voleta, or Lan Villar entertained any illusions about attacking Base Camp One. All enemies of the Rebels knew it would be suicide to attempt that.

  True, those who hated Ben Raines and the Rebels’s way of life wanted the Rebels destroyed, but they also wanted their advancements and technology and factories intact. That would not happen if by some dark miracle they managed to overrun the standing troops at the base camp. Ben had given orders to destroy it all before allowing it to fall into enemy hands.

  Base Camp One was probably the most secure place on the face of the earth.

  Since Ben had expanded the perimeters of the secure zone, Base Camp One now extended from the Arkansas line down to approximately forty miles south of Monore, then east to the Mississippi River. There were, in addition to the factories and labs, wildlife refuges, petting zoos, both collective and individual farms, open markets, schools and universities, vo-techs, hospitals, and all the other vestiges of a normal society.

  But on closer inspection, there were some not-so-subtle differences that would have caused many liberals to immediately pull out their hankies and start stomping on them.

  There were no free rides in any of the Rebel communities. If a person was able to work, they worked, or they were kicked out. No exceptions. In the schools, children were not only taught the three R’s—and taught it well, in addition to fine arts—they were also taught values, respect for other people and their property, and for God’s lesser creatures. Many Rebels were strictly vegetarian in their diets, but that was by no means a mandatory requirement. But there were humane ways to raise livestock, and those who chose the Rebel way of life understood that and behaved accordingly.

  Trapping and hunting for sport was forbidden in any zone the Rebels controlled. The laying out of any type of ground poison was not allowed. Deer herds were controlled by the careful reintroduction of the animals’ natural predators. It was not uncommon now to see wolves and panthers once more roaming free in the designated wilderness areas, as God had intended. If the wolves and panthers ventured outside the designated areas and became a hazard to humans or to livestock, which occasionally did happen, game wardens went after them—taking the offending predator alive if possible—and moving them out of the controlled zone.

  If one tree was cut down, another was planted. Land could not be cleared without providing windbreaks of timber to prevent topsoil from blowing away.

  It was not a society that everyone could live in. Those who kept statistics on such matters agreed that perhaps one in five could live in a Rebel-controlled zone.

  There was absolutely no crime. It was not tolerated. Walk onto someone else’s property with less than friendly intent, and there would, in most cases, be a funeral the next day. The selling of drugs called for the death penalty. Killing someone while driving drunk meant a long prison sentence, at very hard labor, without exception. No plea-bargaining, no deals, no lesser sentencing based on social standing. The laws were black and white in Rebel country, without benefit of a gray area. There were no bars or honky-tonks in any Rebel-controlled zone. But if a person wanted to get riproaring drunk in their home, that was their business. Just don’t get behind the wheel of a vehicle after doing so.

  Abuse a child in a Rebel zone, and the offending party or parties faced the very real possibility of that child being taken from them and placed with couples who would care for it.

  There were very few lawyers in any Rebel-controlled zone; or it should be said there were very few practicing attorneys. Many who were lawyers back when civilization was the norm—more or less—before the Great War, were now farmers and soldiers and mechanics and so forth. And those who did maintain some sort of legal practice—just to keep their hand in it, for there certainly wasn’t much call for them—soon learned that in Rebel-controlled zones there were very few legal niceties.

  The first rule to surviving was: Don’t cross Ben Raines.

  Standing by the river, Ben looked at Beerbelly. “You and Wanda and the other bikers could have left us at any time over the past few weeks. To tell you the truth, I’m pleasantly surprised you didn’t.”

  Beerbelly smiled. “To tell you the truth, General, it sorta surprises me too. How pleasant it is is up for grabs. But look at it this way: sooner or later, the Rebels are gonna win. It’s just a matter of time. It might be months, it might be years; but you’re going to win. You and your bunch is gonna have bodies swingin’ in the wind from California to New York. There used to be a western sayin’ about seein’ the gunfighters’ graveyards.” He met Ben’s eyes. “I’ve seen some of yours, Ben Raines. And the sight scared the shit outta me!”

  “Do you find it so difficult to obey the law, Beer-belly?”

  “No. I didn’t find it difficult before the Great War. But I had me a family back then. Wife and two kids. I worked construction during the week and me and my old lady rode Harleys on the weekend.” He smiled. “Had a sidecar for the kids. Both of us used to read your adventure books in my spare time. You were a good writer. I had a good life back then; me and my wife and kids. Then it all fell apart. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not makin’ excuses for what I done after... Alice and the kids died. It was bad and if somebody had killed me for it, well, I would have gone out thinkin’ that I sure deserved it. And that’s the truth. Those of us who joined up with you . . . we’d been thinkin’ of a way out, lookin’ for one for a long time. Oh, none of us is altar boys, and we ain’t likely to become none anytime soon. But what we’re doin’ now makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”

  The biker, an Uzi slung over a shoulder, walked back to his group’s position, between Telegraph Road and Buckley Road.

  Ben walked back south, along 231, inspecting the fortifications his people had built. They all knew it was going to be one hell of a battle, and they were going to take some casualties, so the bunkers were being dug extra deep and fortified heavily.

  It wasn’t the Rebel way to stop working whenever a ranking officer appeared on the scene, jumping around and saluting and all that crap; not even if that officer was Ben Raines. The Rebels kept right on working and Ben walked on.

  He inspected the positions where the 81mm mortar carriers were set up, and nodded his head in approval. With a range of over two miles, the 81s would deal some misery to those across the river.

  Then it was back to his CP to look with disgust upon a stack of papers piled on his desk. “What is all this crap?” he asked Jersey.

  Ben’s diminutive warrioress/bodyguard met his eyes. “Things that need your signature, General. A courier just brought them in from the airstrip at St. Clair.”

  Muttering, Ben sat down behind the desk and began wading through the stack of reports, proposals, requisitions and recommendations. He slopped his name on some and shit-canned most of the paperwork . . . but he speed-read it all. He had just finished when a familiar voice spoke to him from the open door of his office.

  “I often wondered if you ever actually read anything I sent you,” Doctor Lamar Chase said.

  Smiling, Ben rose from his chair and gripped the man’s hand. “I read all of your ramblings, Lamar. When’d you get in?”

  “About an hour ago. I want to make an inspection of the aid stations, Ben. At least as many as possible before the balloon goes up. Care to go with me?”

  “Lamar, I would accompany you to the gates of Hell to get away from paperwork.”

  “All in due time, Ben,” the chief doctor said with a chuckle. “All in due time.”

  Chapter 3

  They had inspected a dozen aid stations and Chase found them all well-stocked and meeting with his approval—which was no mean feat to accomplish.

  At the next stop, Ben said, “I’ll wait out here and grab a smoke.”

  Lamar gave him an odd look and nodded his head. He walked into the aid station and bumped into Emil Hite. The little man’s mouth was swollen and bruised. He could see where several stitches had been taken. “What happened to you, Emil?”

  “I was giving a pep talk to my people and fell off the hood of my hearse.”

  Chase shook his head, thinking: If future historians ever write about this army, it’s going to be the goddamnest story ever told . . . with the exception of the Bible.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Emil. My people took good care of you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Good, good.” He patted the little man on the shoulder and walked on. He pulled up short and smiled when he saw the reason Ben had not wanted to come in.

  Damnest bunch of warriors I ever did see, he mused. Hardass Colonel Dan Gray has fallen butt over elbows for Sarah Bradford and the leader of the greatest army on the face of the earth won’t come into an aid station because of a little blue-eyed girl. One thing about it, though, both of them have excellent tastes in ladies.

  Then Chase grinned mischievously as he walked up to Jerre. “I read the reports on you, Jerre,” he said. “You went through combat medic school with high marks.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Chase.”

  “You got a promotion, too, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant.”

  “That’s good. I have a new assignment for you, Lieutenant. One befitting your rank.”

  “Oh?”

  He told her and stepped back as he noticed her eyes narrowing and her jaw stiffening.

  He’d been warned that she had a temper that was close to equalling a wolverine ... and he believed it.

  Then she smiled, with about as much humor in it as a shipwreck. “Why, thank you, sir. Does this meet with the general’s approval?”

  “It doesn’t have to, Lieutenant. Medical people can call any shot they so choose.”

  “He has been informed of this, of course.”

  “Ah ... not yet. Why don’t you get your gear together and join the general out in that new tugboat he calls a station wagon. I’ll just continue on with my inspection.”

  “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”

  Ben turned his head at the tapping on the windshield and looked at Jerre. He rolled down the window and eyeballed her duffle bag on the sidewalk.

  “May we drop you off somewhere, Jerre?”

  “Wherever you’re going, Ben.” When they were alone, she dropped all military titles and courtesies. Considering what they had once meant to each other, and all they had been through, both of them felt ridiculous when she did display military courtesy.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  She told him.

  Ben blinked a couple of times then slowly got out of the wagon, to stand looking down at Jerre. “This is Chase’s idea of a joke. He can’t be serious.”

  “He’s serious, Ben.”

  “Well, by God, you can bet I’ll have something to say about this!”

  “You have nothing to say about it,” Chase said, walking out of the aid station. “Because of your propensity for getting into trouble and taking unnecessary risks, all of your battalion commanders have, at one time or another, requested this. I have resisted because you would have made life miserable for anyone I assigned to you. However, I don’t think you’re going to make life miserable for Lieutenant Hunter. Because if you try, she’ll tell you to go right straight to hell, Raines! My inspection tour is over. Cecil has cleaned up the hospital over on 115. That will be my base. Take me over there now. Lieutenant Hunter is permanently assigned to your personal team, General Raines. Period!”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth when the afternoon air was ripped by automatic weapons’ fire. The bullets slammed and whined off the concrete of the building housing the aid station, howling off as flattened and dangerous ricochets. Ben jerked Jerre and Chase to the sidewalk behind the wagon as the rest of his team sought cover.

  “Guerrilla attack, Ben?” Chase shouted the question over the whine of unfriendly fire.

  “I doubt it. Probably creepies. The city’s full of the bastards. Jersey, you have them spotted?”

  “That’s ten-four, General,” the woman called. “Top floor of that building right across the street.”

  “Corrie, call for tanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You two stay down,” Ben told the doctor and the medic. “And in this situation, I give the orders and you obey them.”

  He opened the door to the wagon and pulled out his M-14 just as the lead from across the street really began to fly in their direction. Ben’s team returned the fire and a creepie was knocked out of an already shattered window. He hit the sidewalk and splattered.

  Ben opened up with the old Thunder Lizard, the heavy .308 slugs pocking the outside bricks of the building and raising hell with anybody inside as the lead found open windows. Screams of pain from those on the top floor drifted over the gunfire.

  Sticking home a fresh clip, Ben said, “Corrie, have teams from all battalions clear this city from the river back to Chase’s hospital. I’m not going to have three fronts to fight.”

  “Yes, sir.” She began bumping the other battalions, giving them Ben’s orders.

  Two fifty-ton main battle tanks rumbled around the corner and clanked into position. They elevated their 105’s and began destroying the top floors of the building with HE rounds.

  “No prisoners!” Ben shouted over the roar of the 105’s.

  Corrie nodded and spoke into her headset mic.

  Dan and a contingent of his Scouts, including Ben’s kids, Tina and Buddy, slid around the corner in Jeeps and Hummers just in time to see the top of the office building blow apart.

  “Tell the tanks to cease firing, Corrie, and have Dan’s people mop it up.”