Peter Volmer had never before heard the sound of incoming mortar rounds. Their fluttery passage through the air could not be distinguished at first, over the chanting of the crowd. When he became conscious of the first few, they produced a brief whuffle-BAM! The effect was enough to make an impression he would keep the rest of his life.

  Terror grew within Peter Volmer as rapidly as the white-hot flashes of exploding rounds. They began in the back and the screams of his people marched forward with them. A warm wetness spread at Volmer’s crotch and he felt the trickle of liquid down his leg.

  “Incoming!” shouted someone in the audience with more experience than himself.

  Incoming what? Volmer wondered. Then one of his SS officers grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the far side of the stage. “Someone – the Rebels are mortaring us. We gotta get out of here.”

  Peter Volmer stared at a shower of smoking white globs that splattered across the roofs and hoods of cars, where they ignited instant flames. Fountains of blazing orange geysered from split gas tanks. Behind him the young musicians added shrill pandemonium. Concussion shattered the incandescent bulbs of floodlights. From above and behind him, Volmer heard the whopping sound of rotor blades, and a stream of tracers streaked past and sought out targets among the crazed mass of people. Then armed men in ballistic helmets appeared in the exits. Seemingly without provocation, they opened fire on the terrorized Party members. A detached arm flew into the air less than halfway to the stage.

  “No – nooooo,” Volmer moaned.

  Another insistent tug set him in motion. He reached the center of the stage when an exploding gas tank took out the searchlight and plunged the theater into darkness. He had a fleeting impression of more men pouring into the drive-in. Suddenly the mortar shelling ceased. The crackle of small-arms fire punctuated the eerie scene that remained imprinted on the retinas of Peter Volmer’s eyes.

  “What do we do? What do we do?” he asked, totally disoriented.

  “We get out of here,” the hard voice of his adjutant rasped in his ear.

  Right then, that sounded like the best suggestion Peter Volmer had ever heard.

  Lt. Col. Stanley Bull McDade watched the progress of his R Batt troops through a tripod-mounted IR scope. A rueful grin spread the full lips under a neatly tended white brush of mustache. How he envied Ben Raines for being right down there in the thick. Hell, Ben should be in the rear, running this show, not out cowboying it with those kids.

  “What am I saying?” he blurted aloud, waggling the thatch of his Vandyke. Ben Raines could never resist mixing it up with the bad guys. And these Nazis, American Nazis, were nearly as odious a lot of baddies as the creepies.

  The wiggly green glow of the IR scope revealed scouts and some of his troopers in position at the exits and rear entrance. He keyed the microphone clipped to his battle harness. “Cease firing,” he commanded the mortar crews. “Now the fun begins,” he grunted to the young RT operator standing next to him.

  “How’s that, sir?” the youth asked. A replacement after the devastating battles with Hoffman’s black-shirts, he had been a recent graduate of the basic training program at Base Camp One.

  “That’s right, you’ve never been in on one of General Raines’s big operations. There aren’t a lot of combat soldiers among Hitler’s little helpers down there,” McDade launched into an explanation. “When we get enough people in there, those that are left will start to surrender.” At the RT man’s quizzical expression, Bull chuckled. “Contrary to popular belief, the Rebels do take prisoners. It’s how they are sometimes disposed of that gives us our bad reputation among what bleeding-hearts are left. All of the leaders of any captured group are questioned personally by Ben Raines. It can be quite an education,” he added dryly, “to those who live through it. Now, get the companies on the move. We have to contain that lowlife scum down there.”

  Ben Raines found he had a lot to handle, and all at once. A huge follower of the deranged Volmer came at him from between two overturned cars. The man had upper arms like most men’s thighs. His legs churned on the uneven gravel of the theater, flexing muscles many people don’t even know they have. Thick, stubby fingers groped for Ben’s neck, and the Rebel commander smelled the fetid stench of rotting teeth in a widely stretched mouth.

  Ben butt-stroked a mountain of belly with his tommy-chopper and found it contained mostly muscle. The giant grunted and grinned at Ben, who knew he was in trouble. Let go of the Thompson and make a try for his sidearm? Foolish. Ben shifted his balance and planted a boot toe in his attacker’s crotch.

  A piglike squeal came from a crimson face. Found a weak spot, Ben exulted. He stepped back and snapped the steel buttplate of his subgun into the man’s lips. Small, reddened eyes rolled up and squeezed shut. Slowly the gargantuan leaned forward and fell at Ben’s feet, his brush of crew-cut on the tips of Ben’s boots.

  “Sorry, General,” Jersey offered from his side. “I missed that one.”

  McDade’s R Batt troops arrived at that moment. They swarmed inside the drive-in with a raw roar that cast many a spine in ice. Charged-up Rebels, eager to settle scores, fell on the American Nazis. A series of flashes lit the darkness close-by, and Ben heard the crack of bullets punching through metal only inches from his head.

  He squatted at once. The big Thompson snarled in crisp bursts. A scream rewarded Ben’s marksmanship. Two more Nazi slime rushed at him out of the darkness. One held a hastily improvised Molotov cocktail. Jersey ran a .223 zipper up his torso. The last slug shattered glass and drenched the dying man and his companion with flaming gasoline.

  “You’d think they would be giving up by now,” Ben commented.

  “They outnumber us, remember, General?” Jersey jibed.

  “I’ve got Buddy again on the RT, sir,” Corrie informed Ben. She crouched nearby.

  “What have you got, Rat?” Ben asked.

  “Nothin’, Eagle. That head Nazi and the kids in the band skinnied out through a hidden entrance at the base of the screen.”

  “Send someone after them?”

  “Already done, Eagle. Don’t know if it’ll do any good. In all this confusion and the dark, it took us a while to realize they were gone.” Buddy hated to admit defeat.

  “Keep working on it,” Ben advised. “From here it looks like we’ve cut down the resistance.”

  “Roger that, Eagle. Only a couple of pockets down here by the stage.”

  “Do what you have to, Rat. Eagle out.”

  Lights began to come on randomly around the drive-in. With growing frequency, camo-clad troopers passed Ben’s position prodding defeated “supermen” ahead of them. A final fusillade came from the direction of the stage, and then general silence. Only the crisp orders of the Rebels, the cry of the wounded, and the wail of the vanquished could be heard.

  Gabe Trasher slammed a big fist on the cracked Formica table. “I don’t give a shit about your fucking orders, Adlerhoff. I wanna talk to the field marshal at once. Or at least Colonel Webber. Fuckin’ Ben Raines is goin’ ape.”

  With a muttered curse, the NAL radio duty man said he would contact one of the staff aides. Gabe sat back and rolled a joint. He liked this part of the country. Wacky tobaccy grew wild along the roads and in pastures. He cut his eyes to Numb Nuts Nicholson.

  “Hey, Nuts, it’s a good thing we didn’t decide to take on Raines and his Rebels.” It was as close to admitting that what they had seen at the drive-in had scared the living hell out of him that Gabe Trasher would get.

  “Yeah. Them Nazis got blowed up real good. Boom! Oh, shit, boom!” His gobbling pig-squeal of laughter filled the room.

  Gabe winced, then turned his attention back to the radio as General Webber’s voice sputtered over the speaker. “This is the G-Two.”

  “Trasher here, Webber — er — Adlerhoff Two. Ben Raines and his Rebels just hit some of your American friends at a drive-in outside York, Nebraska. That’s on U.S. Highway 81.”

  “I know where it is,” Webber responded in a tired tone. “Do you have an assessment of the damage?”

  “Total fucking loss, Webber buddy. I mean, like those Rebels creamed them.”

  After a long pause, Webber spoke in a subdued tone. “I was more concerned with Rebel losses.”

  “Maybe a dozen wounded. Two of them blown away trying to stop your boy Volrner.”

  “Did — did the Hauptsturmbannführer get away?” Webber asked, and Trasher could almost believe he hoped the news would be bad.

  “Yeah. Him an’ a bunch of little boys in short pants hauled ass in a Mercedes and a transcon bus.”

  “A bit of misfortune for the Herr Hautman,” Webber said idly. “Why did you not engage to relieve them?”

  “I got my orders, Webber. I’m to stand by until told otherwise by your field marshal.”

  “Yes, I see. I shall convey this information to the field marshal first thing in the morning.”

  “I’d think he would want to know right away.”

  Webber sighed disdainfully into the mike. “If the Americans are lost, they’re lost. No need to disturb Feldmarschall Hoffman’s sleep for that.” He must have handed the microphone back to the RT operator, for it was his voice that came next. “Adlerhoff out.”

  Gabe Trasher turned to Numb Nuts Nicholson. “That’s one cold fucking fish, my man. But, not as cold, I’m thinking, as Ben Raines.”

  Five

  Ben Raines had no desire to lose a night’s sleep. He knew the troops could use a good rest, also. They’d been on the hump for three days. He also knew that in the first hours after an engagement and subsequent capture, prisoners in an expectably shocked and demoralized condition talked more readily and freely.

  Might as well get it going and over with, Ben decided, rousing himself. He walked to the chair set for him on the stage. Rebel generators provided the juice now to light the area at the center. Below him, in an area cleared of wrecked cars and trucks, the prisoners sat in glum defeat. They had been segregated by sex, and children from adults. The leaders among them who had identified themselves or were suspected by the Rebels had been lined up on the stage. They stood with hands behind their heads, glaring defiance.

  Another everyday interrogation scene, Ben thought. Yet, this time Ben experienced an aspect of unreality about it. His unyielding eyes swept over the men, and a few women, culled out as leaders. He didn’t see the rabid dogs of creepies, or scruffy bikers, full of bluff and bluster. Not even dim-witted, slovenly rednecks, their kids’ bellies swollen from malnutrition and bones bowed by rickets. These are normal-looking, clean-cut folks, Ben told himself for the fifth time.

  They would be right at home at any Rebel outpost. In fact, Intelligence had informed him, some of them had been. That’s what galled the most. Many of these leaders, and the ones who followed them, had lived undetected right among them. What separated these “average Joes” from his Rebels and the good people they protected was the deadly poison of Nazism. Abandoning that line of thought, Ben took his seat at the small table.

  He cut his eyes to Jersey, who stood upstage, at the ready with her M-16. Corrie hovered close behind him, with the radio. Ben carefully laid his recent find, a mint-condition IMI Desert Eagle .50 caliber Action Express autoloader, on the table. Cocked and locked, the smooth parkerized finish and half-inch bore gave it a very no-nonsense appearance. It took a big hand to control that much pistol, and Ben Raines had all he needed. He nodded to Buddy, who shoved one of the captives forward.

  “What is your name?” Ben demanded.

  “I don’t have to say anything to you, whoever you are.”

  “I’m Ben Raines.” It came soft and quiet, cloaked in menace.

  The Nazi paled slightly but retained his defiance. “I am a prisoner of war. All I have to give is my name, rank, and serial number.”

  “That so? Seems I asked for your name, didn’t I?”

  “Dalton, Gerald R.”

  “Don’t try to tire me out by being tedious, asshole. Give me the rest of it. And I want the name of your unit.”

  “Dalton, Gerald R., Standar – ah – Captain.” He rattled off a meaningless string of numbers.

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Standartenführer. So you’re SS, eh? Your bunch that stage-managed that massacre back down the road?”

  “I don’t know . . . I have nothing more to say,” Dalton blurted.

  “Oh, but I think you do, Standartenführer Dalton. I think my Intelligence people will get a great deal out of you.”

  Dalton paled even more. “Torture is against the Geneva Convention.”

  Ben Raines laughed softly. “Neither the Convention nor Geneva exists anymore, you hopeless bastard. Lucky for you, the Rebels don’t use torture anyway. My G-2 people have nice, thin needles and vials of chemicals that do far better.”

  “You can’t use chemical interrogation,” Dalton stated with heated conviction. “It’s – ”

  “Against the Convention? Can and will. You’re trying my patience, Standartenführer.” Ben made the SS rank sound like something that floated on the top of a septic tank. “Sergeant Bourchart, take him away.”

  A burly noncom in the rank to Ben’s right stepped forward, grinning. “My pleasure, General.”

  Panic seized Dalton. “What are you going to do to me?”

  Ben gave him a cold smile. “We’re going to use those chemicals on you and find out if you had anything to do with the butchery of those innocent people. If you did, a squad of my Rebels will hang you.”

  “You caaaaan’t dooooo thaaaaat!” Dalton wailed until silenced by the extended, stiffened fingers of Sergeant Bourchart striking him in the solar plexus.

  “Next.”

  Scarlet hatred blazed from this Nazi’s eyes. “You are a mongrelizing bastard, Ben Raines. You lie down in the stink of nigger sweat. You allow pure Aryan children to rub their bodies against the disgusting flesh of the yellow, brown, black inferior races. You promote degeneracy and glorify perversion.”

  Ben Raines laughed in his face. When he recovered his composure, he pointed a long, thick finger at the Nazi, who quivered with indignation. “Wanda would love that. She would just fall down and roll around in hilarity.”

  “Who – who is Wanda?” the fanatic demanded.

  “It’s – just Wanda. She commands a company of Rebels known as the Sisters of Lesbos.”

  The Nazi actually gagged. His face wore a mask of horror and revulsion. “You’re the scourge of America, Ben Raines!” he howled. A sudden transition occurred in his expression and a light that said he knew it all now glowed in his eyes. “Ben? Benjamin? You’re a filthy, Jew-boy prick, Raines.”

  “No. Some people may see me as a schmuck, but I am not Jewish. Corporal Schultz, pick three men and take this . . . thing over against that wall and shoot him.” To the others he said, “Listen up, people. We don’t have time to finesse this moral-outrage crap with all of you. You are going to answer questions quickly and concisely or you are going to die. Is that fucking clear to all of you?”

  As though on cue, three rifles cracked on the far side of the stage. The indignant Nazi fell in a heap, twitched, and went still. Ben signaled for another to be brought forward.

  The American Nazi had a bloody shirtfront and started talking even before being placed squarely in front of the table where Ben sat. “I am Walter Utting. I am an SS Standartegruppenführer in the Leibstandarte Hoffman. My serial number is 559-34-6877. You are going to be sorry you did this, Ben Raines. Hauptstandartenführer Peter Volmer will see to that.”

  “Where has Volmer gone?” Ben asked conversationally.

  “I don’t know. But, when he comes after you, his vengeance will be terrible to behold. I understand you have two children, General? A boy and a girl. Volmer will save them for his Sturmabteilungen, his storm troopers. The troops will use them in every orifice of their bodies, and when they tire of the game, Volmer will personally cut out the hearts of your diseased offspring.”

  “Not!” There were many things Ben could have, or perhaps should have, said to this arrogant asshole. But that made his point quite well, backed up by his swift uplifting of the big .50 Desert Eagle handgun. His thumb snapped off the safety and a fat, half-inch, 305-grain, jacketed hollowpoint bullet blew away the back of Utting’s head from behind the ears. Utting’s blood, brains, and bone splattered his fellow Nazis.

  “Excuse me,” Ben said to the gagging prisoners. “I tend to get overprotective of my children. Now, who has something worthwhile to tell me?”

  That loosened the tongues of several smaller fry. They literally babbled their names and unit identities. Three of them positively identified the dead Utting as commander of the SS battalion that had engineered the bloodbath outside Bellville. He had brought a company of them with him to the theater, they told Ben. Ben immediately sent Buddy’s company among the other captives to root out Utting’s troopers. They went about their task with his laconic comment ringing in their ears.

  “I don’t know where you’ll find enough rope, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Shortly, storm troopers began to dangle from the support posts of the twelve-foot-high fence around the drive-in, to kick and choke out their lives. In the middle of the grisly round of executions, a portly man came forward to talk with Ben. He might have been a banker in any normal sort of world, Ben considered.

  “I am Major Richard Wagner – ah – no known relation to the composer, of Hauptsturmbannführer Volmer’s staff. Perhaps I can provide you with the information you seek.”

  “I’m willing to wager one of Lamar’s field rations that you can,” Ben responded dryly.

  “The Hauptsturmbannführer is making a tour of all of the gathering Party members. It is considered a momentous occasion by we American Nazis that the heir to Adolf Hitler has at last come to North America. Even the smallest tactical unit is eager to join in the great work. Our families, naturally, wish to reach Field Marshal Hoffman’s interior zone in the northwest for reasons of safety. The Hauptsturmbannführer is selecting a few key people and taking them with him. The rest he is ordering to proceed due west.”