He took a couple of hesitant steps and did not fall. “Wonderful,” Ben muttered. “I am certainly making progress.”

  He walked back to the bed and sat down, resting for a couple of minutes. During that time he again visually inspected his surroundings, looking for anything he might use as a weapon. There was nothing.

  He walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water. Bathing his face several times, he felt better. Then he cupped his hands and drank deeply.

  He stared at the window longingly, wishing he could see out, get some idea where he was. He gave that up. Might as well wish for ... what? Well, at least he was still alive, and not dangling from the end of a rope. That would come soon enough. Osterman would probably personally tighten the noose herself, smiling all the while. Miserable bitch!

  Ben began slowly walking around and around the interior of the small room, feeling his strength slowly return. He still didn’t feel like running any foot races, but he was getting better.

  And hungry. Damn, but he was hungry. Then he knew he was getting better, thinking about food. He instinctively glanced down at his watch—or where it used to be. It was gone, of course.

  He drank some more water and felt better, glanced upward out the high-set window. The sun didn’t seem as bright, but it was high in the heavens. Not as strong, rather than not as bright. Ben suddenly got the impression he was a long way from Tennessee.

  North! The word jumped into his brain. He was far north. Somehow he was sure of that.

  Ben heard a key clink in the lock. He turned just as the door opened. Several men stood there, one of them General Walt Berman.

  “You do get around, don’t you?” Ben said.

  Berman smiled. “Yes, I do. How do you feel?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent yet. But getting there.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, we brought you a tray of food. It’s nothing fancy, but it is good food. And we eat the same thing, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Where am I being held?”

  Berman stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I can’t see where that would hurt anything, Ben. You damn sure can’t get out. You’re in upstate New York. This facility used to be a state hospital for the insane. Insane probably isn’t a politically correct term, but I’m not much into that liberal crap.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About noon. Lunchtime. Here is your food. Enjoy the meal.”

  A tray was brought in, placed on the dresser. The guard carefully backed out. Berman gave Ben a mock salute and closed the door.

  Ben heard the lock click with a very secure sound.

  He carried his tray over to the bunk and looked at the food. Thick portions of ham (already cut up into bite-size pieces), generous helpings of mashed sweet potatoes and corn (in separate compartments), two slices of bread, two pats of butter (probably oleo) a piece of apple pie, a large mug of coffee, two packets of sugar, a packet of instant creamer.

  “Not bad,” Ben muttered, picking up the plastic fork and digging in.

  The food was good, and Ben ate every bite and then drank the coffee. He wished he had a cigarette to go with it. “Wonder if I’ll get a smoke before they hang me,” he muttered.

  Ben took the tray and walked over to the door. He tapped on it. “I’m finished. You want the tray?”

  “Back away from the door,” a man ordered. “I’ll lower the flap in the center of the door.”

  Ben backed away. “I’m back. Still holding the tray.”

  The flap banged open. “Put the tray on the flap.”

  “You got a cigarette?” Ben asked, placing the tray on the metal flap.

  “Sure. I’ll have to light it for you.”

  “No problem. I appreciate it.”

  “Back up, away from the door.”

  Ben again backed up, and watched as a lighted cigarette was placed on the flap.

  “OK. Pick it up.”

  Ben snagged the smoke and backed up. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Ben sat on the floor, his back to a wall, and smoked the cigarette. He enjoyed every puff. While he smoked he visually inspected the ceiling and walls. He could detect no sign of hidden cameras or microphones. There was no mirror in the room, so that let out a two-way.

  Ben got up and tried to move the bunk. It was securely bolted to the floor, and so was the dresser. The bolts were shiny new.

  He tried one with his fingers. “Well, you can forget that,” he muttered, after straining and only succeeding in skinning his fingers.

  He wondered when his interrogation would start. He did not have long to wonder.

  About a half hour after lunch, the door swung open—outward. Ben made a mental note of that. The hall seemed to be filled with men. None of them were armed, but they all carried the old style police nightsticks.

  “All right, General,” one said. “Time for your meeting with General Berman.”

  “I’m all aquiver with anticipation.”

  The man laughed. “No need to be. We don’t go in for physical torture. That’s been old hat for years, and you know it.”

  “The woman you’re working for would, and enjoy every moment of it.”

  “Woman? Oh! President Osterman.” The man frowned. “No, she wouldn’t. She’s a wonderful person. I met her once when I was still in my teens, and she was trying to get this country back on its feet. I read the weekly motivation letters that come from her office.” He pointed his club at Ben. “Don’t you say anything bad about Mrs. Osterman. I won’t stand for that.”

  So it’s a mixed bag of mercenaries and Federal troops here, Ben thought. And all those rumors I’ve been hearing for several years about the USA are true. Kids are getting a healthy dose of brainwashing in public schools. Well, hell, we’re doing the same thing in the SUSA. The only difference is we’re telling the kids the truth.

  “Let’s go, General,” the young man said.

  “Do I get some slippers?” Ben asked. “I wouldn’t want to catch my death of cold.”

  The young man—probably twenty-five years old, Ben guessed—hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. Get him some hospital slippers,” he ordered.

  The slippers were floppy on his feet, but they felt good against the cold floor. Ben was taken to an elevator and down one floor to the main floor. The hospital, Ben noted from the elevator control panel, had two floors and a basement. He would certainly keep that information in mind.

  Ben was taken to an office in the center of a long hall. At the far end were double doors. Sunlight streamed through the glass. Ben pretended not to notice the path to freedom.

  General Berman waved him to a chair in front of his desk and tossed a package of cigarettes on the desk and a lighter. “Smoke, Ben?”

  “Thanks.” Ben got a smoke and lit up. “Got any coffee, General?”

  Berman laughed. “Coffee drinking man, hey? Me, too. Sure. I’ll have a pot sent in for us. How was lunch?”

  “Very good. Surprisingly so.”

  “We all eat the same thing, as I told you. No point in not enjoying some small creature comforts while we’re here, right? Well, Ben, let’s get to it, shall we? Good. You won’t be here for very long. I have to tell you that. Three, four days at the most, I imagine, and then, if you haven’t agreed to some demands, you’ll be sent to the capital for a public trial. Now . . . you really don’t want that, do you?”

  “It doesn’t hold much appeal for me, no.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t. Ah! Here’s the coffee.” A man placed a tray on the desk with a pot of coffee, two cups, sugar and cream in containers. “How do you take yours, Ben?”

  “Black with a little sugar will do.”

  “Same here. Years in the field sort of makes cream impossible, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does. What demands?”

  “Just a few. If you agree to them, your life will be spared. You have President Osterman’s word on that.”

  “Her word?”

  Berman smiled. “Her word.”

  “I wouldn’t trust that bitch if she swore it in the middle of a bible factory.”

  “Just hear me out, Ben. What’s the harm in that?”

  “The bottom line is, my life is spared and I get to spend the rest of my life in prison, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it. But in as much comfort as possible. Not in a cell. A ... well, sort of apartment, you might say.”

  “Probably on a military base, in solitary confinement for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Ben shook his head and smiled. “No deal. I’ll take the rope.”

  “Ben—”

  “Forget it. Hanging me will mean the civil war will continue forever. My death will be a rallying cry. The war will never stop.” Ben leaned forward. “As long as there is one Rebel alive, the war will go on and on and on. As long as the Tri-States philosophy of government is remembered, passed down from generation to generation, the war will, in some form, continue. Try me and hang me, Walt. I will make no deals in exchange for my life. None.”

  The mercenary general stared at Ben for a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head. “I told both Osterman and Millard you would never go for the deal. They were sure you would.”

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll contact Osterman’s office and tell them it’s no deal. After that?” He shrugged and spread his hands. “It might get rough.”

  “At your hands?”

  “No.” The general’s answer was quick and firm. “I have never gone in for that sort of thing. But someone else is going to replace me. In a few hours. There is always that to consider.”

  Ben entertained thoughts of telling Walt about his conversation with General Maxwell, then thought better of it. He had a hunch the mercenary knew all about it and was a part of it. “You think roughing me up will change my mind?”

  “Of course not. If anything, it will only serve to strengthen your resolve. I personally don’t think it will come to that. However ... who knows? These damned young and dedicated followers of Osterman are capable of doing anything. I don’t like them, and don’t trust them.”

  “You’ve got several here at the hospital.”

  “Don’t I know it. Bradford, the shithead that escorted you here a few minutes ago, is one of the worst. Totally brainwashed. That creepy jerk is dangerous.”

  Ben laughed at the expression on the general’s face. “I gather he’s not one of your favorite people.”

  “You can bet on that. Ben, my people and I are being pulled out of here tonight. Then you’ll be solely in the hands and at the mercy of Osterman’s goons. I won’t be here to help you. Think about that. One soldier to another, flip-flop a little, make them think you’re going to agree to the terms I offered. Buy a little time. How about it?”

  “I’ll give that some thought.”

  “Good. Do that. Save yourself some grief at least for a while.”

  “And after they get tired of waiting?”

  “It probably will get rough. I won’t lie to you.”

  Ben took a sip of the very good coffee and lit another cigarette. “Why the concern on your part, Walt?”

  “I don’t like physical torture. Now, I’ll hunt you and shoot you in open warfare, do my best to beat you, kill you. But that’s war. That’s the risk you run. I might use chemicals on a person. I have used chemicals to get the truth. But not physical torture.”

  Ben lifted his coffee cup in a salute and smiled. Walt did the same. The two middle-aged soldiers understood each other very well.

  Ben tossed the cigarette pack back on the desk, and Walt picked it up and tossed it back to him. “Tuck those away.” He fiddled around in a desk drawer and tossed Ben a box of matches. “Hide them. Hell, you might get a chance to sneak a smoke, who knows?”

  Ben sensed the meeting was over. “I didn’t like you at first, Walt. Still don’t know if I can really trust you. But I find myself wishing we were both on the same side.”

  “I know the feeling all too well.” Walt stuck out a hand and Ben shook it. “Good luck to you, Rebel.”

  “Good luck to you, mercenary.” Ben laughed. “But not too much luck in this war.”

  Chapter Seven

  Suppertime passed, and no one brought Ben a tray. He sat on his bunk and watched the summer light gradually slip into darkness. He would have liked to smoke, but decided he’d better not. He tucked the pack of smokes and box of matches under the bedding on the bunk.

  About an hour after dark, the cell door swung open. Bradford stood there, backed up by six guards. Ben sat on the bunk and stared at the young man.

  “General Berman is gone,” Bradford announced. “I’m in charge now.”

  “Congratulations,” Ben told him. “When do I get something to eat?”

  “After we talk . . . maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “You might not feel like eating.” Bradford smiled after saying that, and it was not a pleasant smile.

  “I don’t feel like talking right now.”

  “Perhaps I can change your mind.” Bradford slapped a fist into an open palm.

  “Somehow I doubt it, punk.” Ben spat the words at him. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

  “Get him out of there!” Bradford ordered.

  The next hour or so wasn’t all that pleasant, but Ben had received rougher treatment in his life. Bradford seemed more interested in spouting dogma from Osterman’s philosophy of government than in punching Ben around, but the craphead still managed to get in some good licks.

  When Ben was dragged, literally, back to his cell, his mouth was busted, his head ached, his nose was bleeding, and his stomach hurt from being used as a punching bag, but he hadn’t said a word or uttered a sound of protest or pain.

  The guards threw him into his cell. Ben landed hard on the floor. He lay there until the door was closed and locked, then crawled to his hands and knees and managed to make it to the sink. Still sitting on the floor, Ben turned on the water and began bathing his busted and bruised face. There was no washcloth, so he had to use his hands. The cold water revived him, and he crawled over to his bunk and stretched out. That helped to relieve the pain in his stomach muscles.

  There was no hope for sleep—Ben hurt too much for that. He could and did while away some very interesting moments thinking of ways to kill that damned dickhead Bradford at the earliest opportunity, and those damned guards, too. Ben knew he was in for a very rough time until he could find a way to break loose from the damned nuthouse. He was going to start planning that, right now.

  Ben finally drifted off into a pain-filled sleep.

  He was jerked awake by a very rude hand and rolled onto the floor. There, he was kicked in the back and the stomach half a dozen times by men wearing boots. The last kick he received was on the back of the head, and that dropped him into merciful unconsciousness.

  Ben awakened on the cold floor of his cell. He hurt all over. One of the men had apparently stomped on his left hand, and it was swollen to about twice its normal size. He could only open one eye; the other was swollen shut. The back of his head was caked with dried blood. He managed, with a great deal of effort, to pull himself over to the sink and, using his right hand, turn on the water. He got more water on the floor than on his face the first try, but the cold wetness felt good on the hot face.

  Hot! Ben thought. I’m running a fever. If I don’t get off this floor and into that bunk with some cover on me I’ll be looking at pneumonia. And I sure as hell don’t need that.

  He managed to get into the bunk and pull the blanket over him. The pain was like needles sticking into his body. Sleep finally came, and with it, some relief from the pain.

  “Get up, you son of a bitch!” Bradford yelled at him. “Here’s your breakfast.”

  Ben heard a tray being placed on the floor and the door closing. Suppressing a groan, he threw off the blanket and managed to sit up. He sat on the side of the bunk for a moment until his head stopped spinning and he could make his legs follow the command from his brain. Then he slowly made his way over to the tray on the floor.

  Ben managed to squat down without falling over on his face and pick up the tray and get back to the bunk without spilling anything or dropping the whole damn thing. He sat on the bunk and looked at his breakfast.

  The contents of the tray did not look at all appetizing. It contained a thick glob of oatmeal, two greasy looking sausage patties, a slop of some terrible looking scrambled eggs, a couple pieces of bread, and a mug of coffee.

  Ben ate every bite, and could have eaten more.

  He wanted to smoke a cigarette but decided against it. Now was not the time.

  He set the tray on the floor, stretched back out on the bunk, and promptly went back to sleep. He slept for several hours. When he awakened he felt much better, thought he might live, after all—at least for the time being. He sat up and looked around the room. The tray was gone. Someone had picked it up and left without waking him up. He had slept the sleep of the physically exhausted.

  As Ben stood up, he thought that much of the pain was gone. He took a couple of steps and discovered he was wrong. His bruised muscles protested every movement. He tried to ignore the pain and began walking around the room, getting some of the kinks out.

  One thing he knew for certain: if he had to take many more beatings like the one he’d received hours before, there might be permanent damage. His body just could not take more kicking episodes.

  He found his slippers and sat down on the bunk to put them on. He sat for a moment, feeling the material of the slippers. They seemed to be made of some sort of mixture of paper and cloth. He felt under the thin mattress and found the box of matches Berman had given him.

  “Might work,” Ben muttered. “I’ve got to give this some more thought.”

  But how much time did he have to think about it? That, he didn’t know.

  And just how would he pull it off?