“It had to be, Gale. I tried to tell them what they were going up against, but I’m not sure how much of it registered on them. I really hope my words sank in. We’ll know when we see the number that return.”
“I can’t believe you would do something like that, knowing that many of them faced death, would be sure to die.”
“The survivors will make it. The rest will either get tough or die. That’s the way of the world now. Those that don’t have the right stuff will die along the way. There is no momma to write home to, now, honey. No USO, no Red Cross, no State Department. This nation, the very laws upon which it was founded and which the high courts and our elected leaders chose to spat upon for decades, is standing on the brink, teetering,
first in one direction, then the other. A lot of people will die before any type of democratic process is ever again in force. If, in fact, any type of democratic government is ever again adopted. And I have very grave doubts about that. Right now, Gale, this moment, we are facing the greatest challenge since the bombings of ‘88. And if we don’t win, we can all kiss any hope of freedom and democracy goodbye.”
She looked at him. Blinked, then smiled. “Thank you, Professor Raines,” she said. She rose up on tiptoes and kissed him.
The small column, now minus the young people from the college, backtracked to Ottumwa. There, Ben told the villagers what was soon to go down.
“What do you want us to do, General?” he was asked.
“I’d like for you to come with us, back to Tri-States.”
The people of Ottumwa had already discussed this. The man shook his head. “No, sir, we won’t do that. This is our home, and we have agreed to die defending it. We may be making the wrong decision, but we’re going to stand firm.”
Ben knew there was no point in arguing. He shook hands with the spokesman and pulled out, heading south, leaving them with their shotguns and hunting rifles. Against trained troops and experienced combat officers, with mortars and long-range howitzers. Maybe, Ben figured, just maybe, if they were lucky, and had the time to group before the IPF hit them, they might last six hours. If they were lucky. But Ben
could understand the desire to defend homes and a free way of life.
Ben ordered his column to head west until they intersected with Highway 65, then to cut down into Missouri, staying to the west of Kansas City by about sixty miles, for Kansas City was radioactive and would be for centuries. During the trek, they found survivors in Princeton, and Trenton, and about a hundred in Chillicothe. Thirty families elected to go with the Rebels, the rest stayed, despite Ben’s warnings they didn’t have a prayer of defeating General Striganov’s IPF.
But they would not leave their homes.
The column crossed the Missouri River and found more than a hundred people at Missouri Valley College. It was there Ben made up his mind, there Ben put the smugglings of his brain to rest.
“Get me General Striganov,” he told his radio operator. “You’ll have to search the bands, but I feel sure he’s got people waiting to hear from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
She began searching the bands, carefully lingering over each frequency. She would broadcast for a few moments, then listen, seeking some reply.
Ben looked over the band of people on the campus of the old Presbyterian college. They were a grim-looking lot. Most of them wore a defeated look, and once more, that flaw appeared in Ben. He was not now and had never been the type of man to give up. No one who was ever a part of any hard-line special military unit was a quitter. One could not make it through the training by being a quitter, and very few special troops have anything but contempt for a quitter. Past training had been too brutal, too dehumanizing
for a man to face failure by just rolling over and giving up.
With very rare exceptions, no man who was once a part of any tough military unit, the elite, if you will, will ever beg or quit in a bad situation. And they do not like to be associated with those that do.
Ben shoved his personal feelings back into the dark recesses of his mind and asked, “Where are you people from?”
“South Dakota, mostly,” a woman replied. “Aberdeen-Watertown area. Thought we were making a sort of life for ourselves. Then the IPF came in. They suckered us, General Raines. They were nice, at first. Real nice young people. They helped us. But our minister, Ralph Dowing, he was the first to figure them out, what they were really all about and up to. He called them on it. They didn’t do much about it, at first. No rough stuff, nothing like that. But we noticed that after that, they all started carrying automatic weapons. So my husband-no, he’s not here, he’s dead-he started carrying a pistol wherever he went. He and several other men. They-the IPF’-THEY didn’t like that. They told my husband they would rather he not wear a gun. They would protect us if the need arose. My husband told them he didn’t give a jumping good goddamn what they liked or disliked or wanted.” She wiped a hand across her face and sighed heavily. “Shortly after that, there was an accident-so the IPF called it. My husband was run over by a pickup truck. The IPF said my husband fell in front of the truck.” She shook her head. “It was no accident, General. He was deliberately killed to get him out of the way.”
“Yes,” a young man standing beside her said. “Then
they started rounding up all the privately owned guns. That’s when we started to fight them. But let me tell you, General Raines: They’re tough and mean. And Lord, are they quick. Those of us you see here got out just in time, “bout fifty of us. We picked up the other people outside Watertown. Same thing happened to them. General, what in the hell is going on?”
Briefly, Ben told them what he knew. He could see by the expressions on their faces many did not believe him, but the majority did.
“I’ve got General Striganov’s HQ, sir,” the radio-operator called from the communications van.
Ben keyed the mic. “This is Ben Raines. To whom am I speaking?”
“My dear Mister Raines,” the familiar voice rolled from the speakers in the van. “This is Georgi. I trust you have had a most pleasant trip thus far?”
“Just dandy, General. But I am not contacting you to exchange social amenities. Interstate 70 is your stopping point, General. Starts in what is left of Baltimore and cuts right across the center of the country. That’s your southern boundary, Georgi. You keep your IPF people north of that line.”
“Are you buying time, President-General Raines, or tossing down the gauntlet?”
“Maybe a little of each, General.”
“And if I don’t comply with your demands?”
“Then that little war we talked about just might come to be a whole hell of a lot sooner than you expect,” Ben said bluntly.
“I see,” the Russian said after a short period of silence. His mind was racing as fast as Ben’s. “Then may I have your word you will not interfere with my
personnel north of the line?”
“I most certainly will interfere, General. If you disarm the citizens, I’ll send teams in to rearm them. If you use any type of force or torture, I’ll meet it with force.”
There was an edge to the Russian’s reply. “I don’t like this game, General Raines. You’re not even being slightly fair with your demands.”
“It’s the only game in town, General Striganov. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll think about it,” the Russian said.
“You do that, partner.”
The connection was broken from the Russian’s end. Rather rudely, Ben thought.
A crowd had gathered around the communications van. A man asked, “Is there going to be another war, General?”
“Do you want to live under communist rule?” Ben answered with a question.
“I don’t care,” the man replied. He had the pinched look of a man who had been born into poverty and never escaped it. His expression was sullen. “I ain’t gonna fight them people. I don’t think what they’re doin” is all that wrong, noways. I just want to live and be left alone.”