They were all spread thin, with very few troops left in reserve. It would be a tiring campaign, with little time for the troops to rest. And they would be outnumbered almost three to one.
But Ben’s Rebels had something going for them the IPF personnel had never known in all their lives: a belief in God Almighty and freedom.
When Ben’s column reached the outskirts of Columbia, he met with Colonel Gray. After the two men shook hands, Dan brought Ben up to date on the latest developments his scouts and LETTERRP’S had radioed in. Ben said, “I want to meet with General Striganov one more time, Dan, even though it will probably do no more than buy us time. When I am doing that, you take your scouts and LETTERRP’S and circle behind the IPF people; begin a guerrilla campaign against them. No holds barred, Dan, I want as much blood and terror and demoralization as possible. I don’t have to tell you how to play dirty.”
The Englishman’s grin was decidedly nasty. Now the game was getting to his liking. The men once more shook hands. “Good luck to you, General, and Godspeed.”
“To us both, Dan,” Ben said.
Ben turned to his commanders. His message was brief.
“Dig in.”
The thin line of defense of democracy stretched some 140 miles-and it was stretched thin. Much too thin, Ben knew. But Striganov knew, too, that to punch one hole in the line of defenders would accomplish very little, for Ben would simply order his people to tighten up, swing ends around, and then trap the
Russian’s spearheaders in a box.
No, the Russian would be careful, very careful, for he had read every book Ben Raines had ever written-read them many times-and had teams of psychiatrists study the writings and give personality profiles on the man. Georgi had reached the conclusion that Ben Raines was a madman. A man who would fight to the death for a mere principle. That, to the Russian’s way of thinking, certainly and irrevocably constituted insanity.
And Ben Raines did not like to lose. Ever. He was-if his major characters were any indication of the author’s true personality, and Striganov knew that to be true in most cases-the type of man who would resort to any tactics to win, if it took him a lifetime to do so.
So Striganov concluded this battle was to be of the classic style, the classic-fought duel between armies, the two forces slugging it out, wearing the other down, with Interstate 70 the no man’s land.
But the Russian knew, too, that it was only a matter of time for the Rebels. He felt sure and confident in that, for he had Ben Raines’s Rebels out-manned. Yes, he knew the mission would be costly in human life and limb. But his perfect people were not being thrown into this battle; they were safely tucked away back in Minnesota, back at the warm and comfortable breeding farm.
Striganov smiled as he sat in the cushioned back seat in his armor-plated and bullet-proofed car in the center of the convoy heading south to Interstate 70 and Gen. Ben Raines and his foolish, idealistic Rebels. He was proud of what he and his people had accomplished in so short a time. They had sterilized several
thousand inferiors, had disposed of several hundred mental defectives, and were coming along splendidly with their breeding programs. But just look what he had to work with: those lovely people of his command, the cream of perfection. The women were so fair and blond and beautiful and intelligent; the men so tall and fair and blond and handsome and intelligent-both genders pale-eyed, of course.
All families of the perfect people had been researched carefully for flaws. And so far, the children born to the IPF over the past decade … perfect. Not one defective. All beautiful. Selective breeding would work, even that idiot Hitler had known that.
Striganov stirred restlessly in the back seat. He poured a glass of wine and dipped a cracker into black caviar, chewing slowly, savoring each bite.
But that fool Hitler had almost destroyed any hope of the revival of a Mactep Paca, a Meister Rasse. It was one thing to let a race die out naturally-more or less-but to destroy them with ovens and gas and starvation …
That was unthinkable. Barbaric. Savage. It served no useful medical purpose. For even defectives could be used in experiments. True, Hitler did once have a few experiments going, but his were not on the grand scale of the IPF.
Striganov really never thought that what he was doing was just as terrible and barbaric and horrible-perhaps even more so. The Russian actually believed-had convinced himself-he was doing humankind a service, not a disservice. What he was now putting into effect had been his lifelong dream, ever since as a child he had read and absorbed the rantings and
ravings of that only-sometimes-lucid little paper hanger.
Yes, the little man had had-at times-some good ideas and thoughts. But Striganov was so very glad the man had not succeeded. For his own theories and ideas were so very much better.
A master race, a fully workable caste system-that was the ultimate achievement. A world whose leaders and thinkers and breeders at the top level would all be fair-skinned and blue-eyed and handsome and intelligent.
How could anyone wish for more than that?
But suddenly a frown crossed the handsome features of the Russian. For there was only one flaw in an otherwise perfect master plan.
Ben Raines.
“Ben, do we send troops in to help Juan and Mark?” Lieutenant Macklin posed the question at a briefing before the battle. “They won’t have a prayer without some support from trained combat troops.”
“No.” Ben stood firm in one of the most agonized-over decisions he had ever had to make. “That is what Striganov is hoping I’ll do. Hoping I’ll further weaken this thin line we’re maintaining.”
“Do they know this, Ben?” Hector asked.
“Yes. The leaders do. And I’m sure most of the line troops sense it as well.”
“It could backfire, ol’ buddy,” Ike reminded Ben.
“I know it-only too well,” Ben admitted the weakness in the plan. “Unless we can defeat the IPF here, those on the west side might punch through and come
in under us with so much force we couldn’t close the pincers on them. I know that. It’s going to be a slugging match, people. We’ll be taking and losing and retaking the same ground-on both sides of the line-twenty times before we’re through. I think Striganov knows-just as I know-this is going to be the stand-up-and-slug-it-out type of battle. And he knows, as I know, we are going to both inflict and take heavy losses.”
But Ben was worried as he glanced at Ike, and Ike knew it. Knew what Ben was thinking: neither ex-Seal nor ex-Hell-Hound was an expert in this type of fighting. Both of them were trained-and highly so-in the art of guerrilla warfare: that dirty cut-slash-run type of unconventional warfare. The men had defended the original Tri-States in the West, and done it well but they had been forced out. Not because of lack of courage, simply because of superior manpower thrown at them by forces of the United States government, when Hilton Logan was president and his hate for Ben Raines had finally erupted into bloody warfare.*
And it was superior manpower they were again about to face.
Ben rose, signaling the meeting was over. He shook Ike’s hand, then Hector’s. “Showdown time, gang. Let’s win it and get the hell back home. We got crops to harvest in a few weeks.”
Ike and Hector and Mary smiled, nodded and walked away. Mary was part of Ben’s HQ’S company. “See Out Of The Ashes.
Ike went to the east, Hector to the west.
To war.
But only one of the two men would return from the final battle.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Gen. Georgi Striganov, in full battle dress, stood on the north side of Interstate 70. Ben Raines, in full battle gear, stood facing the Russian from the south side of the concrete strip. As if on silent command, the men walked across their two lanes of concrete to face each other, median strip separating them. Each man had requested this one final meeting before they began man’s most awesome means of settling disputes: war.