For they all worshipped Ben Raines.
They had first seen and then helped erect shrines to Ben Raines, wherever they happened to wander throughout the ravaged land.
Like their counterparts to the west, the eastern-based young people also worshipped the legend called Ben Raines. None had ever seen the man in person, but most carried small pictures of him, carefully sealed and protected in plastic.
And like their counterparts to the west, each young person had his own personal horror story of sexual abuse and perversion and torture and hunger and shame and loneliness.
A young girl who at age eight had been raped repeatedly then tossed aside, left to die in a ditch by the side of the road, but had been found by other young people and cared for.
A young boy of ten who had been used as a girl by older men.
A young black who had been tortured and then left for dead … simply because of the color of his skin.
An Indian boy who had been stripped naked and sexually abused, then beaten and left for dead.
An Oriental who was found hanging naked by his ankles from a tree limb, almost dead from being whipped, nursed back to health by the caring young.
The stories were almost the same in their horror.
But now the young people-a modern-day Orphans’ Brigade, east and west-were organized, armed, and ready and willing and able to fight. They had all been bloodied, now they were ready to spill
someone else’s blood … for the right to live free.
They waited. Waited for the man-god they worshipped.
Ben Raines.
In the extreme northern regions of Michigan, in the deep timber, more than eight hundred men and women had gathered. They had done so quietly, attracting no attention to their congregation. The men and women were all over fifty, many of them in their seventies, some in their eighties.
They had gathered together for protection, coming to this area when word spread through the grapevine of the coming together of the elderly.
The men were all armed, and well-armed. Almost all were veterans of the early days of Vietnam. Some from the Korean War, a few from the Second World War. They were ex-marines, ex-Green Berets, ex-navy, ex-air force and ex-AF Commandoes. They were ex-Seal’s, ex-Rangers, ex-Letterrp, ex-grunt. All had killed, many with wire and knife and bare hands.
“Has President Raines got a chance?” a man asked.
“Slim to none,” was the reply. It came as no surprise to any of the men.
“I don’t feel right sitting up here in safety while Raines and his people take it on the chin for us,” came another opinion.
“Who said we were going to do anything like that?” Gen. Art Tanner (ret.) spoke from the fringe of the gathering. “Let’s gather at the lodge and talk this out.”
The men gathered in the huge meeting room of the
once-famous ski lodge. They waited in silence as Tanner mounted the stage and spoke through a bull-horn.
“All right, boys,” Tanner said with a grin, the thought of once more seeing action making his blood race hotly through his veins. “You all know why we came here. Let’s get down to it and map out some hard reality and plan our strategy. Let’s take it from the top. We’re getting old, boys. Hell, we are old. We’re not young bucks anymore, all full of piss and vinegar and a constant hard-on. We’ve all got to face up to the fact that our legs and lungs aren’t what they used to be. Anyone here want to take off on a twenty-mile forced march with full pack and combat gear to prove me wrong?”
No one did, but it galled the men to have to admit they weren’t the men they used to be. No one had to say a word; it was very evident on every face in the room.
was “K,” General Tanner said. “Now we know where we stand physically. But on the plus side, we know things the young bucks don’t know. We know planning and we know patience. We know the weapons we carry and we are all well aware of our personal capabilities in the field-what we can and can’t do. That is something that comes only with age.
was ‘K. There are four hundred and fifty of us old coots. Well divide up into three short companies of one hundred and twenty-five each. Support and HQ will number fifty. The other twenty-five will act as LETTERRP’S, scouts and forward observers. Those will be the youngest of us.” He laughed and the meeting room shook with male laughter. “The youngest here being fifty-three, I believe. Mere child.”
Again the room rocked with laughter.
General Tanner waited for the laughter to subside and finally held up his hand. was ‘K. Now then, how many here have pacemakers?”
A dozen hands went up, some of them reluctantly.
was ‘Knowledge,” Tanner said. “You people will be part of HQ’S company. Now then, how many here have bad backs, arthritis severe enough to limit walking or running, or any other debilitating illness that would keep you out of the field?”
Another dozen hands went up, some of them gnarled and twisted from arthritis.
“You’ll join HQ’S company,” Tanner told them as his eyes swept the room. He found a man sitting quietly and unobtrusively, as if attempting to avoid notice. “Now, goddamn it, Larry!” Tanner shouted. General Tanner was stone deaf in one ear and hard of hearing in the other. His normal tone while speaking was that of a top sergeant addressing troops. In a hurricane. “You only have one leg. You got the other one shot off in Laos back in sixty-two. What the hell good do you think you’d be in the field?”
“I’ll be as good as any other man,” the veteran said. “I can still do the bop.” He stepped out into the aisle and did just that, ending the dance with a little soft-shoe routine.
The men in the room applauded.
“All that is very commendable, Larry,” Tanner said. “But what if you break that wooden leg?”
“I’ll use my dick!” Larry retorted. “It’s long enough.”
The men exploded with laughter.
“Yes, Larry,” General Tanner said dryly. “That
would be one solution to the problem, providing a man your age could still get it up!”
It was a full two minutes before the laughter died away.
“You got me there, General,” Larry shouted, a grin on his red face. “I’ll join your HQ’S company and shut my mouth.”
“Fine. Step over there with the others.” His eyes found another man. “Jesus Christ, General Walker!” he roared. “You were with Merrill’s Marauders in Burma during World War II. You’re eighty-five if you’re a day.”
“You give me a Springfield, by God,” the old man stood up erect, white-maned head held proudly, “and I’ll show you kids I can still cut the mustard.”
“Fine, General. That’s good. I’m sure you can, too. But I just don’t know where I could locate a Springfield.”
“Well, why the hell not!” the old general roared. He was as hard of hearing as General Tanner.
“Because the army quit using the goddamned things about sixty fucking years ago!” Tanner returned the verbal sound and fury.
“Why the hell did they do that!” Walker roared. “Oh-yeah. I remember. No matter. That was still the best weapon the army ever had.”
“General Walker,” General Tanner said patiently. “I would be proud and honored to have you join my HQ’S company. Your knowledge of tactics is unsurpassed, and your-was
“Boy,” Walker cut off the sixty-five-year-old retired general. “If you get any sweeter, you’re going to give the whole bunch of us diabetes.”