Ashes - Fire In The Ashes Part 10

"...you're welcome back here in Sevierville just anytime at all. If we have law problems with anyone, we'll be callin' for you to come in and handle it."

"Yes, sir. I'd be right proud to do that for y'all. Just anytime at all. You call HQ-I'll sure roll on it."

"Bye, Burt."

Trooper Burt put his patrol car in gear and rolled out of Sevierville. Smartly, as the British would say.

Sabra Olivier sat in her office and watched the six o'clock news; watched it with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The censored report was bland stuff, stories that would not have made it prior to Hartline's ... visit.

She shuddered at the memory-or memories, she corrected herself.

For Hartline had been back several times, to, as he put it, "Get him another taste of successful p.u.s.s.y."

Sabra felt like throwing up on the floor.

She got up and paced the floor.

The news was so innocuous she changed channels; but that move produced nothing better. Hartline and his men had been to all network offices. She looked at the anchorwoman on ABC and wondered if Hartline had forced his way with her, too. Sabra concluded the mercenary probably had. But, she smiled cattily, with that one's reputation, Hartline probably hadn't had to do much forcing.

She sat down in her chair and propped both elbows on her desk, chin in her hands. How did we get to this point? she pondered. Good Lord, were we all so blind to the truth we failed to see Logan was just a front for Lowry?

I guess so, she sighed.

We were so busy protecting our own precious right to report the news-as we saw it, with our own little twists and subtle innuendoes-we failed to notice what was really happening around us; failed to pick up on the real mood of the people.

The majority, she admitted.

The taxpayers, she once more sighed.

"Guardians of freedom," she muttered. "But whose freedom? Ours, or the people?"

She sat up straight in the chair as an idea came to her.

A dangerous idea, for sure, but one way-if she could pull it off-to nail Hartline's c.o.c.k to the wall.

With him attached. Hanging about a foot from the floor.

She savored that mental sight for a few moments, then reached for the phone. She pulled her hand back.

Surely Hartline would have it all bugged. Well, she'd just have to be sure of what she said.

"Get me Roanna," she told her secretary.

She intercepted the reporter outside her office and took her by the arm, leading her to the restroom. As she had seen in countless movies and TV shows, Sabra turned on the water in the sink to cover any noise.

"You know all about Hartline," she said. "I've never pulled any punches with any of you. But what do youreally think of him?"

"I'd like to cut the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's c.o.c.k off and stuff it down his throat," the reporter said without a second's hesitation.

Sabra was mildly shocked. She had never heard Roanna be so crude. "He got to you?"

The brunette's smile was grim. "Oh, yes-from behind. Said he didn't like the stories I'd done on mercenaries; wanted to give me something I'd remember." She grimaced. "I remember all right. I walked funny for three days."

"How many other women?"

"Sabra, it's not just the women; some of his men are twisted all out of shape. I don't know what you're planning, but be careful, you're dealing with a maniac in Hartline. He's a master at torture. He's got most of the people in the networks frightened out of their wits, men and women. All of us wondering how it got this far out of hand so quickly."

"I was wondering the same thing just a few minutes ago," Sabra admitted. "Look, I've got to get someone in Ben Raines's camp, and I've got you in mind. I think I can convince Hartline it's for the best.

You do a story on Raines, I'll put together one on Hartline. I'll make him look like the coming of Christ.

We'll do little three-minute segments each week, but they'll be coded with messages for Raines."

"Sabra..."

"No! It's something I believe we've got to do. I'll accept some responsibility for what's happening-what has happened to this nation; it's partly our fault. Hartline ... visits me twice a week. Lately I've been accepting his visits as something I have no control over. He thinks I'm enjoying them. He's an egomaniac; I can play on that. Really build him up. It's amazing what a man will say when he's in bed with a woman.

We'll work out some sort of code to let Raines know what is happening, or what is about to happen. Are you game?"

"You know what will happen to both of us if Hartline discovers what we're doing?"

"Yes."

"All right," Roanna said. "Let's do it."

The lights of the small airstrip winked at the Kansas ag-pilot. Married less than a year, Jim Slater was anxious to get back to earth and to his wife. Suddenly, a Piper Club came up fast on his right, flying without lights, startling him. His 'phones crackled a message that chilled him, turning his guts to ice.

"Watch yourself, Jim. FBI agents on the ground waiting for you. Someone spilled the beans about your running guns for the Rebels. They busted into your house and took Jeanne about noon. They raped her, man. She tried to run away and they shot her. She's dead. I'm sorry, Jim."

The Cub was gone into the night before Jim could acknowledge the message.

Jim circled the small strip before landing. When his wheels touched down, he quickly taxied to the far end of the strip, cut his engine, and jumped out, running into a hangar, slipping through the darkness. He ran to his locker and fumbled inside until he found the hidden panel. Far down the field he could see the bobbing lights of flashlights moving toward him, behind the lights, running figures in the still-warm night.

Cursing under his breath at his clumsiness, and angry because of his tears, Jim hurriedly pulled out a Browning Buck Gun and began shoving magnum loads into the 12 gauge. He slung an ammo belt around his waist and moved to the open window, staying low. Chambering one sh.e.l.l, he fed another into the magazine and waited. The agents stopped some twenty-five feet from the hangar and began talking. Jim listened to the conversations before taking any action. He wanted to be sure he was killing the right men.

"The son of a b.i.t.c.h is gone, I tell you. I watched him run over there, into that field."

"Too bad about that wife of his."

"Yeah, I could have stood some more of that p.u.s.s.y. Man, that was tight."

Jim emptied the Buck Special into the dark shapes, watching one man's head fly apart as the slugs ripped and tore their explosive path. He reloaded and emptied the Buck Gun once more into the still forms on the dewy gra.s.s.

At twenty-five feet, magnum-pushed slugs are brutal.

Moving to the bodies, sprawling grotesquely in sudden death, Jim picked through the gore and gathered all the weapons, ammo, IDs, and money. At the agents' cars, he opened the trunks and found high-powered rifles, an M-16, and several riot guns. He took them all, stashing them in his personal plane. He heard footsteps behind him and spun, ready to kill again.

It was Paul Green, a mechanic at the field.

The two men stood for a moment, looking at each other.

"You played h.e.l.l, Jim," Paul finally said. "I heard about Jeanne-I'm sorry." He looked at the lumps on the gra.s.s, gathering dew. "What now, buddy?"

The two men had gone through school together. Jim leveled with him. "I head for Tennessee, to the Park. Might as well tell you, I've been part of the Rebels since '97."

Paul smiled in the darkness. "h.e.l.l, Jim, everyone in town knew that. You want some company?"

Jim pointed to his private, twin-engined plane. "Let's get 'er ga.s.sed up and get gone. I got no reason to go home, now."

Eight.

In the southwest part of the nation, Colonel Hector Ramos's Rebels began their search of deserted military bases, looking for weapons. In some bases, the military can be devious in hiding the main armament room, and it takes an ex-military man to find them. Hector knew right where to look.

"Hola!" Rosita Murphy said, stepping down into the coolness of the long corridor, gazing at the long rows of M-16s, M-60 machine guns, and other infantry weapons.

Hector grinned at the small woman. "Nice to know the Irish in you can still be overriden by your mother's tongue."

She returned his grin. "My mother made sure I could speak both languages, Colonel. I gather these," she waved at the rows of arms, "go to Tennessee?"

"You gather correctly." He looked at the new member in his command. The little green-eyed, Spanish-Irish lady was quite a delightful eyeful. "Ever met General Raines, Rosita?"

"No, sir. But I'm told he is quite a man?"

"He is that, little one.Mucho hombre ."

"He married?"

Hector's grin widened and his dark eyes sparkled. "No."

She glanced up at him. "Why are you grinning at me, Colonel?"

He shrugged. "No importa,Rosita."

"Umm," she replied, as she watched her commanding officer direct the removal of the weapons, most of them still encased in cosmoline, gleaming in grease under the beams of light from heavy lanterns now being placed in the corridor.

Unknowingly, she half turned toward the east, toward Tennessee.

General Bill Hazen, once the CG of the 82nd Airborne, another ranking officer who had seen the senselessness of attacking Tri-States and ordered his men out, stood in the rubble of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, directing the search for weapons, just as he had done at Fort Riley and Schilling AFB.

He had encountered very little resistance. And what he had met had been put down brutally by his men, many of whom were paratroopers who had left Tri-States' battlegrounds with the Old Man, not liking the idea of American fighting American.

When the old base had been searched, General Hazen pointed the truck convoy east, toward Tennessee.

In the east, General Krigel was having a fine old time in his searches for weapons. Krigel had been the first ranking officer to refuse to fight in Tri-States.

The commander of the federal forces, Major General Paul Como, stood listening to Brigadier General Krigel, growing angrier by the second.

"The bridges around the area been cleared?" Como asked. He knew they had not.

Krigel cleared his throat. "No, sir. The Navy SEALs have refused to go in. They say they won't fight against fellow Americans. Some of the people in Tri-States were SEALs."

"I don't give a G.o.dd.a.m.n what theywere! I gave orders for the SEALs to clear those bridges. I ought to have those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds arrested."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I would sure hate to be the person who tried that."

Como ignored that, fighting to keep his anger under control. He glanced at his watch. "All right, then-the h.e.l.l with the SEALs. Get the Airborne dropped. It's past time. What's the hangup?"

"The drop zones have not been laid out."

"What!"

"Sir, the Pathfinders went in last night, but they all deserted and joined the Rebels. To a man."

"What!"Como roared.

"They refused to lay out the DZs. Sir, they said they won't fight fellow Americans, and anyone who would is a traitor."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit!" Como yelled. He pointed a finger at Krigel. "You get the Airborne up and dropped. Start and push-right now. You get those f.u.c.king Rangers spearheading."

Krigel shifted his jump-booted feet. The moment he had been dreading. "We ... have a problem, sir.

Quite a number of the residents of the Tri-States ... were ... ah-"

"Paratroopers, Rangers, Marines, Air Force personnel." The CG finished it for him. "Wonderful. How many are not going to follow my orders?"

Krigel gave it to him flatly. "About fifty percent of the Airborne have refused to go in. No Rangers, no Green Berets, no SEALs. About thirty percent of the Marines and regular infantry refuse to go in. They said, they'd storm the gates of h.e.l.l for you, with only a mouthful of spit to fight with, but they say these people are Americans, and they haven't done anything wrong. They are not criminals."

The news came as no surprise to General Como. He had discussed this operation with General Russell, during the planning stages, and Como had almost resigned and retired. But General Russell had talked him out of it. Como was not happy with it, but he was a professional soldier, and he had his orders.

Krigel said, "General, this is a civilian problem. It's not ours. Those people in there are Americans. They just want to be left alone. They are not in collusion with any foreign power, and they are not attempting to overthrow the government. Paul,"-he put his hand on his friend's shoulder-"I still get sick at my stomach thinking about those Indians. Granted, we didn't do those things, but we were in command of the men who did-some of them. It was wrong, and we should have been men enough to have those responsible for those ... acts shot!"

General Como felt his guts churn; his breakfast lay heavy and undigested. He knew well what his friend was going through; and Krigel was his friend. Cla.s.smates at the Point. But an order was an order.