Out of the Ashes

Reports of torture and rape began filtering out and into the Tri-states. In some instances, Indians who had surrendered were lined up and used for target practice. Girls as young as ten and eleven were raped; boys were sexually mutilated, left to bleed to death.

“And we're next,” Salina said.

She was heavy with child.

Ben ordered every resident into service. He told them to put on their gear and prepare to fight, or to pack up and try to surrender at the borders. No one left. The Tri-states was blacked out during the night.

Thousands of men, women, and teen-agers pulled on field gear, took up arms, and waited for war.

“I told you the shit was gonna hit the fan.” Ike smiled at Ben.

The Indians fought bravely and well with what they had, but they didn't have a chance—not against long-range artillery and planes and Cobra gunships and Puffs and paratroopers and marines—those who chose to fight that is, and quite a few did not.

The government, at Jeb Fargo's proddings, began its policy of extermination, with the help of many Indian-hating whites in the areas.

There was no sense in it. There was ample land for all, and the land claimed by the Indians was not that large. But governments rule by fear, and they are always right. Governments must always live under that premise.

The fighting was bloody and savage and senseless. The only good coming out of it was the death of Jeb Fargo. At the end, ragged and dirty and sick and hated, the American Indians fought what most believed was their last fight for their land. Their land. Most were hunted down and exterminated. The poor pitiful few that remained were herded onto reservations and left.

The government had won again—almost.

For the government did not know that a company of regulars from the Tri-states was with the Indians. When the officer in charge of that detachment saw which way the battle was going, he pulled his men and more than a thousand Indians—from various tribes—out and into Oregon. There, they waited for orders from General Raines.

When the last bastion of Indian defense fell, Ben and his people knew they were next; their time had come.

The strip had been turned into an area of hell: mines, punji stakes, barbed wire, booby-traps. Foot soldiers could and would move through it, but it would be at a fearful price—while the nation's leaders sat back in Richmond, dining in comfortable surroundings and sipping wine from crystal goblets.

It always comes down to the soldiers.

Gen. Ben Raines called for a meeting with civilian and military leaders. “We're next,” he told his people. In his hand he held a communiqué that had been hand-delivered to the eastern border by government messenger. “Congress has voted to enter into war with us if we do not surrender within twenty-four hours. They say because we have formed an illegal state, and aided the Indians in their fight against the central government, we are traitors and must be treated as any other power attempting to subvert or bring down the democratic government of America.

“If any of you want to pack it in, I sure won't blame you. I know we don't have a chance in here, and we are too many to run. We'll hold out for several weeks—six max. Then we've had it.”

No one left or spoke.

“All right, here it is. We still have some holes the troops don't know about. Most of the women with small children didn't want to leave, but they had to. Some of them have made it out.” He shuffled his booted feet. “Most of them didn't. Start the others out immediately, with guides and supplies. If any of us get out of here, we'll regroup in Canadian sector five.

“Get your people into position and booby-trap everything you leave behind. Everything. Poison the water. Turn everything into a lethal weapon—a deathtrap. I want these sons of bitches to remember these next few weeks. You all know the drill. As soon as government troops touch the soil of the Tri-states, we move into guerrilla tactics. No prisoners.” He turned to Voltan. “Bridges wired to go?”

“Yes, sir. We'll set timers as soon as our people cross them.”

“I don't want a bridge left standing in the Tri-states. Not one.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Dr. Chase: “How about the people in the hospitals?”

“Some of them just cannot be moved and they refuse to surrender. They've asked that weapons be left by their beds. I have done so. We're painting red crosses on the roofs of the hospitals. Maybe they won't be bombed.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Pal said.

“I'm not.”

“Cecil, did the zero squads make it out?”

“Yes, sir. They are all awaiting the signal to go.”

“All right, people.” Ben shook hands with his friends. “Good luck and let's go.”

EIGHT

Keep it; it tells all our history over,

From the birth of the dream to its last;

Modest and born of the Angel of Hope,

Like our hope of success it has passed.

—Maj. Samuel Alroy Jones