Out of the Ashes

Two days later he was speaking with Dr. Chase and his wife.

“Time to move?” the doctor asked.

Ben nodded his reply.

Chase smiled. “Give up your plans to write the history of the tragedy?”

“For the moment. Doctor, I know you have to be part of the Rebels, so get your people together and start moving toward Idaho.” He unfolded a map. “Right there. Strip everything bare as you go. Take it all. I want everything you people think we can use. It's going to rust and rot if we—or somebody—doesn't take it. So let's us use it to rebuild.”

“The finest medical facilities in the entire world.” Chase smiled. “A dream come true.”

“So let's do it.”

“That sounds like an order, Mr. Raines.”

“If that's the way you want to take it, Captain.”

He grinned. “Yes, sir, General.” He saluted.

Ben returned the smile. “That's the sloppiest salute I believe I've ever seen.”

The doctor shrugged. “Hell, I was in the medical corps—not one of you crazy gun soldiers.”

Americans will take only so much pushing before they begin shoving back. It takes a lot of shoving, but even mild-mannered people have a point one had best not step past. After three decades of wasteful spending, high taxes, a terrible no-win war, political upheaval, race riots, several near-depressions, and, finally, a world war unequaled in history, many of those Americans left alive ... got mad.

Now when Logan's agents moved into a community to shove the people out, they were met, in many instances, with violence.

Resistance groups were formed, hastily thrown together without much thought given as to the participants’ qualifications as warriors. They were crushed, brutally, by the regular military, government agents, and Logan's own private army. Many military men quit, deserted, rather than act as Logan's bully boys.

The newly reorganized Joint Chiefs of Staff met, discussed the matter, and the head of the JCs asked for a meeting with President Logan. Admiral Stevens pointed a finger at his commander in chief, and fired off a salvo.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. President. You are not going to use American military men as our equivalent to the Irish Black-and-Tans of years ago.”

“The what?” Logan asked. He had never been a student of history. The subject bored him.

Admiral Stevens sighed, kept his temper in check, and thought: you dumb son of a bitch. He said, “Bully boys.”

“Oh.”

“I'll agree, Mr. President, we have to keep this nation whole, but not by Americans knocking other Americans’ heads. We will keep order, as set forth by the Constitution, but as far as I'm concerned, martial law is hereby lifted and the Constitution is restored.”

“I will say when that happens, Admiral. Not you.”

“Mr. President, your plan is a good one—as far as it goes—if, and that is one hell of a big if, the American people want to go along with it. Obviously, a lot of them do not. So let them alone. We're all Americans; we've all shared the same horrible experience and somehow managed to survive. My people—the military—don't have the men or the time or the inclination to run around this wrecked country forcing people out of their homes. And they won't be a part of it. I've got ships with no one to captain or crew them; electronic equipment with no men to man it; bases that are virtually empty—same with all branches. And there is just a whole hell of a lot of bases that have been blown up, equipment and planes destroyed. And that is since the hostilities ceased.”

“Those damned Rebels!”

The admiral shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. Maybe they figure if you can form an army of mercenaries, they can, too.”

"I happen to be the president of these United States, Admiral. I would like to have a group of fighting men who are loyal to me, something I sense you are not.”

The admiral stiffened at the slight toward his allegiance. “Sir, I am loyal to this country—not toward any one man, but this nation as a whole. The military put your ass in that chair, we can damned well take it out.”

Logan smiled. “No ... I don't believe you've got the manpower to do that, Stevens.”

“Is that the way the game is played, Logan?”

Logan giggled. “My ball, my bat—my rules.”

The admiral nodded stiffly. “I get your point ... sir.”

“Dandy. You may be excused now.”

After the admiral had walked out of the room, his back ramrod stiff, slamming the door on his way out, Logan picked up the phone.

“Yes, sir,” an aide said.

“Get me that mercenary, Parr, down in Georgia.”

Ben pulled into his driveway at five o'clock in the afternoon. Nothing had changed except the lawn had flowers where none had been before. There was a station wagon parked beside the house.

Since the outskirts of Shreveport, Ben had seen hundreds of blacks. No one had bothered him; they had all been friendly, waving to him and chatting with him when he stopped.

But the vague and somewhat amusing—to him—thought was: he knew how Dr. Livingstone must have felt.

Well, Ben thought, getting out of the truck. There is a lot of land to be had. I'm not going to spill any blood for an acre in Louisiana.