Out of the Ashes

ONE

The death of Carl Raines probably did more to ensure the immediate survival of the three states than any other single act. It shocked Logan when the news finally reached him, and Logan, like most people who heard the story, reasoned that if a man believed so strongly in an idea he would kill his brother… that man had best be left alone. And for almost five years, the Tri-states, as they were referred to, were left alone.

The world, and especially America, began to take shape and resume order, law, and some stability. In America, with the drafting of young men now in its fourth year, and the replacing of ranking officers with men who were loyal to Logan, the military was perhaps the strongest in the world. Acting under orders from Logan, the military, systematically, state by state, began crushing those people who had established their own forms of government. The nation was once more whole—almost—whether the people involved wanted it, or not.

East of the Mississippi River, the nation was as one—no pockets of resistance left. And there was no longer any area known as New Africa. Cecil, knowing there was no way he could win against division after division of military might, quietly pulled down the flag of New Africa and told his people the dream was dead.

Most of the blacks chose to remain where they were, farming the land, working the reopened factories. But the experience had been bitter for Cecil. Cecil and Lila, Pal and Valerie, and about a hundred more blacks left the South and headed west, to the Tri-states. Ben immediately named Cecil as his lieutenant governor and Pal the secretary of state.

“Won’t that irritate a large number of people out here?” Cecil asked. “Naming blacks to high positions?”

Ben had smiled. “You don’t know the caliber of people living in the Tri-states.”

“You’ve been practicing selective population?” Pal asked.

“Yes,” Ben answered. “Amazing how much trouble you can avoid by doing that.”

“And amazing how illegal it is.” Cecil’s reply was dry.

“Maybe out there.” Ben jerked his thumb, indicating the area outside Tri-states. “But not in here.”

“Kasim has decided on guerrilla warfare,” Pal said. “He’s got several thousand men and women behind him, and there are lots more who quietly support what he’s about to do. It’s going to be bloody, Ben, for there is a lot of hate in that man.”

“It’s going to be bloody here, too,” Ben said. “Someday.”

Of the hundreds of towns and cities that once stood in the Tri-states, many were destroyed, having first been picked over; whatever could be used was labeled and stored. The area was returned to land. The residents, if any, were moved to newer, nicer homes and apartments and told to maintain them. There would be no slums in the Tri-states.

The people were pulled together for many reasons: to conserve energy, to stabilize government, for easier care, and to afford more land for the production of crops, as well as to afford better protection for the people in health care, police, fire, and social services.

The elderly, for the first time in their lives, were looked after with care and concern and respect. They were not grouped together and forgotten or ignored. Careful planning went into the population centers. Young, middle-aged, and elderly were carefully grouped together in housing and apartments. Those elderly who wanted to work, and could work, were encouraged to do so. They could work as long as they wished, or until they tired, and then could go home. The knowledge of older citizens is valuable and vast, and Ben knew it. Older citizens can teach so many things—if only the younger people would listen. In the Tri-states, they listened.

In order for this to work, the pace had to be slowed, the grind eased, the honor system restored; the work ethic, in both labor and management, renewed. It was.

Here, for the first time in decades, there was no welfare, no ADC, no WIC, no food stamps, no unemployment; but what there was was jobs for all, and all adults worked. Everyone. Those who would not, because they felt the job offered them was beneath their dignity, or because of laziness, apathy, and/or indifference, were escorted to the nearest border and booted out. They were told not to come back. If children were involved, they were taken from the people and immediately adopted.

It was harsh treatment, and by American standards, totally unconstitutional. But if Ben worried about the legality of it, the worry was not evident in his day-to-day living.

Ben took particular care in the defense of the Tri-states. Heavy artillery was ready to roar; defensive and offensive were tactics worked down to a fine state of readiness. Bunkers and hidden positions were stocked and checked and maintained. Roads and bridges could be wired to detonate, if and when it became necessary, in only a few hours. Radar hummed twenty-four hours a day. Radio-controlled antipersonnel mines were ready to be placed. Tanks were in abundance, and their crews were highly trained. The armed forces of the Tri-states ranked among the best in the world, their training a combination of Special Forces, Ranger, SEAL, and gutter-fighting. Every resident of the Tri-states, male and female, between the ages of sixteen and sixty was a member of the armed forces. They met twice a month, after their initial thirty-week basic training, and were on active duty one month each year. And the training was a no-holds-barred type. Any interference with the day-to-day activities of the Tri-states would be met with brutal and savage retaliation and Hilton Logan knew it. Logan hated Ben Raines, but that hatred was tempered with fear.

“It would cost us much more than it’s worth to take the Tri-states,” the Joint Chiefs told Logan. “Raines has the equivalent of seven divisions—all combat-ready and prepared to fight to the death. His people are better trained than ours. Leave Raines alone, Mr. President. For if we didn’t kill them all, every man, woman, and child, they’d group and fight as guerrillas, and we’d have another civil war on our hands. The only way we could possibly defeat Tri-states at this time is with the use of nuclear weapons, and that is totally out of the question. Another two to three years… maybe. But not now. Not without it costing us dearly.”

Tri-states was left alone.

The government in Richmond, the police, and federal agents watched all that was going on in Tri-states, watched it with awe and consternation, and to some degree, envy. Ben had gathered his people, of all backgrounds, all races, and molded them into a highly productive society, virtually free of prejudice, and totally devoid of crime. And what irritated Logan the most, was that Ben had the best people; the best doctors, the best scientists, the best computer programmers, the best farmers, financial planners, and so on down the line. And Ben’s society was working. That irritated Logan constantly.

The central government knew the people of the Tri-states had aligned themselves with the Indians of the West, working closely with them, and if they moved against Ben and his people, dozens of Indian tribes would join with Ben in the fight, and the central government of Richmond just wasn’t strong enough to fight that—not yet.

In the West, what the remaining tribes of Indians thought they needed in the way of supplies and equipment, they seized, just as Ben and his people had done. And now, with the help of personnel from the Tri-states, the Indian had what he had lacked for years: organization.

The Indians held meetings with other tribes to decide what first to do; and they worked together, putting aside centuries-old hatreds. Where there had once been a scarcity of water, it now moved freely. With the help of “borrowed” earth-moving equipment from deserted construction sites, and engineers from the Tri-states, the flow of water helped irrigate the crops and cool the thirst of a hundred and fifty years of wasted promises, broken treaties, and millions of words from Washington—all lies.

The Indians armed themselves with modern weapons, stockpiled millions of rounds of ammunition, canned goods, blankets, vehicles, spare parts, and all the other items they might need for war—when the white man came to reclaim land that was not his to begin with.

The Indians built new homes, with modern plumbing and running water. They laid down hundreds of miles of water pipe. They diverted the flow of electricity into their own communities and built clean, new, modern schools and hospitals. Many reservations no longer resembled a nightmare from a hobo jungle. For now the Indians had had restored what the white man had taken from them: pride. Now they could live as decent, productive human beings—the only true Americans, really. They could have done all this decades back, had they been afforded the means, instead of being treated like animals.

Teams of doctors, engineers, medics, teachers, and construction workers from the Tri-states worked with the tribes and became friends, welcoming each other’s advice, each promising, if possible, to help the other if and when things began to turn sour and raunchy, as they both knew they would, in time. Time—a very precious commodity.

No, the government in Richmond did not have the manpower just yet to stop the Indians or the Rebels in the Tri-states. Tri-states and the Indians would have to wait.

TWO

“I’m tired of waiting,” Hilton Logan told VP Addison. “I know there is no easy answer, but we simply can’t allow much more of this to continue. If those two groups ever get a really firm toehold—and our intelligence people say they are talking of a written alliance—it’ll be the devil getting them back into the Union. Maybe impossible.”

“The Union is still here, Hilton,” Aston replied, listening more to the drumming of the rain on the window than to the president. The VP often had a full-time job just trying to soothe the ruffled feathers of President Logan. Didn’t the man know his wife—the first lady—was screwing half the men in Richmond? Her secret service detachment spent more time covering her tracks than protecting her life. Aston sighed. “We have to walk lightly, Hilton; don’t want to kick off a civil war.”

“I don’t put much faith in the military’s warnings.” The president looked at his friend. “They always overreact. Aston, I can’t believe you think we should do nothing. Just let the Rebels and the Indians continue without federal guidance?”

The VP laughed at that. “I haven’t heard them asking for our help—have you?”

The president shook his head, refusing to reply. Instead, he let himself warm to his inner hatred of Ben Raines. He despised the man; refusing to admit even to himself that it was not just hatred, it was jealousy.

Aston rose from his chair and poured the coffee. “My God, Hilton… our guidance got us where we now are. Our guidance cost the U.S. many of our friends overseas. Our guidance bled the middle class dry with taxes. It was our constant interference in the private lives of citizens that attributed greatly to the downfall of this nation. Guidance, Hilton? Goddamn!”

“I don’t happen to agree with you, Aston. People need a central point from which to seek advice and guidance.” He thumped a fist on his desk. “Aston, we’ve got to break the backs of the Rebels. Maybe cordon them off, fence them in; then take the Indians out first. Yes,” he mused. “Look, let’s face facts. They’ve stolen three states, and they have no intention of returning them. Because of their resistance, many others in this nation have refused to hand over their guns, and many others are arming themselves with illegal weapons. We’ve got the makings of a damned gunpowder society in this country. When will people learn that when government passes laws, those laws are to be obeyed? It’s for their own good! No, Aston, if we can hammer the Rebels into submission—for the good of the entire country—the rest of the nation will fall into line as well.”

“Oh, yes,” Aston replied, sarcasm thick in his voice. “That’s very good. The world is still stumbling about, attempting to recover from a germ and nuclear war, and you want to start another war. For the good of the country, of course. Hilton, leave the people of the Tri-states alone.”

Hilton Logan rubbed his temples; his headache had returned. It always did whenever he discussed Ben Raines. He thought: God, how I hate that bastard. Even Rev. Falcreek hates him. And he loves everybody… even Jane Fonda, so he says.

“Aston,” he said wearily, “they’ve hanged and shot people out there in… Tri-states.” He spat the words from his mouth. “Capital punishment is the law of the land.” It wasn’t, and he knew it. “They’ve shut down the roads—or blown them up—turning the place into a damned fortress. Colonel Parr won’t even go near the place; says Ben Raines is crazy in combat. A damned ex-mercenary is governor of three states. That is incredible. Aston, they refuse to allow my agents to even come into the place and look around. They threw an FCC inspector out—literally. Some nitwit named Cossman said if he came back he’d tar and feather him. Everybody carries a gun out there. My God, Aston—even the ladies carry guns. Those nuts are teaching war in the public school system. The entire country is an army! They—”

“…Have no crime,” Aston interrupted. “And zero unemployment. And fine medical care—for everybody—on an equal basis. And good schools, and the best race relations anywhere in the world. And do you know how they’ve accomplished all that in such a short time?”

“You’re damned right, I do, Aston! By throwing out any person they consider an undesirable.”

“That’s only part of it, Hilton, and you know it. No—they’ve done it in part by education and partly because they’ve formed a government that is truly of and by the people. It might behoove us to take lessons from Ben Raines.”

“Hell, no! Never!”

Aston tapped a thick letter on the president’s desk. “Here it is, Hilton. You read it. Ben Raines has made the first peace overture. He says they will pay a fair share of taxes to the government of the United States, to be decided upon; vote, live under the American flag, and fight for it, if need be. But they run their own schools, they have their own laws, their own way of doing things. Hilton, there doesn’t have to be any more bloodshed. We could have a powerful ally in Ben Raines’ Tri-states.”

“Spitting in the face of the Constitution?”

Aston smiled grimly. “We did—years ago. What gave us the right and not them?”

“I don’t agree with you about that, and you know it.” The president swiveled in his chair to watch the rain splatter on the window. Damned demonstrators were still out there, protesting something or the other. He wished they’d all fall down and die from pneumonia. “The damned Indians are rebelling, too. Just taking things that don’t belong to them.”

“Just like our ancestors did to them, a couple of hundred years ago.”

“And it’s all Ben Raines’s fault,” Hilton said. “Everything is his fault. He… if he were only dead!”

And I’ve heard the same said about you, Aston thought. “Hilton, it’s a brand-new world out there, and we’re going to have to adapt to it. These are changing times, so let’s change with them.”

“I am the president of the United States. I give the orders. End of discussion.”

“I don’t like the sound of that! Hilton, something else: it’s been almost five years since the military put us in office. Tell me; when will proper elections be held?”

Hilton Logan swiveled in his chair, glared at his VP, then turned to once more gaze at the rain. “When I say so.”

Logan was right to a degree about the laws in the Tri-states. People were hanged and shot. More than a hundred the first years; fifty-odd the second year; ten the next year; and none since then. It is a myth to say that crime cannot be controlled, and the government of the Tri-states proved that by simply stating they would not tolerate it, and backing up their words with hard, swift justice. But capital punishment was not the law of the land. They had prisons, and they were as prisons should be: not very pleasant places to be, but with adequate rehabilitation facilities, the violent housed far from the nonviolent, and weekly visits from ladies so inclined toward that type of employment—which was legal in the Tri-states… and regulated… and taxed.

No one had to steal; there were jobs for anyone who wanted to work, but everyone who lived in the Tri-states and was able to work… worked.

During the first year in the Tri-states, there were marriages among the Rebels, as they began the job of settling in. Steven Miller and Linda Jennings; Al Holloway and Anne Flood; Ben and Salina.

“Yes, suh.” Ike grinned. “Once that ol’ boy got himself a taste of brown sugar, just couldn’t stand it.”

Megan shook her head and tried not to smile. “Ike—you’re impossible!”

Bridge Oliver married a lady from Texas—Abby. Pal Elliot married Valerie. Sam Pyron married a girl from south Louisiana who kept the West Virginia mountain boy in a flat lope every waking hour.

Nora Rodelo married Maj. Clint Voltan and took in five homeless kids to raise.

Ken Amato became news director for the Tri-states’ broadcast system.

Nora, along with Steven and Linda, took over the task of rebuilding the Tri-states’ school system. At the end of three years, they had perhaps the finest school system operating anywhere in the world.

The school system, free of politics and top-heavy bureaucracy, concentrated on the needs of the children’s minds, stressing hard discipline along with the basic educational needs of the child.

Steven Miller, believing that the child not only needs, but wants fair discipline, and that a child’s mind is chaotic, at best, ran a tough but excellent school system. His teachers taught, or attempted to teach, how to make a living once the young person left school. They taught music (fine music), literature, and the three R’s—beginning at an early age. And they taught courses that could not be offered in any other public school in America: respect and fairness toward one’s fellow man… to a degree. They were taught that to work is the honorable path to take. And they openly discussed bigotry, the kids learning that only people with closed minds practiced it.

In the Tri-states, public schools operated ten months a year. Every student over the age of fifteen was given five hours of weapons training each week, forty weeks a year, and studied the fundamentals of guerrilla warfare. Military service was mandatory.

Physical education was rigid in the schools, from organized sports to PE. Everyone took part, including the teachers still young enough to take rough physical training. But it was done with an equality that is seldom seen in any other public or private schools.

For in sports, Ben stressed that games were just that—games, and no one should take them too seriously. They were not life-or-death matters, and in reality, accomplished very little. And anyone who would fight over the outcome of a game was tantamount to being a fool. He told the young people that games were meant to be fun, win or lose, and when, or if, he sensed games were becoming more important than scholastic efforts, he would put a stop to them, and the schools would have intramural activities only.

Although Ben had been a fine athlete in high school, he despised the jock mentality and would not tolerate it in the Tri-states. Coaches walked a narrow line in Tri-states’ schools.

The young people needed someone to look up to, and they found that person in Ben and his philosophy. After the war, the young were confused as to what was right and wrong—and what had happened to cause such a tragedy.

Ben, sitting on a desk in the classroom where he was conducting an impromptu question-and-answer session, laughed. “That is probably the most difficult question you could ask me, but I’ll try to give you an answer.

“Perspectives got all out of order, not only in America, but around the world. People demand freedom, and if they have to do it, they’ll fight for freedom taken from them—real or imagined.

“Our country, I believe, began to parallel the Roman Empire in many ways. Historians saw it, warned of it, but too few listened—until it was too late.

“The Romans had great, unworkable, and expensive social programs. So did we. The Romans built superhighways. So did we. The Romans began to scoff at great teachers, philosophers. So did we. They had social unrest. So did we. They built great arenas so the citizens could go on weekends and watch sporting events. So did we. The Roman government became top-heavy with bureaucracy. So did ours. The Roman government became corrupt. So did ours. Right on down the line. And as theirs came to an end, so did ours.

“Here in the United States, such things as patriotism, love of God, duty, honor, became the objects of ridicule. A day’s work for a fair day’s pay was replaced by greed; and if the product was faulty, the worker didn’t care. Strikes became the rule instead of the exception. Craftsmen became a thing of the past when the assembly line took over and goods were thrown together with no regard for the consumer. Those responsible forgot that we are all consumers.

“Morals sank to an all-time low. The sixties and seventies were times of great liberalism in America. It got out of hand and we went off the deep end, sinking more and more into debt. We came off the gold standard and began printing more money—without anything to back it. Just paper.

“We had great tax reforms in the Senate and House in the mid-eighties, greatly lessening the burden on the lower and middle classes. But most of them never got out of committee. Money backed many members of Congress, big business. When they spoke, Congress listened. So instead of the wealthy paying the brunt of the taxes, the lower and middle classes paid them. It was wrong, but Congress refused to correct it.

“On the world scene, the unions in Britain must share much of the blame for the country’s downfall. Massive land reforms came much too late in Central and South America. Russia’s economy finally collapsed. Guerrilla warfare spanned the globe.

“Here at home…” Ben sighed and thought for a moment. “The central government became too powerful, moving into every facet of public and private lives. Big Brother came out of fiction to become reality. Our laws became so vague and so left-leaning, the average citizen did not even have the right to protect what was his or hers.

“Anytime a government takes away the basic liberties of its citizens, it will inevitably lead to war. And it did.”

“Will we have to fight for what we have here, Governor?” a teen-age girl asked.

“Yes,” Ben said. “And probably very soon.”

“Why don’t other people just leave us alone?” another asked. “What business is it of theirs, anyway?”

“Dear,”—Ben smiled sadly—“people have been asking that of government since the first government was formed. And government has yet to come up with a satisfactory reply.”

Ben and Salina took two kids into their home, twins, a boy and a girl. They were handsome, well-mannered, and intelligent. Of course, all parents think that of their children.

Tina and Jack originally had come from Arizona. In hiding, they had watched their father shot to death by a gang of thugs and their mother raped repeatedly, then killed as she tried to run away, in the opposite direction from where her kids were hiding. But she bought them enough time to get away. Neither Jack nor Tina had any love or compassion for the lawless.

Their story was similar to that of almost every adopted child in the Tri-states. The young who lived through the holocaust, like their elders, needed very little prompting to demand harsh penalties for criminals. They had seen firsthand what permissiveness in a society can produce, and they wanted no part of it.

Jimmy Deluce, Jane Dolbeau, Jerre Hunter, and Badger Harbin remained single. Jimmy flew for the Tri-states’ small air force; Jane and Jerre worked as nurses at one of the many free clinics in the Tri-states; and Badger became Ben’s bodyguard.

That was not something Ben wanted, or really felt he needed, but after the assassination attempt, Badger announced his new job and moved in. He lived with the Raineses and became a constant shadow wherever Ben went.

Badger idolized the governor, as did most of the Rebels and residents of the Tri-states, and would have jumped through burning hoops had Ben suggested it. He was also devoted to Salina, but not in any overt sexual manner. That thought had occurred to him, but once he had become so preoccupied about it he had walked into a wall and broken his nose.

Salina noticed his attention, however, was amused by it, and finally mentioned it to Ben one night.

“Yes, honey,” Ben said, laying aside the book he was reading, “I’ve noticed it a couple of times. But I don’t know what to do about it. Has he made any advances?”

“Oh, Ben!” She laughed. “For heaven’s sake—no. I just think he needs a girl, that’s all.”

Ben smiled.

“A wife, Ben.” She returned his smile. “I’m talking about a nice girl for Badger to marry.”

“Badger’s shy, that’s all. I know he… ah… visits a lady—or ladies—at the… ah… house just outside of town.”

“Along with several hundred other men,” Salina remarked dryly.

“But it’s Jerre and Jane I can’t figure out.” Ben carried on as if his wife had said nothing. The communities in the Tri-states were small, deliberately so, and everybody knew everybody else. “Both of them young, good-looking, smart. Yet, they both seem so detached from everybody. Neither of them date. I mentioned both of them to Badger the other day, and he looked at me as if I were an idiot. Is something going on I need to know about?”

Salina smiled at her husband. Years back Ben had told her about Jerre and the relationship they had had for a few weeks. But Ben believed all that was past. Salina knew better. What good would it do to tell him Jerre was hopelessly in love with him? And Jane had also developed an enormous crush on Ben. She wondered if they had discussed their feelings with each other? What good would it do to tell him the entire Tri-states knew about it? That both of them knew Salina knew? She shook her head.

“No, darling—nothing going on that I know of.”

“Ummm.” Ben picked up his book and resumed his reading. The subject was closed.

Salina laughed at the man she loved and rose to check on the twins. Tina had a friend over that night and they were in the bedroom, discussing, of all things, karate. Ben insisted that all Rebels and dependents become at least familiar with some form of self-defense—the killing kind, preferably—and Tina had taken to karate and the other forms of gutter-fighting that were taught to Tri-states’ regular army. She had now advanced to the dangerous state, and the seventeen-year-old was considered by her instructors to be a rather mean and nasty fighter.

Jack, on the other hand, had two left feet when it came to weaponless, hand-to-hand fighting. He just could not master the quickness of unarmed combat. But he loved weapons, spending as much time as possible on the firing ranges. At seventeen, he was an expert with a dozen weapons, and a sniper in his unit of the reserves.

There had been much discussion, some of it heated, between Ben and Steven Miller as to the advisability of teaching war in public schools. In the end, however, the professor had acquiesced to Ben’s demands, agreeing, not too reluctantly, that it was, for the time being, essential in the Tri-states’ schools. The professor conceded that if the Rebel way of life was to flourish, the young had to be taught to defend it.

Jack was cleaning Ben’s old Thompson SMG when Salina entered his room. The young man looked up and smiled. “Hi, Salina.” He held up the Thompson. “Great, huh?”

Salina smiled, nodded at the weapon’s “greatness.”

“Yes, I know, Jack,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yeah. I forget sometimes, Salina. You saw combat, didn’t you?”

Her face changed expression, hardening. All the memories came rushing back to her, filling her brain with remembrances she had tried very hard to suppress: the horror of the killing and raping in Chicago; the running in pure terror for days afterward.

She blocked it out, sealing it away, shutting the memory door.

She looked at the young man she loved as her son. She looked at the gun in his hand. “Yes, Jack. I know what combat is.” She closed the door and walked back into the den to be with her husband.

“Talk to me, Ben! Put down that damned book and talk to me!”

Her outburst startled him and he choked on the smoke from his pipe. Ben was trying to give up cigarettes—they were very scarce and stale—and had turned to a pipe. That wasn’t much better. He looked at his wife, hands on her hips, glaring at him. “What’s going on, Salina?”

“Ben, is there going to be another war? Is everything we’ve worked so hard to build going to be destroyed?”

“What? Huh?” Ben looked confused, having gone from Tara in Georgia to his wife yelling at him in about one second. Quick trip. “You’ve lost me, honey.”

She sat down on the hassock in front of his chair, taking his hands in hers. “Will there be more war? Are we going to have to defend what we have here? Is Logan going to send troops in here? And is it worth it, Ben?”

He leaned forward, putting his arms around her, loving the feel of her. Not an emotional man, Ben seldom told her he loved her. But he did love her, very much.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Logan hates me—us—and he’ll try to smash us. As for the worth; are you happy here?”

“You know I am,” she murmured, face pressed into his shoulder. “Happier than I’ve ever been. But I do wonder about our life here, if what we’re doing is the right thing for the young people. Tina is an expert in killing with her hands; Jack is playing with your old Thompson. It just upsets me. These kids have seen enough in their young lives. More war for them, Ben?”

“Honey, if it upsets you, I’ll take that old Thompson away from Jack. I’ll—”

She abruptly pushed away from him. “Damn it, Ben! You’re missing the point.” She stood up, pacing the den. “Is there no middle ground for us? Can’t we compromise with Logan?”

“I’ve written to him, offering to meet and discuss a compromise. He didn’t respond. You know that.”

“Then war is inevitable?”

“That’s the way I see it.”

She lost her temper, pacing the den in a rage, pausing to pick up an ashtray to hurl it against a wall. She thought better of it.

“Shit!” she said; then put the ashtray back on the coffee table.

Ben, as millions of husbands before him, did not know what to do, or really, what he had done. “Honey,” he said, preparing to put his foot in his mouth, “let me call the clinic and the doctor will send Jane or Jerre over with a sedative. Or maybe you two can just chat. That ought to—”

Salina suddenly became very calm. Icy. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Oh, my, yes. By all means, call Jane or Jerre. Maybe one of them understands you better than I.” She whirled and marched to their bedroom, her back ramrod straight. She slammed the door so hard the center panel split down the middle.

Juno ran under a coffee table, overturning it, dumping ashtrays and bric-a-brac on the carpet.

The young people, who had gathered in the hall to listen to the adults argue, slipped back to their rooms and shut the doors… quietly and quickly.

Ben looked to his right and saw Badger standing in the foyer; the shouting had brought him out of his small apartment on the side of the house.

“What did I do?” the governor general of Tri-states asked his bodyguard. “What did I do?”

The young bodyguard shook his head. “Governor, with all due respect, sir; somebody ought to tell you the facts of life.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Ben roared. “And who asked you in the first place?”

“Pitiful.” Badger frowned. “Just plain pitiful.” He turned and went back to his apartment.

Juno looked at him, showed Ben his teeth, then padded out of the room.

For several hours that night, Ben slept on the couch in the den. During the early morning hours, Salina slipped into the den to waken him. Together, they got into their own bed, Salina snuggling close to him.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” she whispered.

“I would have been the first to apologize,” he said, caressing her. “But I didn’t know what I’d done. Still don’t.”

“I know, Ben.” She moved under the stroking of his hands.

“I understand,” he said. But of course, he didn’t.

She smiled in the darkness as he touched a breast and she moved a slim hand down his belly.

At breakfast, Salina fixed Ben his favorite foods while he went into the yard to cut her a rose from the many flowering plants around the house. She did not mention to him that he whacked off half the bush to get one rose; merely laughed and thanked him, poured him more coffee, and wondered if she could graft the mangled part back on.

Jack, tactful for one so young, made no mention of his plans to visit the shooting range later that day, and Tina stayed home, helping her adopted mother around the house.

Juno viewed it all with an animal’s patience.

Life in the Tri-states was really not that much different from that in other states or countries.

THREE

The communications people in the Tri-states had the finest electronic equipment in America—perhaps the world—for they had commandeered only the very best during their searches. From listening posts high in the mountains of the Tri-states, they monitored dozens of broadcasts daily, not only in America, but around the globe. They listened to military chatter, broke the codes, and knew what was going down, when, and where. They knew the government in Richmond was watching and listening to their every move, as they were listening and watching them.

Kenny Parr’s mercenaries, fighting alongside the regular military, had swept through Louisiana and Mississippi, crushing Kasim’s small army of guerrillas. Kasim was dead, but he had killed the mercenary Parr before he’d died.

The nation was slowly, painfully, being pulled back together. The central government, under the direction of Hilton Logan and, Ben suspected, the military, was taking absolute control… again.

But they kept out of the Tri-states.

A small town stood almost directly in the center of Tri-states. Its name was changed to Vista, and that became the capital. Their flag was a solid, light blue banner with three stars in a circle. A constitution had been drawn up during the first year, much like the Constitution and Bill of Rights of the United States, but going into detail and spelling out exactly what the citizens of Tri-states could receive and expect if they lived under that document.

Early on, Tri-states was broken up into districts and elections were held to choose spokespersons from each district. At the end of the second year, Ben was elected governor for life, running with no opposition and no campaign. The laws of the Tri-states were set by balloting, and were firm against amending.

The first session of the legislature (to be held one time each year, no more than two weeks in length) was probably among the shortest on record, anywhere. Major Voltan, a spokesman from the second district, summed it up.

“Why are we meeting?” he asked. “Our laws are set, they can only be changed by a clear mandate from the people. No one in my district wants anything changed.”

Nor in any of the other districts, it seemed.

“The Constitution states we must meet once a year in session.” Ben spoke.

“To do what?” a farmer spokesman inquired.

“To debate issues,” Cecil said.

“What issues?”

There were none.

“Like the Congress of the United States?” a woman asked. “We’re supposed to behave like they do?”

“More or less,” Cecil said.

“God help us all.”

Laughter echoed throughout the large room.

“I move we adjourn so we can all get back to work and do something constructive,” Voltan said.

“Second the motion.”

“Session adjourned,” Ben said.

Tri-states’ laws, the liberal press said, and even after a nuclear war the press was still controlled by liberals, constituted a gunpowder society.

They were correct to a degree.

But those reporters with more respect for their readers and viewers—and they were outnumbered by their counterparts—looked at Tri-states a bit more closely and called it an experiment in living together, based as much on common sense as on written law. Most of those reporters concluded that yes, Tri-states could probably exist for a long, long time, and it was no threat to America. And, yes, its citizens seemed to be making the Tri-states’ form of government work, for they were of a single mind, and not diversified philosophically.

But could this form of government work with millions of people? No, they concluded, it could not.

And they were correct in that assumption… to a degree.

But most people can govern themselves, once basic laws are agreed upon; if those people are very, very careful and work very, very hard at it.

That a people must be bogged down in bureaucracy; beset by thousands of sometimes oily, rude, arrogant, and frequently hostile local, state, and federal “civil servants”; licensed, taxed, and harassed; ruled by a close-knit clan of men and women whose mentality is not always what it should be and whose weapons are power; be dictated to by judges who are not always in tune with reality; and yammered at year after dreary year that a couple of senators and a handful of representatives have the power to decide the fate of millions… is a myth.

And Tri-states proved it.

There was not much pomp in Tri-states. Ben’s governor’s mansion was a split-level home on the outskirts of Vista. In good weather he rode to work in a Jeep.

Ben was on the road a lot, visiting the districts, listening to grievances, if any; and they were few. But of late, the one question asked, the one question paramount in the minds of Tri-states’ residents was: what happens when we open our borders?

The residents had met in open town meetings (something that was required by law before any decision affecting the lives of the citizens was initiated) and finally had decided to open their borders to the public, if any persons wanted to visit. They had been wholly self-contained for almost six years. Maybe it was time.

But most viewed the border openings with highly mixed feelings.

The Tri-states’ communications people contacted the major TV and radio networks, and the major papers, asking if they would like to cover the opening of Tri-states’ borders.

All did.

“Now the shit really hits the fan,” Ike projected.

The driver of the lead bus brought it to a hissing halt and motioned for the chief correspondent of CBN to come to the front. “Take a look at that, Mr. Charles.” He pointed to a huge red-and-white sign that extended from one side of the road to the other, suspended twenty-five feet in the air. Other buses and vans stopped and discharged their passengers. Cameras focused on the sign and rolled, clicked, and whirred.

“It hasn’t been up long,” a reporter from Portland said. “I’ve been out here a half-dozen times during the past six months and this road has always been blocked. And no sign.” He looked at the message.

The international symbol for “danger—keep out” was on either side of the huge sign.

“I think I want to go home.” A young lady grinned. In truth, a mule team could not have dragged her from the area.

The knot of press people, sound people, and camera-persons laughed. Clayton Charles put his arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “Come, now, Judith—where is your sense of journalistic inquisitiveness?”

“Well, the nuke and germ war came so fast no one had a chance to cover it. So, maybe this will do.”

Larry Spain, reporter for another network, pointed to a steel tower, much like those used by the forest service, except that this one was lower. The tower sat inside the Tri-states line, across the bridge.

“Low for a fire observation tower,” he said.

“Look again,” a friend told him. “That one’s got .50-caliber machine guns to put out the blaze. Jesus! These people aren’t kidding.”

They said nothing as they all looked at the tower. The muzzle of the heavy-caliber machine gun was plainly visible. Silently, the men and women climbed back aboard their vans and buses. A moment later they were the first outside reporters to visit the Tri-states (legally) since the states’ inception. One reporter would later write: “The soldier in the tower never made a hostile move; never pointed the muzzle at us. But it was like looking at the Berlin wall for the first time.”

The vehicles pulled off the road and onto a huge blacktop parking area. Set deep in the area was a long, low concrete building, painted white. On the front and both sides of the building, in block letters several feet tall, painted in flame red, were the words: ENTERING OR LEAVING—CHECKPOINT—ALL VEHICLES STOP.

“I think they mean it,” someone said.

“Very definitely,” another said.

“Unequivocally,” Judith replied.

“Explicitly,” another reporter concurred with a smile.

“Knock it off.” Clayton Charles ended the bantering.

The bus driver turned to the press people before they could enter the building and spoke to the entire group. “I want to tell you people something,” he said. “I have friends in the Tri-states; I’ve been checked and cleared and am moving in here next month…. So listen to me. It might save you a broken jaw or a busted mouth, or worse.

“Whatever impression you might have of the people who live in the Tri-states—put it out of your mind, for it’s probably wrong. Even though they are doctors, dentists, farmers, shopkeepers, whatever, I’m betting you’re thinking they are a pack of savages or crazy terrorists. If you do, you’re wrong. They are just people who won’t tolerate trouble—of any kind. You’d better remember that.

“Don’t go sticking your nose in their business uninvited. The laws are different here; you’re liable to get punched out. I hope all of you are going into this assignment with an open mind—I really do. ‘Cause if you get cute with these folks, they’ll hurt you. Even the kids are rough.”

A lone male reporter stood in the back of the crowd and solemnly applauded the driver’s speech. “How eloquently put,” he said.

The driver looked at him; then slowly shook his head in disgust, as did many of the press people. Barney had the reputation of being rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and a double-dyed smart-ass.

“Barney,” Judith said. “I know we work for the same network, and are supposed to be colleagues, and all that, but when we get inside, stay the hell away from me, O.K.?”

Barney smiled and bowed.

The reception center was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-states, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft drinks were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot-high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically; jeans and light blue shirts.

“Good morning,” Tina said to the crowd. “Welcome to the Tri-states. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they’re free—or a soft drink.”

Barney leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina’s breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.

“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous obnoxiousness coming through.

The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed army Rebel stepped out, master sergeant stripes on the sleeves of his tiger-stripes. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and deeply tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.

“Tina?” he said. “Who said that?”

Tina pointed to Barney. “That one.”

“Oh, hell!” Judith whispered.

“Quite,” Clayton concurred.

The Rebel walked up to Barney and stopped a foot from him. Barney looked shaken, his color similar to old whipped cream. The filming lights had been on, and no one had noticed when a camera operator began rolling, recording the event.

“I’m Sergeant Roisseau,” the Rebel informed the reporter. “It would behoove you, in the future, to keep off-color remarks to yourself. You have been warned; this is a one-mistake state, and you’ve made yours.”

“I… ah… was only making a little joke,” Barney said. “I meant nothing by it.” The blood rushed to his face, betraying the truth.

“Your face says you’re a liar,” Roisseau said calmly.

“And you’re armed!” Barney said, blinking. He was indignant; the crowd he ran with did not behave in this manner over a little joke. No matter how poor the taste.

Roisseau smiled and unbuckled his web belt, laying the pistol on the desk. “Now, fish or cut bait,” he challenged him.

That really shook Barney. All the bets were down and the pot right. He shook his head. “No… I won’t fight you.”

“Not only do you have a greasy mouth,” Roisseau said, “but you’re a coward to boot.”

Barney’s eyes narrowed, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“All right,” Roisseau said. “Then when you apologize to the young lady, we’ll forget it.”

“I’ll be damned!” Barney said, looking around him for help. None came forward.

“Probably,” Roisseau said. “But that is not the immediate issue.” He looked at Tina and winked, humor in his dark eyes. “So, newsman, if you’re too timid to fight me, perhaps you’d rather fight the young lady?”

“The kid?” Barney questioned, then laughed aloud. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

Judith walked to Barney’s side. She remembered the bus driver’s words and sensed there was very little humor involved in any of this, and if there was, the joke was going to be on Barney. And it wasn’t going to be funny. “Barney, ease off. Apologize to her. You were out of line.”

“No. I was only making a joke.”

“Nobody laughed,” she reminded him, and backed away, thinking: are the people in this state humorless? Or have they just returned to values my generation tossed aside?

“No way.” Barney shook his head. “You people are nuts!”

The camera rolled, silently recording.

Roisseau smiled, then looked at Tina. “Miss Raines, the… gentleman is all yours. No killing blows, girl. Just teach him a hard lesson in manners.”

Tina put her left hand on the top of the desk and, in one fluid motion, as graceful as a cat, vaulted the desk to land lightly on her tennis shoe-clad feet.

She stood quietly in front of the man who outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. She offered up a slight bow. Had Barney any knowledge of the martial arts, he would have fainted, thus saving himself some bruises.

Tina held her hands in front of her, palms facing Barney, then drew the left one back to her side, balling the fist. Her right foot was extended, unlike a boxer’s stance. Her right hand open, palm out, knife edge to Barney. Her eyes were strangely empty of expression. Barney could not know she was psyching herself.

Barney did notice the light ridge of calluses that ran from the tips of her fingers to her wrist, and another light row of calluses on the edge of her hand, from the tip of her little finger down to the wrist. He backed away, instinctively.

Almost with the speed of a striking snake, Tina kicked high with her foot, catching Barney on the side of the face. He slammed backward against a wall, then recoiled forward, stunned at the suddenness of it all. With no change in her expression, Tina slashed out with the knife edge of her hand and slammed a blow just above his kidney, then slapped him on the face a stinging pop. Barney dropped to his knees, his back hurting, his face aching, blood dripping from a corner of his mouth. He rose slowly to his feet, his face a vicious mask of hate and rage and frustration and disbelief.

“You bitch!” he snarled. “You rotten little cunt.”

Roisseau laughed. “Now, you are in trouble, hotshot.”

Barney shuffled forward, in a boxer’s stance, his chin tucked into his shoulder. He swung a wide looping fist at Tina. She smiled at his clumsiness and turned slightly, catching his right wrist. Using the forward motion of his swing against him, and her hips for leverage, she tossed the man over her side and bounced him off a wall. Quickly reaching down, her hands open, on either side of his head, Tina brought them in sharply, hard, slamming the open palms over his ears at precisely the same moment. Barney screamed in pain and rolled in agony on the floor, a small dribble of blood oozing from one damaged ear.

Tina smoothed her hair. She was not even breathing hard. She looked at Master Sergeant Roisseau. “Did I do all right, Sergeant?”

The reporters then noticed the flap of Roisseau’s holster, lying on the desk, open, the butt of the .45 exposed. And all were glad no one had tried to interfere.

Then, from the floor of the reception center, came the battle cry of urbane, modern, twentieth-century man. Unable to cope with a situation, either mentally or physically, or because of laws that have been deballing the species for years, man bellows the words:

“I’ll sue you!”

The room suddenly rocked with laughter. News commentators, reporters, camera-people and sound-people; people who, for years, had recorded the best and worst of humankind, all howled at the words from their colleague.

“Sue?” Clayton managed to gasp the word despite his laughter. “Sue? Sue a little teen-age girl who just whipped your big, manly butt. Really, Barney! I’ve warned you for years your mouth would someday get you in trouble.”

Roisseau spoke to the girl still behind the desk. “Judy, get on the horn and call the medics and tell them we have a hotshot with a pulled fuse.” He faced the crowd of newspeople.

“You’re all due at a press conference in two hours. Meanwhile, I’d suggest you all help yourselves to coffee and doughnuts and soft drinks and study the pamphlets we have for you.” He glanced at Barney, sitting on the floor, moaning and holding his head in his hands. “As for you, I’d forget about suing anyone. Our form of government discourages lawsuits. You’d lose anyway.”

“I’ll take this to the Supreme Court!” Barney yelled.

“Fine. Governor Raines is someday going to appoint one for us. Next twenty or thirty years. We don’t recognize yours.”

“Well, who is the final authority on Tri-states law?” a woman asked.

Roisseau smiled. “Just about anyone in the area… over the age of ten. As you study the simplicity of our judicial system, you’ll see what I mean. We don’t use any Latin base or legal double-talk. It’s all in very plain English. If you’re asking who would make the final decision on an issue—if it ever got that far—Governor Raines and half a dozen people whose names were pulled out of a hat.”

“Well, that’s the damnedest form of law I ever heard of in my life!” Larry Spain said.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Roisseau said. “But what is important is that it works for us.” He walked back into his office, closing the door.

Moments later, the medics came in and looked at Barney. They said he had a split lip, several bruises, a slightly damaged eardrum—nothing serious—and a severely deflated ego. They sat him in a chair, told him to check into any clinic if he began experiencing dizzy spells, patted him on the head, told him to watch his mouth, and left, chuckling.

“Very simple society we have here,” a reporter observed. “Live and let live, all the while respecting the rights of others who do the same. Very basic.”

“And very unconstitutional,” another remarked.

“I wonder,” Judith mused aloud. “I just wonder if it is.”

“Oh, come now, Judith,” Clayton said, shaking his head. “The entire debate is superfluous. There is no government of Tri-states. It doesn’t exist. The government of the United States doesn’t recognize it. It just doesn’t exist.”

Several Jeeps pulled into the parking area. The reporters watched a half-dozen Rebel soldiers—male and female, all in tiger-stripe—step out of the Jeeps. The soldiers were all armed with automatic weapons and sidearms.

“Really?” Judith smiled. She pointed to the Rebels. “Well, don’t tell me Tri-states doesn’t exist—tell them!”

FOUR

Before leaving the reception center, each member of the press was handed a pass marked: VISITOR—PRESS. It was dated and signed by Roisseau.

“Don’t lose those passes,” he cautioned them. “You people don’t have permanent papers with prints, pictures, and serial numbers. Our equivalent of social security.”

“Why are those papers necessary?” a reporter asked.

“We’ve given asylum to many so-called criminals from bordering states. Some of the police from those states have tried to come in after them, undercover, slipping in without our knowledge. They didn’t make it, but it did force us to go to a permanent ID.”

“I don’t… quite understand.” Judith looked up from the pamphlet she’d been reading. She was very interested in this state. “What kind of so-called criminals?”

“As you have probably read, or heard, our laws are different from yours. Very different. In other states, if you were to shoot a punk trying to steal your car, your TV set, or whatever, you would be put in jail and charged. Not here. There is a full investigation, of course—we’re not animals—but we do believe that a punk is a punk, and that a person has the right to protect what is his or hers from unlawful search or seizure. Using any authorized weapon.”

“How many children have been shot?”

“None. Our children are taught, not only in the home, but in public schools, the difference between right and wrong—as we see it.”

“You said authorized weapons…?”

“Rifle, pistol, knife, hands, fists, feet… whatever is available. Our citizens”—he smiled—“do not possess nuclear weapons.”

Barney shuddered. He had discovered how swiftly events could occur in this state. All over a little joke.

“Explain those permanent IDs,” Roisseau was asked.

“Each ID is numbered, the same number is on the person’s bank account, driver’s license, home title. That number is placed in a central computer bank. Along with the number is placed the person’s vital statistics. It’s very easily checked and almost impossible to hide an identity.”

“What comes next, Sergeant: tattooing at birth?” It was sarcastically put.

Barney resisted an impulse to tell the reporter to please watch his mouth.

Sergeant Roisseau smiled patiently. “No, sir, it’s past 1984. Your government is the one who turned on its law-abiding, taxpaying citizens, not ours.”

“What is the penalty for carrying a false ID?”

Roisseau’s eyes were chilly as he said, “It’s unpleasant. I hope you all have a nice stay in our area. It will be as nice as you make it.”

A member of the armed forces of Tri-states rode in each van and bus. As they pulled out of the reception center, a soldier rose and faced Clayton Charles’s group.

“My name is Bridge Oliver. During the ride to the governor’s house, I’ll try to answer as many questions as possible and show you some points of interest.

“Coming up on your left is the first emergency telephone on this highway. You’ll find them every four miles on every major highway in the Tri-states. They are hooked directly to an army HQ in whatever district the motorist is in, and each phone is numbered. Pick up the phone, give that number to whoever answers, state the nature of the problem, and someone will be there promptly.”

“That isn’t anything new,” a reporter said. “It’s been tried before in other areas… before the bombings. Vandals usually ripped the phones out. Destroyed them.”

“Sir,” Bridge said, “in other states, punks and hoodlums were—and probably still are—pampered and petted by judges, psychologists, counselors, and petunia-picking social workers. Vandalism, in your society, under your laws, is accepted, more or less, as part of a young person’s growing up. We do not subscribe to that theory. As you have been told, and will be told a hundred times more during your stay here,”—until you get it through your goddamned thick skulls, Bridge thought—“crime, lawlessness, is not tolerated here. Our children are taught that it is wrong. They are taught it in the homes, in the schools, and in the churches.”

The same reporter who had asked about tattooing at birth, now asked: “What do you do when you catch them, shoot them?”

Barney looked out the window while Judith busied herself with a notebook.

Bridge held his temper in check. Ben had told his people to expect sarcasm and, in certain instances, open hostility from some members of the press.

“No, sir,” Bridge said quietly, “we don’t shoot them. I would like all of you to understand something. Some of you—maybe all of you—seem to be under the impression that we here in Tri-states are savages, or that Governor Raines is some sort of ruthless ogre. You’re wrong. We’re all very proud of what we’ve done here: jobs for everyone who wants to work; our medical system; elimination of poor living conditions; but we’re also somewhat of a law-and-order society. Not as you people know law and order, true, but we’re not monsters.

“We do a lot of things quite differently from what you people are accustomed to. But that’s all right, because it works for us.”

“That’s all very good, Mr. Oliver. And, I suppose, commendable, to your way of thinking. But I would still like to know what happens to the kids when they’re caught. Just for having a little fun.”

“Fun?” Bridge questioned. “Fun? Is destructive vandalism your idea of fun?”

“It certainly isn’t a criminal offense.”

“Isn’t it? What’s the difference between stealing a great deal of money or ripping out a piece of expensive equipment that might save someone’s life?”

The reporter shook his head. “I don’t intend to argue the question with you. It still doesn’t answer my question.”

Bridge sighed. “After they’ve all been warned, repeatedly, not to commit vandalism, and taught it in the schools, we attempt to find out why they would do so. Is it because of their home life? Are they abused? Do they have a mental problem? We try to find out and then correct the problem. But they will also work while we’re doing that: painting public buildings or working for the elderly, picking up litter—which, if you’ll observe, we don’t have much of—public-service work of some kind. But they’ll give us twenty dollars of their time for every dollar they destroyed.”

“That’s rather harsh, don’t you think?”

Bridge shrugged and tried not to smile. He knew their way of life, their philosophy, would not be understood by many of the younger members of the news media. About half of the newspeople now converging upon the Tri-states area were in their thirties, the products of the permissive ‘60s and ‘70s, which Bridge knew, only too well, was a time of poor discipline in schools, disregard for law and order, a downgrading of patriotism, morals, values. One could blame the time, but not wholly the individual.

“What about the police?” a woman asked. “I haven’t seen any.”

“We don’t have police,” Bridge said. “We have peace officers. And really, not many of them.” He smiled, attempting to put the people at ease. “Here,” he tried to explain, “the people control their lives. We have very few laws, and they are voted on by the people before they become laws. A fifty-one/forty-nine percent for and against won’t make it here. It’s got to be much clearer than that. That may be a majority in your system, but not here.

“Living here is very simple on the one hand, and very difficult—if not downright impossible—if you’re the type of person who likes to spread malicious gossip, if you’re lazy, if you like to browbeat others. If you’re inclined to cheat and lie… you won’t make it in this society.”

“What happens to them?”

“Well,”—Bridge grinned—“you start spreading lies about somebody in this society, you’re liable to get the shit beat out of you. It’s happened a few times.”

“And the law did what to the parties involved?”

“Nothing,” Bridge said flatly. “I don’t know of anyone, male or female, who doesn’t gossip; that’s human nature. Just don’t make it vicious lies.”

“I’m surprised there haven’t been any killings, if that’s the kind of laws you people live under. If you want to call it law, that is.”

“There’ve been a couple of shootings,” Bridge admitted. “But not in the past three or four years. We’re all pretty much of one mind in this area.”

“Who shot whom, and why?” Clayton questioned.

“One fellow was messin’ with another man’s wife. He kept messin’ with her even though, as witnesses pointed out, the woman told him, time after time, to leave her alone. She finally went to her husband and told him. The husband warned the man—once. The warning didn’t take. The husband called the man out one afternoon; told him he was going to beat the hell out of him. Romeo came out with a gun in his hand. Bad mistake. Husband killed him.”

The press waited. And waited. Finally Clayton blurted, “Well, what happened?”

“Nothing, really.” Bridge’s face was impassive. “There was a hearing, of course. The husband was turned loose; Romeo was buried.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly. I told you all: this is not an easy place to live. But that’s only happened three… yes, three times since the Tri-states were organized. There is an old western saying, sir: man saddles his own horses, kills his own snakes. And if I have to explain that, you’d better turn this bus around and get the hell out of here.”

The bus driver chuckled.

The press corps absorbed that bit of western philosophy for a moment… in silence. Clayton broke the silence by clearing his throat and saying, “Let’s return to the people controlling their own lives, if we ever indeed left it. Elaborate on that, please, without the High Noon scenario, if possible, and I’m not sure you weren’t just putting us on about that.”

“I believe that Sergeant Roisseau told Mr. Barney Weston that this is a one-mistake state and he’d had his—right?”

Barney felt his face grow hot. “Mr. Oliver, maybe I was out of line, but I just got mauled and humiliated. Don’t you think that’s going a bit far?”

“Would you do it again?” Bridge asked.

“Absolutely not!”

Bridge laughed. “Well… you just answered your question.”

“Mr. Oliver?” Judith said. “Are you taking us on a preselected route? I’ve seen no shacks or poor-looking people. No crummy beer joints. No malnourished kids. Nothing to indicate poverty or unhappiness.”

“I’m not qualified to speak on the unhappiness part of your question. I’m sure there must be some unhappiness here. But I can guarantee you there is no hunger or poverty. We’ve corrected that—totally.”

The newspeople had just left an area—America—where people were still dying from the sickness caused by the bombings: cancer-related illnesses from radiation sickness; where people were starving and out of work; where gangs of thugs still roamed parts of the nation; where the sights of devastation were still very much in evidence. Now, for Bridge Oliver to tell them that here, in the Tri-states, there was no poverty, no hunger… that was ludicrous.

“Oh, come now, man!” Clayton’s tone was full of disbelief. “That is simply not possible.”

“Perhaps not in your society, but it certainly did happen here. You’ll be free to roam the country, talk to people. The only hungry people you’ll find in Tri-states will be those people who might be on a diet.”

“Well, would you be so kind as to tell us just how you people managed that?”

“By ripping down any slum or shack area and building new housing, and not permitting a building to deteriorate. We have very tough housing codes, and they are enforced….”

“I can just imagine how,” Barney muttered, his face reddening at the laughter around him.

“…We have no unemployment—there are jobs going begging right now. We’re opening factories, little by little, but the process of screening takes time; it’s long and slow. As I’ve tried to explain, it takes a very special person to live in our society. We won’t tolerate freeloaders, of any kind. We have no unions here, and will not permit any to come in. They are not necessary in this society. You’ll see what I mean as you travel about. Our economy matches our growth, and wages are in line with it. Wages are paid commensurate to a person’s ability to do a job, and a person’s sex has nothing to do with it. It’s equal pay right down the line. There is a minimum wage for certain types of work, but I defy you—any of you—to find a sweatshop anywhere in the Tri-states. The people won’t stand for it.”

“That doctrine is somehow vaguely familiar,” a reporter said.

“If you’re thinking socialism or communism, put it out of your mind; you haven’t got your head screwed on straight. I’d like to hear you name any communist country—ever—where the entire population was armed—to the teeth! No, none of you can. Believe me, if the people living here ever decide they don’t like the government, they’ve damned sure got the firepower to change it. But they won’t. Because, as I’ve told you, we like it this way.

“Now in terms of wealth, it would be very difficult for a person to become a millionaire—not impossible, but difficult. Taxes get pretty steep after a certain income level. But if a person is poor, it’s that person’s own fault, and he or she can blame no one else. But, it’s as I said; we don’t have any poor people.”

“And no rich people.”

“That is correct.”

“Number of churches here,” a woman observed. “Is attendance mandatory?”

“No!” Bridge laughed. “Where in the world are you people getting these off-the-wall questions?”

“But you people do place a lot of emphasis on religion,” Judith said. “Right?”

Bridge shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. Hell, people! Prostitution is legal here.”

The newspeople all looked at each other, not believing what they had just heard.

“Well,” Clayton Charles said, “I’d certainly like to get into that.”

The bus rocked with laughter.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” the chief correspondent said, his face crimson.

Judith shook her head. “I’m… still very confused about this area. I just witnessed a young lady—a teenager—beat up a grown man with nothing but her hands for weapons, and you people obviously thought it perfectly all right for her to do so. It’s obvious you are teaching your young that violence—in some forms, and incidents, I suppose—is acceptable. Yet, I have only to look out the window to see that your society is religious. You people claim to have completely obliterated hunger, poverty, and slums…. That’s the height of compassion. Yet capital punishment—so we’ve been told—is the law of the land. Tri-states seems to be, at least to me, a marvelous combination of good and evil.”

“We agree on the definition of one word, but not on the other,” Bridge replied. He found himself, for some reason, liking this reporter; he believed she would report fairly. “Here in our society, we have, I believe, returned to the values of our forefathers—in part. Much more emphasis is placed on the rights of a law-abiding citizen than on the punks who commit the crimes.

“There is honor here that you don’t have in your states—that you haven’t had in your central government for decades. You people still want it both ways, and it won’t work; I’m amazed that you can’t see that. We believe our system will always be worlds apart from yours. We set it up that way.”

“Then where does that leave Tri-states and the rest of America?” he was asked.

“In a position of separate but workable coexistence.”

“But that violates the entire concept of United States.”

Bridge glanced at the bus driver, the man who would soon be moving into the area. The driver smiled and shook his head.

He understands, Bridge thought. Even if the others don’t. “I suppose it does,” Bridge said. “But that is not our problem. And it’s yours only if you make it a problem.”

He sat down and turned his back to the reporters.

The town of Vista lay quiet and peaceful under a warm early summer sun. People tended gardens and mowed lawns. Kids played along the sidewalks and yards, their laughter and behavior reminiscent of an age long past. No horns honked, no mufflers roared, no huge trucks rumbled about. Trucks, unless they were moving vans, were forbidden to enter residential areas. The only exception was pickups. Unless it was an emergency, horns did not honk in Tri-states. Straight pipes, glass packs, and other such adolescent silliness were banned. There were lots of sidewalks—all of them new—to walk upon, and there were bike paths for the pedalers. Speed limits were low, and they were rigidly enforced.

A contentment hung in the air; a satisfaction that could almost be felt, as if everyone here had finally found a personal place under the sun and was oh, so happy with it. A mood of safety, tranquility, and peace surrounded the area.

To the newspeople, that was unsettling.

The buses and vans parked in front of a split-level home on the outskirts of town. In the two-car garage, there stood a pickup truck and a late-model (the last year automobiles were made), small station wagon. Parked in the drive was a standard military Jeep with a whip antenna on the rear and a waterproof scabbard on the right front side. The flap was open, exposing the stock of a .45-caliber Thompson SMG.

“You people are certainly careless with weapons,” a reporter remarked.

“Why?” Bridge looked at him.

He pointed to the Thompson. “Someone could steal that.”

Bridge shrugged. “Everyone in this state, male and female, over the age of sixteen has an automatic weapon and five hundred rounds of ammunition assigned to them, also a sidearm with fifty rounds of ammunition, three grenades, and a jump knife. Why would anyone want to steal an old Thompson?”

“Well, goddamn it!” The reporter lost his temper. He quickly checked it. “There are children, you know.” Being from a large city—that no longer existed—the reporter’s knowledge of firearms was limited to pointing his finger and making “bang-bang” noises.

But Bridge was under orders to be patient. “Sir, do you see that metal object on the top of the weapon, just above and in front of the stock? The stock is that long, funny-shaped wooden thing. You do? Good! That is a bolt lever. When it is pulled back, locked in position, as it is now, that signifies the weapon is void of ammunition. In Tri-states, any ten-year-old would know that.”

If looks could kill, Bridge would have fallen over.

A young man wearing starched and creased tiger-stripe field clothes suddenly appeared by the side of the garage. He wore buck sergeant’s stripes and carried an automatic assault rifle, much like the Russian AK47/AKM.

“Who is that?” a reporter asked.

“The governor’s driver and bodyguard. Badger Harbin,” Bridge said. “Don’t make any sudden moves around him until he gets used to you.”

Badger looked at the growing mounds of equipment and then at the men whose jobs it was to set it all up. He pointed to the rear of the house.

“Take it all around there,” Badger said. “There are tables and chairs and plug-ins. If any of you are armed, declare it now.”

“None of us is armed,” Clayton said. Then with a smile, he added, “What’s the matter, Sergeant, don’t you trust us?”

“No,” Badger said shortly. He stepped to one side, allowing them to pass.

The crowd was ushered onto the patio, then seated. Badger stood by the side of the sliding glass doors leading into the den. “When the governor and Mrs. Raines come out,” he said, “get up.”

“Young man,” Clayton said acidly, “we do have some knowledge of protocol.”

Badger grunted his reply and Judith laughed at her boss’s expression.

None of the newspeople knew exactly what to expect of Governor Raines. But some of the younger newspeople had a preconceived image of a military man who would be dressed in full uniform, dripping with medals, armed with at least two pistols, and possibly carrying a swagger stick, tipped with a shell casing. When Ben and Salina appeared, most were mildly astonished.

Ben was dressed in blue jeans, a pullover shirt, and cowboy boots. Salina wore white Levi’s, a blue western shirt, and tennis shoes.

They shook hands all around while flashbulbs popped and cameras rolled, many of them directed at Badger, who scowled appropriately. For half an hour the press corps sipped coffee or cold drinks and munched on hors d’oeuvres.

“I’d like to take some pictures of you two together,” a photographer said to Ben and Salina, “and of the house. Do you mind?”

“No,” Ben said, after looking at Salina and receiving a slight nod of agreement. “Fire away—figuratively speaking, of course.” He smiled.

Out of the corner of his eye, the photographer noticed Badger’s hands tighten on the AK-47. Badger made many of the press people very nervous.

The camera crews wandered around the house, taking pictures of this and that: the home, the lawn, the garden, the neighborhood. Governor Raines was a hero to many Americans, having stood up to the government, formed his own state over its objections, and now governed the only area in America, and probably the entire world, that was free of crime and poverty. That much had leaked out of Tri-states. Practically anything about the man, his family, and his way of life would be of interest to someone.

After a short time, an informal press conference was under way.

“Before the questions start flying,” Ben said, “I’d like for you all to meet my daughter, Tina Raines. She works part-time at the western reception center. The one closest to Vista.” He turned just as Tina opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out.

The press was silent for a few moments, looking at each other, putting it all together. Each waited for the other to ask the first question. Finally, Judith did. “We were at that reception center, Governor. How many Tina Raineses are there in Tri-states?”

“Only one that I know of,” Ben said. “I gather from your expressions you were there when Tina had her… small altercation with one of your colleagues.”

Barney looked at the ground, thinking: of all the people I pick to get cute with, I pick the governor’s daughter. Great move, Weston. Super timing.

“You know we were there,” Clayton said.

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Not much goes on in this area I don’t know about.”

A photographer from the World News Agency was snapping away as Tina walked out onto the patio. He took two quick shots of her and smiled.

“Hello, again,” Tina said.

“You’re a very lovely young lady,” he complimented her. “Very photogenic.”

She blushed, then sat down beside her mother, on the patio, just behind and to the right of where Ben stood behind a podium.

Ben looked at the press people. “One word of caution before we begin. Be careful what you print, broadcast, or ask about people living here in the Tri-states. We don’t have scandal sheets here; yellow journalism is not allowed.”

Barney tore several sheets from his notepad and crumpled the pages, thinking as he did so: if I ever get out of this wacko state, I’ll never come back!

“Governor—General; what do we call you?” a reporter asked.

“Either one. Ben—whatever. We’re not much on pomp here.”

“All right, Governor. But that’s a pretty stiff warning you just handed us. What can we report on here?”

“Anything you see, as long as you present both sides of the issue. Isn’t that fair journalism?”

What it’s supposed to be, Judith thought. But seldom is.

“Oh, come on, Governor! People are opinionated no matter how hard they try not to be. Reporting objectively has been a joke for decades.”

Clayton smiled outwardly at the reporter and inwardly in admiration for Ben. He had gone back and read as many of Ben’s books as time would allow before coming to the Tri-states. He said, “I recall you writing, Governor, that the press enjoyed sending a black man to report on KKK meetings and an avowed liberal to report on the National Rifle Association’s yearly strategy meeting. You haven’t changed much—if any. I also remember your writing that the press is stacked with liberals and not balanced with conservatives and middle-of-the-roaders.”

“I still feel that way,” Ben said. “You people are supposed to be neutral, but you’re not. You haven’t been for decades.”

“I’d like to debate that with you sometime.”

“Maybe. I’ll give you a reply when I see what you’ve reported about us.”

Each man gave the other a thin smile of understanding.

“General,” Ben was asked, “for the record, sir, just what are you people attempting to accomplish in this new state?”

“We are not attempting. We have created a society where the vast majority of citizens—I’d say between ninety-five and ninety-eight percent—are content with the laws they live under.”

“Constitutionally?”

“According to our constitution, yes.”

“A gunpowder society, void of human rights.”

“That,” Ben said, “and pardon my English, is pure bullshit. Law-abiding people have every right they voted to give themselves.”

“General, do you believe the United States could be a world power if dozens of groups like yours splintered off to form their own little governments?”

“Since the bombings, there are no world powers—anywhere. With the exception, perhaps, of the United States. Yes, I believe the U.S. could be built back into a power. Tri-states has not broken with the Union—just with many of its laws.

“I have written to President Logan, telling him we will pay a fair share of taxes to his central government—and it is his. Our share won’t be much, since most of the money will remain here, doing what we feel is right and best for the citizens of Tri-states. We will not ask the federal government for anything, and we will not tolerate their unrequested interference. We will fly the American flag alongside our own flag; we will live under the American flag, and if necessary, fight for it, as a friend and ally. Our borders will be open for all to pass through.

“However, there are certain things we are not going to do. We are not going to give up our weapons or disband our army. We are not going to change our laws to pamper thugs, punks, and social misfits who cannot or, as in most cases, will not live under the most basic of laws. We are not going to be ruled—totally—by a distant government in Virginia, or abide by the mumblings of your Supreme Court. Make no mistake about this, too, ladies and gentlemen: we are fully prepared to fight for our freedoms and our beliefs—right down to the last person.”

Ben tapped the podium with a fist, rattling the microphones. “Now let’s clear the air on a few more points. When we pulled into this area, it was chaos—that’s the best one could say about it. The people were confused, disorganized—and that disorganization was partly the fault of the people, but mostly the fault of the federal government. The federal government wouldn’t allow home militias without their so-called ‘guidance.’ But the federal government wasn’t in here helping the people. We were. The federal government didn’t send in doctors, food, medicines. We did it. We did it all, and did a damned good job.

“You won’t find one person in this state suffering from hunger. Not one! We’ve eliminated it; wiped it out in less time than it takes some bills to get out of committee in your Congress. Your government has been attempting to wipe out hunger for decades, with only partial success. Think about that. Write about that. That says a great deal for our system.

“When we got here the elderly were living—most of them—in squalor. Existing might be a better word. Their possessions had been taken from them; they were neglected; and utterly terrified in their own homes, living in fear of punks and thugs and slime you people have, for years, been moaning and sobbing over. Hell, what else is new? Old people have been living in fear for their lives for decades, but you people haven’t done anything about it, except moan and sob about the rights of street punks. We rounded up the punks, shot or hanged them, and helped the elderly put their lives back in order. Now, if that makes me a dictator or a man lacking in compassion, as has been written about me, then I’m proud to be just that.

“And for your information, most doors in the Tri-states aren’t locked at night, or at any other time. The lock on my back door doesn’t even work, and hasn’t for four years. That’s got to tell you something about the way we live; the peace we all feel here. And we are at peace here, wanting trouble with or from no one.

“While you are here, by all means visit our hospitals and research centers and day-care centers and community centers and villages. Talk to anyone you wish to talk with. Visit our schools and see what we’ve done. Then compare what you see with what you’ve just left—out there”—he pointed—“in your United States.

“Visit our planning offices here in Vista, see what we’ve got on the tables for the future. You’ll be surprised, I’m sure. But don’t just report on a society that comes down hard on criminals; one where they are not pampered at taxpayer expense. For once, just once, you people report on both the good and the bad; weigh the rights of decent people against those of criminals. But by all means, do report that the life expectancy of punks is very short in the Tri-states.”

A reporter raised his hand. “Governor, all you say may be true—probably is true—I’m not disputing your word. It’s easy to see that you and your people have done a great deal of good in this area, but the fact is, you stole all the material you brought into this area. That’s something you can’t deny.”

“I have no intention of denying it,” Ben said. “We took from dead areas, transplanted what we took here, and put those materials to use. You people could have done the same—but you didn’t. You people left billions and billions—probably trillions of dollars’ worth of valuable materials to rot and rust, and do absolutely no one any good at all. That is the crime.”

“Governor,”—Judith stood up—“on another topic—or maybe, really it isn’t—on the way here, Mr. Oliver said you don’t have police, but peace officers. Would you explain the difference and why their powers are limited?”

“Peace officers keep the peace,” Ben said simply, and with a smile. “And folks out here—myself included—seem to prefer the name to cops. As to their limited powers, I’ll try to explain, but here is where we veer off sharply from your society and its laws.

“First, and lastly, too, I suppose, a person has to want to live here. You’ll hear that a dozen times before you leave. We are not an open society. Not just anyone can come in here to live. I have no figures to back this, but I would be willing to wager that probably no more than one out of every ten people in America could live under our laws or the type of government we have. Hucksters, shysters, con men, ambulance-chasing lawyers, cheats, liars… those types cannot last in this society. Everything is open and aboveboard in this state. Some of those types have tried to live here. We’ve buried a few; most left.

“Our laws on the books are few, and they are written very simply and plainly. Our laws are taught in our schools, our young people are brought up understanding the do’s and don’t’s of this society. Any person with an average intellect can draw up a legal document in the Tri-states, and it will be honored in a court of law simply because the people in this state are honorable people. That sounds awfully smug, but it is the truth. Here, a person’s word means as much as a written contract. That’s why so many people can’t live in our society. And here, as strange as it seems to you people, all this is working. Working because of one simple, basic fact: one has to want to live here.

“Our peace officers don’t have much to do other than occasionally break up a family fight.” He smiled. “And yes, we do have domestic squabbles here. Or they might issue a traffic ticket; occasionally have to investigate a shooting or a theft. But those are very rare. The army is constantly on patrol, so they pretty well take over most law-enforcement jobs in a preventive manner, so to speak. We’ve found their presence to be a deterrent.”

Barney looked at Badger and could damned well understand why that would be so.

“Now as you probably realize by now,” Ben said, “in the Tri-states, it is not against the law to protect yourself, your loved ones, or your property. That is written into our constitution just as it is in yours… but we enforce it. And there have been killings and woundings. All justified under our laws.

“Now, I’m going to tell you something all of you will find very difficult to believe. But it is the truth. The Tri-states take in approximately three hundred and thirty thousand square miles of territory. Per capita, we have .025 percent crime. I don’t know how in the Lord’s name a society could get any lower statistics than that. We’ve had one mugging in the Tri-states in the past two years.”

“What happened to the mugger?”

“Twenty-five years at hard labor,” Ben said calmly.

“Twenty-five years!” a reporter jumped to his feet. “My God, General Raines—what kind of laws do you people have in this state?”

“I just told you. Tough ones.”

Several of the press people shuddered. Some smiled in disbelief.

“We have very tough drinking laws in this state,” Ben said. “And they are enforced to the letter. No exceptions. If you doubt that, take a drive up to the state penitentiary and ask to speak to a Mr. Michael Clifford; he was our secretary of finance until two years ago. He got drunk one night and ran over a young girl. She was badly injured. Mr. Clifford is serving a ten-year-to-life sentence. Had the girl died, the charge would have been murder. Not manslaughter—murder. And he would have spent the rest of his life in prison, at hard labor. No probation, no parole.

“We are not a teetotaling society; we don’t care if a person gets stinking drunk in his or her own home. That’s not our business. Just don’t drive drunk.

“There are bars and lounges all over the Tri-states. But none outside of a town limit, and there is a two-drink limit, or a three-beer limit. It’s all on an honor system: no cards to punch, no undercover people sneaking about. And so far, it’s working. There again, we have to go back to what has been preached to you people since you got here. One has to want to live in this type of society. And not everybody can.”

Juno chose that time to wander out onto the patio, take a look around, yawn, and then drop to the ground and go to sleep. He was getting old, almost nine years old, and blind in one eye, but still a beautiful animal.

“That’s a wolf,” someone whispered.

“Malamute,” Ben corrected. “I found him in Georgia, years ago. Or rather, he found me. Juno’s harmless, for the most part. Just leave him alone; that’s all he asks.” Ben smiled. “That’s all we ask here in the Tri-states.”

“Governor…” A woman rose. “I’m an atheist. Could I live in this area?”

“Of course; but your children would still be taught the Bible, our creation, in public schools—and there are no other kinds of schools. And won’t be.”

“Suppose I don’t want my children subjected to that superstitious drivel?”

“Then you could leave.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Your form of government is not very fair, General.” She slurred the “General.”

“It’s fair for the people who choose to live under it. And that is what Tri-states is all about. And I’m beginning to sound redundant.”

“You stress the Bible, General,” she retorted, “but it seems to me there is a definite lack of compassion in this state. And I really can’t correlate the Bible with legalized prostitution.”

Ben had taken an immediate dislike to the woman. Bad chemistry, he supposed. “I don’t stress the Bible, lady. We have great compassion for the old, the sick, the homeless, the young, the troubled, the helpless, those in need. Our system is such that no one needs to steal. That is why we are so harsh with lawbreakers. The churches are for those who wish to attend. The whorehouses are for those who would like a quick piece of ass.”

Behind him, Salina suppressed a groan and Tina giggled.

The woman sat down, angry.

Half of the press people laughed, the other half frowned at Ben’s loss of composure.

“Some would say you have a cult here, Governor.”

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I’d have to argue that. I was afraid of it, I will admit. At first. But we have no clear and fast ruler here. I know the people of the Tri-states would fight and die for their system of government. I am equally convinced they would not blindly die for me. That’s the difference. All of us are the architects of the system—not just me.”

“What does it take to move into this state?” Judith asked. Her colleagues looked at her in surprise. She sounded as if she meant the question for personal reasons.

“There has to be a job for you, and you have to want to move in very badly. You have to agree to become a member of the standing militia, and to support the Tri-states’ philosophy—war or peace.”

“You suppose there might be a job for me?” Judith asked.

“I would certainly imagine so. We’ve opened a number of radio stations and installed a number of TV stations. In our check on your people, you came out very high. You’re a fair reporter in all aspects.”

A reporter jumped to his feet. “What do you mean: a check on us?”

“Just that. You were all checked by our intelligence people before coming in here.”

“How? I mean… well, how?”

Ben smiled. “That, son, is something you’ll never know.”

The Tri-states had a fine intelligence-gathering network with sophisticated computers and databanks. Their microwave equipment was the finest in the world. Dozens of technicians, formerly employed by the CIA, NASA, NCIC, the FBI, and others, worked for the Tri-states’ military—both inside and outside the state. They had taps into many computers around the nation.

“Are you interested in joining?” Ben asked the young woman. “I believe your mother and father were killed by burglars, before the war—were they not?”

Judith nodded. How had he discovered that? “Yes, I am very much interested.”

“Are you out of your mind?” her boss whispered. “What are you trying to prove?”

Judith shrugged her reply.

“You people prowl around for a few days,” Ben said. “We’ll meet again for more questions and answers.” He wheeled about and walked into the house, Salina and Tina behind him.

Badger blocked the way, the AK-47 at port arms. And the first press conference in Tri-states’ short history was over.

FIVE

“Dr. Chase and Legal Officer Bellford are waiting for you people downtown,” Badger informed the press corps. “Tell your drivers to take you to district HQ. It’s just a couple of miles from here. That way.” He pointed. “There are vehicles waiting for you—Jeeps.”

“For free?” a reporter asked.

“Sure,” Badger said. “Why not? You thinkin’ about stealin’ one?”

The man laughed. “After what we just heard about your form of justice?”

Badger smiled. “Yeah. That’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

The auditorium in the Hall of Justice building was large and comfortably furnished. Charles Bellford and Chief of Medicine Lamar Chase were waiting for them.

Dr. Chase did not particularly like the press—those from the outside—but he agreed to meet with them. His dislike was evident with his opening remark.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve got important things to do.”

“You don’t consider meeting with us important?” he was asked.

“I consider it a waste of valuable time, and cannot see that anything constructive will come from it. You each get one question directed at me.” He looked at the reporter who had asked about the importance of the meeting. “You’ve had yours. Next?”

The reporter sat down, muttering. “I don’t believe this place.”

“Dr. Chase, how do your medical facilities differ from those of the… outside?”

Chase smiled. “Good question, son. I can sum it all up in one statement, then get the hell out of here.

“We have the finest research center in the world here in the Tri-states. I should know, I helped steal most of the equipment.”

The room echoed with laughter.

“Our facilities are excellent, and seventy-five percent free to the public. The state pays the first seventy-five percent, the patient the remainder, and that can be paid by installments or by a state loan. But no one is denied medical care—ever.

“We have doctors from the outside begging to come in here. Here, a physician may not become wealthy, but he or she will, in most situations, work regular hours. Ob/gyn people are exceptions. We don’t have malpractice suits in the Tri-states. Not as you people know them. A doctor might amputate the wrong leg and get sued—he should be sued. But it has to be something major for a lawsuit in the Tri-states.

“Here, doctors see patients who need to see a doctor, well-trained paramedics take care of the rest. That eases the load quite a bit. You people could have done the same had not the majority of your doctors been mercenary and the people they served sue-happy.

“We have the finest organ bank in the world. I have preached for years that it should be against the law for a person to be lowered into the ground with precious organs intact. That is not permitted here in the Tri-states. Every part of the human body we can use, we take at the moment of death.”

“The patient has no choice in the matter?”

“None.”

“Death with dignity, doctor—is that allowed in this semireligious society?”

“I’ll let the sarcastic ‘semireligious’ part of your question slide, sonny. I am not a religious man, personally. Yes, euthanasia is allowed in this society. And it’s nobody’s business but the patient’s—as it should be anywhere. Not all doctors agree with it, naturally; we have diverse philosophies in this society just as you do in yours. Those doctors that don’t like the idea don’t take part in it. But the right to die, with or without dignity, is a personal choice and right. And no one else’s goddamned business.” He walked out of the room.

“Very blunt man,” someone observed.

“But a compassionate one,” Charles Bellford said.

“Mr. Bellford, you used to be a federal judge. You don’t look like a judge now.”

Bellford was dressed in ranch pants, western shirt, and cowboy boots. He smiled. “I don’t have all those lofty decisions to hand down here, Mr. Charles. I’m a rancher/farmer first, legal officer second. Lawyers and judges don’t have much to do in the Tri-states.”

“Sir…” A reporter stood up. “I don’t mean to appear ignorant… but I just don’t understand your system of justice here. Surely you have decisions to weigh.”

Bellford shook his head. “I realize this state must come as a shock to most of you. But I have very few decisions to ponder. The people we allow in here are almost always amazed at how smoothly our system runs. It almost runs itself. And it’s easily explained: we simply brought the law back to the people.

“You see, I believe—and have for years—that the legal profession tried to keep the law, and themselves, on a plane far above the average person’s level of understanding. And they—we—did it deliberately. Gods on high, so to speak, uttering pronouncements in a verbiage beyond the grasp of the nonlegal-educated majority. It was arrogant of us, and that is not the way it is done in the Tri-states. Governor Raines believes that lawyers perpetuate lawyers. I agree with him.

“Our trials are different from those on the outside, but I assure you, one and all, they do not make a mockery of justice.

“You see, we don’t believe it’s fair or just for the state—as in your system—to throw millions of dollars, highly trained investigators, and fine legal minds into a case, when the defendant is left out in the cold with one attorney and all the bills. That is not justice for all. Even if the accused is proven innocent, beyond the shadow of a doubt, in your system, many times he or she is ruined financially and publicly humiliated—by the press. We just don’t believe that is true justice.

“There are no fine points of law here; no tricky legal maneuvering; no deals; no browbeating of witnesses. If a question cannot be fairly answered by a simple yes or no reply from the witness stand, we allow that person to elaborate. Or, one of the judges may stop the witness and take him or her into chambers, along with the attorneys; they’ll hash it out there.” He laughed. “You can all see I’m rusty with legal jargon. And so very happy about it.

“As you all know, polygraph and PSE machines are much more accurate than, oh, say ten years ago. And they are used in every case in the Tri-states. Every case. If they leave any doubt, we use drug-induced hypnosis. But a case will seldom go that far.”

“What if I don’t want to be subjected to that type of treatment?” he was asked.

“You don’t have a choice,” Bellford replied. “By your very refusal, you’re admitting a certain amount of guilt. Look, we’re dealing, in some cases, with human life; certainly with careers, with families, with dignity, and we want to be certain the right person is punished. And I know, and you people should know, that eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable. I wish we had a case being tried somewhere in the Tri-states so you could all see our system in action.”

“Sir… are you telling us that in all of the Tri-states, you aren’t trying someone?”

“That is correct. Sorry.”

“That’s impossible!”

Bellford laughed. “Perhaps incredible—to you people—but certainly not impossible. Sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and social anthropologists have been preaching for years that the death penalty and harsh laws would not be a deterrent for criminals. Many people believed them; I never did. Our society proves they were wrong. One day a week—this day—I come in in the afternoon to hear cases. I usually read a book to pass the time. Obviously, we are doing something right.”

“But you are selective as to the caliber of person you will allow to live in the Tri-states?”

“Oh my, yes.”

“Then how do you know harsh laws would work in the other states?”

“I don’t. But you don’t know that they won’t, because you people have never tried them. Probably never will. But that’s your problem; we’ve solved ours. Understand this: in the Tri-states, murder, kidnapping, armed robbery, the selling of hard drugs, and treason, are all punishable by the death penalty. And lesser crimes—and that is a paradoxical statement—are still treated in a very harsh manner.”

“Your system of justice does not allow much leeway for human error, Mr. Bellford.”

“More than you might realize, sir. We have counselors ready and willing to talk with anyone who might have a problem—twenty-four hours, around the clock. And our people do use them. We do not have a pressure-free society. But it’s as close as we could come to it.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Bellford. I don’t think I’d like to live in your society.”

“Your choice,” the reporter was informed. “And ours.”

Barney and his crew drove through the countryside as the press scattered over the thousands of miles of the Tri-states. They admired the neat, well-kept homes, the tidy fields and meadows, and the open friendliness of the people. No one seemed to be in any great hurry to get anywhere, and the press people realized then that the pace was indeed slower in the Tri-states. They were invited into homes by people they did not know, for coffee and cake and pie and home-baked bread. Homes were open, with doors unlocked; keys left in the ignitions of vehicles.

“Don’t let a good boy go bad,” one of Barney’s crew said sarcastically. “I always did think that was a bunch of shit. Good boys don’t steal cars. Punks steal cars.”

Barney glanced at him. “I never knew you felt that way, Jimmy.”

“You never asked me.”

Toward the end of the second day, Barney and his crew stopped to sit in silence for a time, digesting all they’d seen.

Barney sighed and shook his head. “Ted, we haven’t seen one shack in two days. I have seen no signs of poverty. I have not seen anyone who looked poor or unhappy about anything. Why is everyone so contented in this wacko place?”

“Because they have what they want. I couldn’t live here; I’ll admit that. I like to whore around too much.” He grinned. “I’d get shot for fooling around with someone’s wife. O.K., so I couldn’t live here—I haven’t been invited, have I? But these folks like it here. Hell, why doesn’t the government just leave them alone and let them live the way they want to live. They’re not forcing their way of life on anyone. It’s none of President Logan’s business.”

Jimmy said, “I agree with you, Ted. But I’ll admit something: I’d like to live here. Man, these people have something good going for them.”

Barney glanced at him. “The death penalty, Jimmy? Hard laws? I never knew you felt that way.”

“You never asked me.”

Charles Clayton and his crew pulled to a halt at the northernmost edge of the western part of the Tri-states. They had been following a chain-link fence for miles. The fence had stopped abruptly, turning straight east. Inside the fence was a desolate-looking stretch of almost barren land, cleared and stripped of most vegetation. It looked to be about a thousand yards wide.

“Looks like a no man’s land,” Clayton said, gazing at the second and third fences in the open area. “I’m beginning to understand why they have so few police. Once a person gets in, he can’t get out! The entire damned place is a jail.”

The minicam operator consulted a booklet. “This is the strip, as it’s called. Jesus, can you imagine the wire it took to build this thing?”

“Warning signs every few hundred yards,” Clayton said. “I wonder if that area inside is mined?”

A military Jeep pulled up beside the van. It had driven up so swiftly and silently it startled the men. The two soldiers were dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes, jump boots, and black berets. Armed with pistols and automatic weapons, they were neither hostile nor openly friendly—just curious.

“Something the matter?” one asked.

“Are you police?”

“No, army patrol. Border security.”

Clayton nodded. “What would you do if I had an urge to walk around in there?” He pointed toward the strip. “Just climb the fence and go in there?”

“Nothing,” the soldier replied blandly. “You’re an adult; you can read the warning signs. If you want to run the risk of getting hurt or killed in there, that’s your business.”

“So it is mined,” Clayton said.

“That’s the rumor.” The soldier lit a cigarette.

Clayton did not see the wink that passed from one soldier to the other. The area was not mined, but could be in a very short time.

“You people take death and injury very casually,” Clayton said.

“No,” the soldier contradicted, “not really. We love life, love freedom. That’s why we chose to live here. We just figure any intelligent man or woman would have enough sense or respect for warning signs to keep out of any area marked ‘Keep Out.’”

“There is still the matter of small children,” Clayton said, his face hot and flushed.

“Yes, that’s right. That’s why we’re here, sir. But our kids are taught to respect warning signs, fences, other people’s property, and things that don’t belong to them. How about your kids?”

Clayton glared at him for a moment, then smiled. “I have been properly chastised, soldier. Thank you.”

“You’re sure welcome, sir.” The driver put the Jeep in gear and drove off.

Clayton sighed. “This is a tough one, people. I don’t know how I’m going to report it. What they’ve done is bring it all back to the basics. That’s all it is. The simplest form of government in the world. But goddamn it!” he cursed. “It’s working!”

The press roamed the Tri-states, top to bottom, east to west for a week, some of them trying their very best to pick it apart and report the very worst. They talked with a few people who did not like the form of government, the harsh laws, and death penalty. Some people felt they had a right to get drunk and drive—they could drive just as well drunk as sober. They had a right to bully and browbeat. Laws were made to be broken, not followed.

But do you obey the laws in the Tri-states? they were asked.

Goddamned right! You’d better obey ’em in this place.

Has anyone mistreated you?

I got punched in the mouth one time; called a man a liar. Busted my tooth—right here—see it?

But when the talk shifted to hospitals, general health care, nursing homes, day care centers, rescue squads and other emergency services, employment, working conditions, housing, recreational areas, and day-to-day living… well, that was kind of a different story. Yeah, things are pretty good, I guess.

The press picked the state dry; then, in an informal meeting among themselves, talked of what they’d seen and heard.

“There is gun law here.”

“Anybody seen anyone get shot?”

No one had.

“There is no hunger here, and most people seem content.”

“A person can get shot for stealing a car.”

“But no slums or inadequate housing.”

“I can’t figure out whether dueling is legal here, or not. I think in a way, it is.”

“The medical care is the best I’ve ever seen, available to all.”

“Capital punishment is the law of the land.”

“But there is full employment and the wages are good. This state is full of craftsmen who are proud of their work.”

“There sure isn’t any crime.”

“Of course, there isn’t. Everybody packs a goddamned gun! Would you steal if you knew you were going to get shot for trying or hanged for the actual crime?”

“It’s a dictatorship.”

“No, it isn’t. Governor Raines was elected by the people. I don’t know what the hell it is. The only thing I know is… it’s working.”

“General,” a reporter said, “we’ve been here a week, looking around, asking questions. I can’t speak for the others, but if this is your concept of a perfect society—you can have it, sir.”

The Raineses’ back yard. Not as many press people as before; a full quarter of them having made up their minds—one way or the other—and left to file their stories.

“We’re not striving for a perfect society. That is impossible when imperfect human beings are the architects. We just want one that works for us; for the people who choose to live here.

“No, we’re far from perfection. Even within our own system there have been instances of injustice. No one will make any excuses for it except to say we’ve fought ignorance and prejudice and superstition… and I believe we’ve beaten it. Some of the people, who couldn’t take our form of government, left—and we bought their lands and property from them; we didn’t steal it—they had sat on their asses and done nothing but bitch and complain and criticize everything we were attempting to do, at the same time taking advantage of our food, medicines, and other help. They could not understand—or refused to understand—that black and white and red and tan and yellow all bleed the same color.

“There is no discrimination in the Tri-states, and there is no preference for color. Any person qualified to do a job can do it. If a person is not qualified, the job goes to someone else. You have all interviewed the lieutenant governor and the secretary of state; you all know they are black. The woman in charge of central planning is Sue Yong. Mr. Garrett, the chief law-enforcement officer in the Tri-states, is a Crow Indian. So on down the line. It would be grossly unfair to accuse us of being racially biased, but we are very selective.”

“Then you admit your form of government could not work in the other states, Governor?”

“Oh, it could work, but it would take a lot of education and a lot of conforming to make it work. But I’m not concerned with the other states. Just this area.

“Let’s wind this down and get it over with. Our bank interest rates are low—lower than they’ve been in the United States for almost twenty years. We have full employment, almost zero crime. Our pay scale is excellent, and we do it all without the threat of unions hanging over the businessman’s head.”

“Do you plan to keep unions out?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“By allowing in only those people who don’t want something for nothing. Profit-sharing is law in the Tri-states; which is one of the reasons it’s difficult for anyone to become a millionaire. Large factories are owned by the men and women who work the factories. We have very fair labor/management practices. Businesses offer excellent fringe-benefit plans. Our Fair Labor Practices Board—which is headed by a woman, by the way—is constantly checking to see that management pulls its share, and God help them if they are not. Sexual discrimination and sexual harassment will not be found in the Tri-states. That’s why some hotshot executives who moved in here from the cities moved out about a week after they got here.

“Job descriptions are defined from A to Z, and getting the boss his coffee, picking up his laundry, and looking after the family cat while he’s on vacation are not part of an employee’s job. I’m hitting the high spots, but you all get the overall picture.

“We have grievance committees in every shop, every factory, every business. Retirement plans are mandatory: business pays a third, labor pays a third, the state pays a third. Funds are transferrable from job to job, and there is no hassle connected with it. The same could have been done in the United States forty years ago.

“No one—repeat, no one—works six months out of a year then lays up on his or her backside drawing unemployment the other six. We’ll find people jobs the same day they lose or quit them. They might not like them, but they’ll work them or get the hell out.”

“How about taxes—are they high?”

“No. They are low, really, and we can keep them that way because our revenue goes to things other than fine new jails, federal grants and programs, make-work projects, investigating the sexual habits of a grubworm, and pork-barrel boondoggles. And we’ve done it without creating a monster bureaucracy.” He smiled. “That sticks in the craw of Logan.

“It is very true that we have broken away from the Constitution of the United States—to a degree—but we haven’t broken away from it any further than your government has in the past thirty years. The only difference was in direction. Your government went left, we went right.”

“Mr. Raines, the federal government in Richmond declares what you’ve done is illegal, and they will eventually stop you. I’d like to hear your views on that.”

“Well, sir,” Ben said, “I’d be very interested in hearing just how they plan to stop us. The only way they possibly could do it is through another war, and they’d have to kill off every man, woman, and child in the Tri-states. That’s the only way.

“We intend to live in peace as long as we’re left alone. But”—Ben smiled, a wolf’s baring of teeth that touched each member of the press, sending an eerie tingling up and down the spines of all present—“the man who issues that order to wipe us out is a dead man.”

The press waited, stirred, looked at each other.

“The Tri-states is broken up into districts,” Ben said. “Each district has a team of five men and women, all volunteers, all highly trained. Only a very few people know their identities. They are called zero squads because that is the odds of their coming out of their assignments—zero. They might be able to complete their assignments in a week; more than likely it will take some months, but they will complete their assignments, believe that.

“To declare war on us orders have to come from the top: the president, the House, and Senate. When, or if, that order comes down to destroy us, the president, the VP, any member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and any representative and senator who voices approval of the plan… will die.”

SIX

All the members of the press but one came to their feet in a roar of outrage. To break away from the Union was one thing—a bit daring, glamorous. But to plan and carry out mass murder was quite another; unthinkable—in their minds. Only Judith remained seated and calm in the midst of the uproar in the Raineses’ back yard, a faint smile on her lips—a smile that could be taken as admiration. Governor General Raines had taken out quite an insurance policy on the future of the Tri-states, and she had no doubt but what he meant every word. She was finding the prospect of living in the Tri-states more exciting with every minute.

Badger was on his feet, swinging the AK-47 toward the newspeople, anticipating a rush toward the governor. Juno was standing, snarling. Ben calmed them both with a quiet voice.

“You can’t be serious?” A young reporter yelled the questioning statement. His tone betrayed his shock and outrage. “That’s murder!”

Ben waited for the din to settle and the press people to return to their seats.

“And,” Ben said, “if the federal government moves against us, bombing and killing people, isn’t that murder? Perhaps you people would prefer the term ‘war’? If so, I’d like to see where you draw the line between war and murder.”

“Some of the people your zero squads might kill, Governor, could possibly have had nothing to do with any war against the Tri-states. Have you considered that?”

“Neither will the very young and the very old of the Tri-states,” Ben countered. “But they’ll die just the same. Have you thought of that?”

“Suppose they are given the opportunity to leave?”

“Suppose they like it here?”

“Mr. Raines, is the size of your army secret?”

“No. Everyone in the Tri-states is part of our armed forces. They all know their jobs and will do them without hesitation.”

“That doesn’t tell me the strength.”

Ben smiled. “Several divisions.”

“General, what do you think your chances of survival are in the Tri-states?”

“I have no idea.” He did. “As I have stated, all we want is to be left alone.”

“The federal government has never had a very good track record for doing that,” a reporter observed.

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “How well I know.”

The press left, all but Judith, who stayed on and became a resident and news director for a TV station.

Tri-states settled back to run itself: smoothly, quietly, profitably, and very efficiently. A dozen companies—major industrial conglomerates—had slipped quietly into the Tri-states and set up shop.

Those who came to the Tri-states, to live and to work, had many things in common: the desire to live and let live; the need for as much personal freedom as is possible in any society; the wish to give a day’s work (as a craftsman) for a day’s ample pay; respect for the rights of others.

There was room to relax in the Tri-states, room to breathe and enjoy life. Here, no one pushed.

America—the other forty-seven states—slowly returned to some degree of normalcy. Tourists were out and traveling in those areas that were not hot or forbidden.

Hesitantly, shyly at first—for the Tri-states had taken more than its share of bad press—a few tourists came in. But the Tri-states limited their numbers, after making certain they understood the laws of the nation. Then more people discovered the area was a very unique and quiet place to visit—if one stayed out of trouble. The Tri-states offered to the family unit a quiet vacation, with good fishing, good food, and honest surroundings, with no fear of crime.

The criminal element stayed far away from the Tri-states. Word had quickly spread in the newly organized underworld that to fuck up in the Tri-states meant a noose or a bullet—very quickly.

There were many things different, unique, and quite experimental about the Tri-states. One reporter called it right-wing socialism, and he was correct, to a degree. But yet, as another reporter said, “It is a state for all the people who wish to live there, and who have the ability to live together.”

In the Tri-states, if a family fell behind in their bills, they could go to a state-operated counseling service for help. The people there were friendly, courteous, and openly and honestly sympathetic. If that family could not pay their bills because of some unforeseen emergency, and if that family was making a genuine effort to pay their bills, utilities could not be cut off, automobiles could not be taken from them, furniture could not be repossessed. A system of payment would be worked out. There were no collection agencies in the Tri-states.

As Ben told a group of visiting tourists, “It is the duty and the moral and legal obligation of the government—in this case, state government—to be of service and of help to its citizens. When a citizen calls for help, that person wants and needs help instantly, not in a month or three months. And in the Tri-states, that is when it is provided—instantly. Without citizens, the state cannot exist. The state is not here to harass, or to allow harassment, in any form. And it will not be tolerated.”

“No!” President Logan said. “For the last time, I will not send any person from this good office to talk with the illegal governor of an illegal state. No!”

“Hilton, the state is a real state,” Aston reminded him. “The people are real. Their economy is booming.”

“I will tell you what I intend to do. I intend to denounce the Tri-states as illegal and politically nonexistent in the eyes of the United States Government.”

“And?”

“What do you mean?”

“What next—troops?”

“Perhaps. I’ve discussed it with General Russell.”

“Hilton, for God’s sake!”

Logan ignored the VP’s pleas. “I think we should first concentrate on the rebellious Indian tribes. Get them back in line and off stolen property.”

“No, Hilton—good Lord. What harm have they done?”

“We can be thankful for one thing: the niggers didn’t get organized. Not really. I’ll let Jeb Fargo and some of his people spearhead the drive to crush the Indians. I really never knew they were so military.” He looked at his VP, not understanding the horror in the man’s eyes. “Aston, we’ve got to pull this nation back together. General Russell tells me we’re almost strong enough to break the back of Raines’s Rebels.”

“Hilton, let Ben Raines have his state; let the Indian have his land. I just don’t want any trouble.”

Logan laughed. “You’re worse than an old woman, Aston. Do you look under your bed for ghosts at night?”

“I’ll forget you said that.”

President Logan stood up, walking from behind his desk to place his hand on the VP’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aston. My remark was uncalled for. I do need and value your help and friendship.”

“Hilton, do you think Raines was joking about those assassination teams? The zero squads.”

The president laughed. “Why, of course—don’t you?”

“No! I think we’ve been warned to leave them alone. I sure as hell don’t think he was kidding. Review his record, Hilton, both as a soldier in the U.S. Army and as a mercenary.” He looked up at his friend and boss. “Hilton, I’m worried, and so are a lot of other people around Richmond. Raines wasn’t kidding; he meant every word he said. Let them have their state.”

“Gun law, Aston? No. I won’t tolerate that.”

“Gun law is a phrase dreamed up by the press. They have courts and laws.”

“This is the United States of America, Aston. United! Those Rebels, white and red, have broken from the Union to form their own little nations. I intend to see they pay for that.”

The VP felt a cold, sluggish chill move in his guts, almost as a premonition of doom. “We’ll all pay for it, Hilton. Bet on it.”

The United States, for the most part, was recovering quickly. Nine years had passed since the nuke and germ holocaust. The people had adjusted to the fact that several major cities were gone, and there were areas they could never visit, or their children, or their children’s children. People had adjusted to the relocation and were rapidly picking up their lives… and once more listening to the rumors of war coming out of Richmond.

Tri-states had opened a number of radio stations within its borders, all operating on a twenty-four-hour basis, with enough power to cover the Tri-states. The formats were varied, from all news to rock and roll to classical, something for everyone’s tastes.

The telephone company had approached the Tri-states’ communications people, asking, please, could they have some of their equipment back? In return, Ma Bell would allow a hookup with equipment in the Tri-states.

Tri-states could now communicate with most of the other states.

Then, as the rumors of war became stronger, the central government of the United States began getting tough with its people.

First came legislation reestablishing government controls over the lives of people; balloting as a means of seeking the support of the people was rescinded, and the people were now told how they could live their lives. Then came more legislation controlling the ownership of firearms—all firearms. Rifles and shotguns were to be turned in, or forcibly taken from citizens. But Americans recently had had a war on their soil—and they had toughened. When the final roundup of long guns began, as before, resistance groups began forming.

Ben knew the government was deliberately saving the Indian nations and the Tri-states for last. The Indians and the Rebels would fight the longest and the hardest for their freedoms.

In less than six months, the federal government had broken the backs of most new resistance groups, seizing thousands of rifles and shotguns in the process, and had reestablished control over the lives of the people in seventy-five percent of the nation.

But there were still many guerrilla units fighting, hard-line holdouts who would fight to the end against total government control.

It was winter in the Tri-states, the temperature in the twenties and snowing. The phone rang in the outer offices of the governor general.

“Governor…” Ben’s secretary buzzed him. “It’s President Logan.”

Salina had come to have lunch with Ben and she smiled at his wink. “How about that?” he said with a grin. “That’s the first time in nine years Logan has officially acknowledged our existence.” He picked up the phone, calming the flashing light.

“Good morning, Mr. President. How are things in Richmond?”

“Cold,” Logan replied. “And wet.” He paused for a moment, then blurted, “I’d like a meeting with you and your staff. If we are to recognize your… state, there are a number of things we’d better discuss.”

Two thousand miles away, Ben sat numb, knowing the Tri-states’ time had come. For he knew Logan would only welcome the Tri-states into the fold if certain conditions were met, and the people of the Tri-states would never allow that. But Ben had to buy some time.

“Are you still there, Raines?”

“Yes,” Ben replied slowly. “Why the sudden change of heart, Logan?”

“A great many reasons, Raines.” The president’s hatred slithered through the long lines like a snake. “Some of which will not be to your liking.”

I’ll bet that’s a fact. “When do you want to meet?”

“Next Monday. Ten o’clock, eastern time. Here at the capitol.”

Ben started to refuse, to name an alternate site, neutral ground. But he rejected the thought, knowing the president could, if he was setting Ben up for an ambush, have troops anywhere in America in a matter of hours. He said, “All my people will be armed, including myself.”

“No! That is totally unacceptable.”

“Then the meeting is off,” Ben said flatly.

“Do I have to remind you I am the president of the United States? My God, Raines—don’t you trust me?”

Ben chuckled. “Hilton, you have got to be kidding. You were a closet bigot for years, using the minorities for votes only, and now your agents and troops are running around the country, knocking people in the head, taking their weapons from them. It’s ten times worse than before the bombings. So, trust you—? Hell, no.”

A moment of heavy silence. “All right, Raines, do it your way. Monday morning.” He hung up.

Ben sat for a long time, watching Salina work her needlepoint. She lifted her eyes, meeting his. She said, “It’s coming down to the wire, isn’t it, Ben?”

“Yes. Logan will offer us impossible conditions, knowing we’ll refuse. When we do, that will clear his conscience and he’ll move against us.”

“Those troops that have been quietly moving into position all around us?”

“Yeah. He’s blocked us from helping the Indians. He’ll take them out first.” He looked at Salina. “Salina… I want you to get out of here, up into Canada. You’re five months pregnant; by the time Logan moves against us, you’ll be too fat to wobble, much less run. I—”

“What do you mean, fat! I resent that. I think I’m having a rather slim, beautiful pregnancy.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Salina…?”

“No, Ben. I stay with you. End of discussion.”

He knew further argument would be futile. He called for Pal and Cecil and Ike and others, telling them of the news, and of his suspicions.

“I agree,” Pal said. “I’ll put the country on low alert.”

“You’ll have to stay behind, Pal—both of us can’t be gone at the same time,” Ben said. “When I return, I’ll go on the air with Logan’s conditions. We’ll leave it up to the people.”

“They’ll never accept anything other than what we have,” Cecil said.

“Yes,” Ben said. “I know.”

They all left, leaving Ben with his thoughts.

Badger had been waiting in the outer office, as usual. When the group left, he strolled in without announcement, as usual.

“What’s up, General?”

“Want to go to Richmond next Monday?”

“Not really. I like it here. But if you go, I go.”

Ben laughed. “Badger, one thing I’ve always admired about you is your bubbling enthusiasm.”

Badger sat down, cradling his AK-47 across his knees. “Yes, sir,” he said solemnly.

The three jets, formerly corporation jets—state airplanes, now—flew in formation toward Richmond. In the center jet were Ben and Salina, Cecil and Lila, Ike, Voltan, Steven, and Badger. In the other jets rode two teams of Rebels. Ben’s personal teams. Eighteen men and six women.

All regular Rebels were good at their jobs, experts, but these twenty-four were among the best—or worst, depending upon one’s point of view. They were, for the most part, silent as they blasted through the air, for to a person, they all knew war was just around the corner.

At the field in Richmond, they were met by VP Addison, several aides, and a dozen secret service agents. Ben suspected there might be a full brigade of troops lurking about the airport, and that thought amused him. He shook hands with VP Addison and grinned.

“No brass bands playing? No red carpet? No throngs of cheering people?” Ben asked. “My, you people don’t like me very much, do you?”

The VP stared into Ben’s eyes. “I don’t like what Logan has planned, Raines. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I know it. And that will be kept in mind.”

A half-hour later, they pulled into the drive of the new White House. The weather was dismal in Richmond, and Ben didn’t expect Logan’s welcome to be much better.

Badger stepped out first. “Wait here, sir,” he said to Ben. The bodyguard walked up the steps of the White House and stationed himself beside one of the huge pillars. The secret service men on duty held their hands away from their sides, to show him they had no intention of reaching for a gun.

“Just keep that thing on safety,” they requested.

Badger nodded.

Standing beside the limousines, an aide muttered, “The president is not going to be terribly thrilled about that man and his machine gun.” He glanced at Ben. “What do you think is going to happen, sir? Do you believe we’re planning an ambush, or something?”

Ben looked at the aide. Without smiling, he said, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

A piece of old verse popped into Ben’s head:

“Some gate,” Ben muttered.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” an aide asked.

Ben shook his head and walked up the steps.

SEVEN

The visitors from the Tri-states were ushered into the White House, taken upstairs, and seated in the president’s office. The contingent of Rebels remained downstairs, having coffee and chatting with the secret service agents; both groups attempted to make the best of a nervous situation.

The press was very much in force, snapping pictures and asking questions.

Logan made his entrance, strolling in all smiles and cordiality. The head of the Joint Chiefs was with him. Ben immediately distrusted the general. Russell had been a major in Vietnam; a politicking, ass-kissing coward.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Logan smiled. “Welcome to the White House. So nice to see all of you.”

And if you expect us to believe that, Salina thought, you’re a bigger fool than you look. But she smiled in return.

Ben shook hands with Logan and smiled a grim smile at General Russell. The two men immediately understood each other’s position; Ben realized that while America had a president, Logan shared the power with the military. Ben knew then why free elections had been postponed year after year. The military was setting up to take over total control of America. The rumors his intelligence people had intercepted and decoded were true. But Ben also knew there was discord among the military; not all commanders wanted the military involved in government, and the troops were taking sides… quietly.

The silent message in General Russell’s eyes was easy to read: Play along with me, Raines. Take my side.

Ben minutely shook his head and the general smiled and fired a silent dispatch: You’ve had it, Raines.

Ben returned his unspoken reply: When you try, General—you’re a dead man.

The messages concluded, there were a few moments of small talk about nothing at all until Mrs. Fran Logan gushed in, all smiles and southern hospitality, for everyone except Ben. She was very cool to Ben. She hesitated for just the smallest second before shaking hands with Cecil (it rubs off, you know), but then breeding took over and she gallantly took the offered hand, fighting back an impulse to wipe hers on her dress. A few moments later, the ladies left, much to the disgust of Salina and Lila. In the Tri-states, all government meetings were open.

“Gentlemen,” Logan said, “we have a great deal to discuss—shall we get on with it?” Without waiting for an answer, he ordered coffee sent in. There was quiet in the large room until the aide poured the coffee and left. General Russell stood across the room, away from the seated party from the Tri-states.

“If you wish to rejoin the Union, Raines,” Logan said, “it can be arranged.”

I just bet it can, Ben thought. “What’s the catch?”

Logan smiled and General Russell laughed aloud. The president said, “Absolutely no diplomat in you whatsoever, right, Ben?”

“Lack of diplomacy is just one of my many virtues. I’ll ask again: What is the catch?”

“Straight from the hip?”

“Shoot.”

“Your dictatorship has to end.”

“There is no dictatorship in the Tri-states. I was elected by popular vote.”

Logan waved away his words as if they had not been spoken. “You must fall in line with the other forty-seven.”

“No way.”

“You must open your borders, allowing any person who so desires to live in the Tri-states.”

“No way.”

“Your laws must conform with the rulings of our Supreme Court.”

Everyone from the Tri-states laughed openly at that.

Logan flushed, then said, “The gun law must cease.”

Ben placed cup and saucer on a coffee table. “Here is what we will and will not do, Logan: I will not tolerate your federal police coming in and setting up in our area. Our system of government works for us, and that is all that matters. No gun control; no flower-plucking, sobbing social workers telling us how to deal with punks. And no mumblings from your Supreme Court.”

“Raines, I’m offering you statehood in return for a few concessions.” He glanced at General Russell, then swung his gaze back to Ben. “You know, of course, what is going to happen if you refuse?”

Ben’s stare was cold. “And you know what will happen if you wage war against us.”

Logan laughed. “I don’t believe you have those… zero squads.”

But VP Addison looked worried.

Logan said, “You must know we have the power to crush you like a bug. We didn’t for a while; I’ll admit that. But now we do.”

“Yes, you probably do, Logan,” Ben said. “But all you’ll accomplish is a civil war, and it will, in all probability, tear this country apart.”

“Raines, you’ve done some good things out there—I won’t, can’t, deny that. I could even find a place for you on my team. I could use you. But your state has to fall in line.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then the Tri-states is through.” Logan said it maliciously.

“Are you going to give the orders to kill all the tiny babies and all the old and sick, Mr. President?” Cecil asked. “We have the good life, free of crime and red tape, and you just can’t stand that, can you?”

Logan flushed, but kept his mouth shut. Addison felt sick at his stomach. General Russell smiled.

“Logan,” Ben said, “I came here with a hope of working some… type of arrangement with you. To live peacefully. Different ideologies, certainly—it’s a different world, now—but still with some hope we could get together and live in peace. But your concept of peace is infringement on the personal liberties of law-abiding, taxpaying citizens. I’ll never tolerate that system again—never. Logan, those zero squads are real. They exist. You know what is going to happen to you if you start a war with us, and to every member of Congress who agrees with your plan.”

“I will unite the states,” Logan said. “And I will restore proper law and order. We cannot exist separately.”

Cecil smiled. “You mean, you won’t let us exist.”

Logan ignored the black man. He glared at Ben. “I’m going to destroy your state, Raines.”

“You’ve been warned, Logan.”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales, Raines. Good day.”

Back home, Ben went on the Tri-states’ radio and television, telling the people of the events in Richmond. Anyone who wanted to leave was warned to get out immediately.

A few left, most stayed. They began gearing up for war.

President Logan ordered a state of emergency and ordered all airlines and trucks and buses to cease—at once—any runs into the Tri-states. Phone service was cut—jammed. Troops set up roadblocks on the borders of the Tri-states and refused to allow any resident of the United States to enter the area. The Canadian government cooperated only half-heartedly with Logan’s requests to seal off their borders; Ben and his people had gotten along well with the new Canadian government. But in the end, it went along with Logan.

The freeze was on.

“I’m asking you again, Salina; pleading with you. Get out while there is still time.” Ben looked at the set of her jaw and never asked her again.

The central government of Richmond began dropping leaflets all over the Tri-states, urging its citizens to revolt against Ben, to leave.

A number of citizens of Butte built a huge sign on the outskirts of town, built it of rocks painted white, flat on the ground; the sign was immense, its seven letters telling the pilots exactly what they thought about the contents of the leaflets.

“How long can we last?” Ben asked his department heads.

“Medically speaking,” Dr. Chase said, “years.”

“We have food enough for years.”

“Fuel enough for years.”

“Ammunition enough for years.”

“It won’t be years,” Ben told them. “They’ll wipe out the Indians first, knowing we can’t move to help them because we’re blocked in here. They’ll hit us in midspring, after all the snows are gone. The weather will be perfect fighting weather—cool. Troops move better in that kind of weather.

“All right, mine the strip; enlarge it, pull it in a couple of miles at least. Turn it into hell. Munitions factories go on twenty-four-hour shifts effective immediately. We’ve got about ninety days before the balloon goes up.”

As Ben had predicted, the government of the United States decided they would give the Indians their comeuppance.

“The reservation lands will always be yours,” the federal agents told the Indians. “However, any land you seized following the war goes back to the government, and to the people… if we can find them.”

“Why?” the Indians questioned.

“Because it doesn’t belong to you.”

“It belonged to us a thousand years before you people got here. Look, we just want to live like decent people, that’s all. There is plenty of land for all.”

“Your suggestion will, of course, be taken into consideration. However, during the interim, you will have to return to your reservations.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” One does not ever say no to a federal agent—unthinkable. How impudent!

“No. We’re staying where we are.”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to take action to move you and your people.”

A smile greeted those words. “Look around you, federal man. Tell me what you see and hear.”

The federal men tensed as they heard the snicking of levers pushing live ammunition into gun chambers. They heard the rattle of belt-fed ammo being worked into weapons. They saw the determination of these people to stand and fight for what should have been theirs years before—was theirs years before.

“This land is our land,” the Indians said. “You’ll have to kill us to move us.”

When the first troops went in to move the Indians, the Indians did not fire the first shot. Instead, they tried to reason with the commanders. But the troops had their orders and the Indians had their pride.

When the first shot was fired against the Indians, Ben knew any early victories they achieved would be short and hollow ones. For they were too few, and the troops were too strong.

And Jeb Fargo and his people were too full of hate.

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

The commander of the federal forces, Maj. Gen. Paul Como of the United States Army, lowered his binoculars and turned to his aide. Dawn was just splitting the eastern sky with beams of gold. The men stood on the east side of the Tri-states’ Idaho border.

Como cursed. “Goddamn it, I stood on every border of this state for a week.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve seen the same thing each day: nothing! Not one sign of human life. No smoke, no movement—nothing. Oh, this is going to be a bloody bitch!”

Brigadier General Krigel walked up, catching the last of Como’s statement. “You know the response they gave to our leaflets. What are we going to do about the civilians and the hospitals and the nursing homes?”

“There are no civilians in the Tri-states,” Como said shortly. “The entire populace is an army.” He would rather not think about the rest of Krigel’s question, for it was because of that the Air Force had refused to bomb the Tri-states; the military was decidedly split over war with Ben’s people. “What’s the latest on aerial recon?”

“They started out at ten thousand feet and moved down to five hundred. There has not been a shot fired at any of them. We have not had one hostile move against us from the residents of the Tri-states. There are warm, breathing bodies in there—everywhere—but we don’t know if they are friendly, hostile, young, old, male, or female.”

Como sighed heavily. “The bridges all around the state been cleared?” 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 those people in there were SEALs.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what they were! I gave orders for the SEALs to clear the bridges. I ought to have those bastards 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 hell with the SEALs.” He glanced toward the east. Much lighter. “Get the airborne dropped.”

“The drop zones have not been laid out, sir.”

“What!”

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

“What!”

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

“Goddamn it!” Como yelled. He pointed a finger at Krigel. “You get the airborne up and dropped. Start the push—right now. You get those fucking 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, SEALs, AF personnel.” The CG finished it for him. “Wonderful. How many are not going to follow my orders?”

“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, sir, they’d storm the gates of hell 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 had almost resigned and retired. But 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. Classmates at the Point. But an order was an order.

Como pulled himself erect. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You’re a soldier, General Krigel, and you’ll obey orders, or by God, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Krigel snapped, losing his temper. “Goddamn it, Paul, we’re creating another civil war. And you know it. Yes, I’m a soldier, and a damned good one. But by God, I’m an American first. This is a nation of free people, Paul? The hell it is! Those people in the Tri-states may have different ideas, but—”

“Goddamn you!” Como shouted. “Don’t you dare argue with me. You get your troopers up and dropped—now, or they won’t be your troopers. General Krigel, I am making that a direct order.”

“No, sir,” Krigel said, a calmness and finality in his voice. “I will not obey that order.” He removed his pistol from leather and handed it to General Como. “I’m through, Paul—that’s it.”

General Como, red-faced and trembling, looked at the .45 in his hand, then backhanded his friend with his other hand. Blood trickled from Krigel’s mouth. Krigel did not move.

Como turned to a sergeant major, who had stood impassively by throughout the exchange between the generals. “Sergeant Major, I want this man placed under arrest. If he attempts to resist, use whatever force is necessary to subdue him. Understood?” He gave the sergeant major Krigel’s .45.

The sergeant major gripped General Krigel’s arm and nodded. He didn’t like the order just given him. He’d been a member of an LRRP team in Vietnam—back when he was a young buck—and the idea of special troops fighting special troops didn’t set well with him. American fighting American was wrong, no matter how you cut it up.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major said, but he was thinking: just let me get General Krigel out of this area and by God, we’ll both link up with Raines’s Rebels. Us, and a bunch of other men.

General Como turned to his aide, Captain Shaw. “Tell General Hazen he is now in charge of the Eighty-second. Get his troopers dropped. Those that won’t go, have them placed under arrest. If they resist, shoot them. Tell General Cruger to get his marines across those borders and take their objectives. Start it. Right now! Those troopers should have already been on the ground.”

Shaw nodded his understanding, if not his agreement. The young captain was career military, and he had his orders, just as he was sure Raines’s people had theirs.

“Yes, sir.” He walked away. “Right away, sir.”

General Como blinked rapidly several times. He was very close to tears, and then he was crying, the tears running down his tanned cheeks. “Goddamn it,” he whispered. “What a fucking lash-up.”

The first few companies of marines and their spearheaders, the force recon, hit the edge of the strip and died there. The area had been softened up with artillery and heavy-mortar fire, but Ben’s people were in tunneled bunkers, and when the shelling stopped, up they popped.

The marines established a beachhead, or, in this case, a secure perimeter, taking the first three thousand yards. They always take their objective—that’s why they are marines—but the price was hideous. Neither side gave the other any mercy or quarter. For every meter gained that morning and early afternoon, the price was paid in human suffering.

The Rebels of the Tri-states waited until the paratroopers were on the ground and free of their ‘chutes before opening fire. Those were Ben’s orders, and the only act of mercy shown on either side. The first troopers to hit the DZs were killed almost instantly, raked with heavy .50-caliber machine-gun fire… or blown to bits with mortar fire.

By evening of the second day, the government troops were well inside the Tri-states’ borders, coming in from north to south, east and west, hoping to trap the Rebels in a pocket. But Ben’s people had reverted to guerrilla tactics and scattered; they had no group larger than battalion size, and most were platoon or company size. They hit hard, then they ran, and they booby-trapped everything.

The government troops who stormed the Tri-states soon learned what hell must be like. Everything they came into contact with either blew up, shot at them, bit them, or poisoned them. The older men thought they’d seen war at its worst in ‘Nam, but this surpassed anything they’d ever experienced.

Earlier, the medical people in the Tri-states had discovered packs of rabid animals and captured them, keeping them alive as long as possible, transferring the infected cultures into the bloodstreams of every warm-blooded animal they could find. The day the invasion began, the animals were turned loose all over the area. It was cruel. Isn’t war always?

The government troops began their search-and-destroy missions. They entered hospitals and nursing homes and found the patients had been armed. The very old and sick and dying fought just as savagely as the young and strong and healthy. Old people, with tubes hanging from their bodies, some barely able to crawl, hurled grenades and shot at the special troops. And the young men in their jump boots and berets and silver wings wept as they killed the old people. Tough marines cried at the carnage.

Many of the young soldiers threw down their weapons and walked away, refusing to take part in more killing. It was not cowardice on their part—not at all. These young men would have fought to the death against a threat to liberty; but the people of the Tri-states were no threat to their liberty. And the young troops finally learned the lesson their forefathers died for at Valley Forge: people have a right to be free, to live and work and play in peace and personal freedom—and to govern themselves.

Many of the young troops deserted to join the Rebels; officers publicly shot enlisted people who refused to fight against a group of citizens whom they believed had done no wrong.

The universal soldier syndrome came home to many of the troops: without us, you can’t have a war.

And the children of the Tri-states, they fought as well. Some as young as twelve stood and fought it out with the American military… wondering why, because they thought they were Americans. They hid with sniper rifles and had to be hunted down and killed. No compassion could be shown. A battered and bleeding little girl might just hand a medic a live grenade and die with him.

Rightly or wrongly, Ben’s orders to school the young of the Tri-states in the tactics of war had been driven home. They had been taught for nine years to defend their country, and that is what they were doing.

The hospitals finally had to be blown up with artillery; they were unsafe to enter because the patients were armed and ready to die. Everywhere the U.S. fighting men turned, something blew up in their faces. With thousands of tons of explosives to work with, the Rebels had wired everything possible to explode.

Tri-states began to stink like an open cesspool. The troops had to kill every warm-blooded animal they found. There was no way of knowing what animals had been infected—not in the early stages. The government troops became very wary of entering buildings, not only because of the risk of a door being wired to blow, but because the Rebels had begun placing rabid animals in houses, locking them in. A dog or a cat is a terrible thing to see come leaping at a person, snarling and foaming at the jaws.

The troops could not drink any of the water found in the Tri-states. Dr. Chase had infected it with everything from cholera to forms of anthrax.

There were no finely drawn battle lines in this war; no safe sectors. The Rebels didn’t retreat in any given direction, leaving that area clean. They would pull back, then go left or right and circle around, coming up behind government troops to harass and confuse them, or to slit a throat or two. For the Rebels knew the territory, and they had, for nine years, been training for this. And they were experts at their jobs.

The bloody climax came when the government troops could not even remotely think of taking prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel of any age or sex getting close to them. Then the directive came down the chain of command: total extermination.

For many, this was the first time for actual combat. The first time to taste the highs and lows of war. And there are highs in combat. The first time to take a human life; and all the training in the world will not prepare a person for that moment.

Sometimes in combat, the mind will click off, and a soldier will do the necessary things to survive without realizing he is doing them, or remembering afterward. Rote training takes over.

Fire until you hear the ping or plop of the firing pin striking nothing. Make an easy, practiced roll to one side; quickly slam home a fresh clip; resume firing position, always aiming for the thickest part of the enemy’s body, between neck and waist.

Your weapon is jammed. Clear it. Cuss it. Grab one from a dead buddy. Fire through the tears and the sweat and the dirt.

Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until it’s empty and will never reload, so caught up in the heat and the horror of combat is he. Pull the trigger over and over; feel the imaginary slam of the butt against the shoulder; kill the enemy with nonbullets.

The yammering, banging metal against metal makes it difficult to think. So you don’t. The screaming, the awful howling of the wounded and the yelling of the combatants blend into a solid roaring cacophony in your head. An hour becomes a minute; a minute is eternity. God! will it never end? No! don’t let it end; the high is terrific, kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, reaching the climax.

One soon learns the truth: you didn’t climax, you shit your pants.

When did it start raining red? Thick red.

Suddenly, you become indestructible. They can’t kill you. Laugh in the face of death. Howl at the reaper. A man running for cover is decapitated by a fluttering mortar round that sounds like a bunch of quail taking off as it comes in. The headless, nonhuman-appearing thing runs on for twenty more feet, flapping its arms in hideous silence. How fascinating. Look at it run. Fall down. Lie still.

A man is crawling on his hands and knees, gathering up his guts, trying to stuff them back into the gaping hole in his belly. He falls on his face, shivers, then screams and dies. Good. At least that shut the son of a bitch up. His guts are steaming in the cool air.

There is the enemy. Shoot him. Bring the rifle to your shoulder, sight him in—God! it’s a her! Too late, you’ve pulled the trigger. Good hit. You know it’s a good hit, ‘cause the cunt falls funny, kind of limp and boneless.

The thought comes to you: how long has it been since you had any pussy?

Shit, man! What a time to be thinking of that!

Turn to say something to your best buddy, just a yard from you in a ditch. Discover that what you thought was red rain is really blood. A lot of blood. He’s still alive, but the blood is really gushing out… in long spurts. You want to be sick, but here is no place to be sick; not enough time to be sick. Besides, you’d have to lie in it. You smell the stink of shit. Realize it’s your shit—in your pants.

Your eyes smart from the smoke of battle and the sting of sweat. Wipe your face and dig at your eyes with shaky hands. You’d better get your shit together, ‘cause here comes the enemy, almost on top of you.

There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one you never really liked ‘cause he used to brag about all the pussy he got. He won’t get any more. Took a slug right between the eyes; all that yuk leaking out.

Abruptly, too quickly, the enemy is all around you and you’re mixing it hand-to-hand. This is stupid! The enemy looks just like you. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells bad. Just for the smallest of a split second your eyes meet. Each brain sends the same message: This guy is going to kill me!

You’re off your knees (How did I get on my knees? What the fuck was I, praying?) and out of the ditch. Your legs support you. Shaky, but you’re going to be all right. You’re going to make it. You’re going to live!

Squeeze the trigger. Goddamn it! the weapon’s empty. Slam the butt of your rifle into his balls and he screams and doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down hard on his neck, hear the neck pop. He’s through. A fresh clip in the weapon. Shoot him to be sure he’s dead.

You turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your lungs; can’t get enough air. There is another Rebel…. He’s just killed… what’s his name? Guy from third platoon. You notice the strangest things: the Rebel needs a shave. Rush over to him while his back is turned. But it’s almost like slow-motion. Force your bayonet into his back, feeling the hard resistance as the blade pushes through muscle and passes bone. It’s not as easy as in the movies. It’s always so clean and glorious in the movies. Don’t remember fixing the bayonet on the lug. What difference does it make? The Rebel is screaming and jerking and twisting in pain. Oh, shit! The blade is stuck in his back. Christ! Pull the trigger and blast the blade free.

How in the hell did you get on the ground, flat on your back? Am I O.K.? Feel yourself with your hands—timid hands. Jesus, don’t let my balls be gone.

“Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!” a sergeant is yelling. Is he yelling at me? Damn, Sarge, I didn’t get down here deliberately. The sergeant takes a slug in the back. Musta gone right through the spine; he falls funny. You can’t remember his name.

Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this, a replay? You just did this.

Some guys have captured a woman Rebel; pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys! She’s screaming something while they rape her. That’s not right. We’re not animals, guys.

“Want some pussy, Jake?”

They’re talkin’ to you, stupid. “No.”

Someone is screaming. A Rebel.

“Beg, you mother-fucker!” someone tells him.

“Go to hell!” The Rebel shouts his reply.

The old man has said no prisoners. So the Reb is shot. But he didn’t have to be shot there. He’s screaming.

Look around you. Is it over? Yeah—almost. HolyMotherofGodJesusFuckingChristAlmighty: look at the bodies. All the blood and shit. Oh, God—the sergeant is walking around the area, shooting the wounded Rebs in the head. Someone tells you your squad leader is dead. You were a corporal; now you’re a sergeant. Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn’t seem like much of a big deal. You want to say: “But I don’t want it!” Then suddenly there is a .45 in your hand and you’re stepping through the gore and the pain and the moaning and the .45 is jumping in your hand, ending the screaming.

No prisoners.

On either side.

That woman Reb is still screaming. They’re hurting her. “Fuck her up the ass!” someone shouts, laughing. “Get a little brown on your pole.”

You walk away from the sight and sounds. You could stop them; you’re a sergeant; but you don’t want to lose face with the men, not this early in your promotion. What the hell? She’s only a Rebel. The enemy.

Now the enemy is dead as you walk through the near-quiet battleground. But that woman is still screaming way back there, across the meadow. Wish to hell she’d shut up.

A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest. He’s looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You shoot him in the head.

Look… don’t blame me. I’m just following orders.

Now, all the enemy is dead, and it’s too quiet. Somebody say something. But everybody you look at averts their eyes. Guys are breathing too hard; somebody tosses his breakfast, puking on the ground. Someone else is praying. You think God is listening after all this shit?

“It’s too goddamned quiet!”

You spin around. “Who said that?”

Nobody will answer.

A Rebel is moaning. You point to him, then look at one of your men. You hear your voice say: “Shoot him.”

“Right, Sarge.”

Bam!

The sound is so goddamned loud.

There is a guy from your platoon, kneeling, holding a tiny blue-colored bird in his dirty hand. The bird is dead. Everybody gathers around to look at it. There isn’t a mark on the bird. No blood. Seems funny to see something without any blood or dirt on it. Wonder what killed the bird?

“Hey, Sarge?” someone whispers. “You know what?”

“What?” Your voice sounds funny. Old.

That woman is still screaming, faintly, hoarsely.

“We won.”

NINE

By dusk of the thirty-fifth day, the heaviest fighting was behind the government troops. The pincers had closed, and most of the Tri-states was secure. But the price paid for victory had been cruelly high.

Juno was dead, shot a dozen times, but only after the aging animal had killed a major, tearing out his throat.

And now the government troops had to be content with mopping up; combat troops can testify that mopping up can be awful. It is a sniper’s bullet; a booby-trap; a mine; a swing-trap with sharpened stakes set chest high; a souvenir that can cost you a hand, or a leg, or a life.

Major General Como was dead, shot through the head by a thirteen-year-old girl wielding a pistol she had taken from the body of a paratroop captain. The girl was taken alive, raped repeatedly, then shot.

It has been written that there is nothing in the world more savage than the American fighting man.

Como’s replacement, Major General Goren, lasted only two weeks. He opened the center drawer of a desk in what was to have been his HQ, a cleared secure building, and five pounds of nitroglycerine and nitrocellulose blew him open and spread him all over the room, along with a colonel and his sergeant major. The charge was timed with a delay fuse: open the drawer ten times and the charge was still dormant; on the eleventh, it would blow.

Mopping up.

In a mountainous, heavily wooded area, west and north of Vista, HQ’s company of Tri-states’ Rebels prepared to fight their last fight. Most of them had been together for years: Steven and Linda, James and Belle, Cecil and Lila, Al and Anne, Bridge and Abby, Pal and Valerie, Ike and Megan, Voltan and Nora, Sam and Pam, Jerre and Jimmy Deluce; and Jane Dolbeau, Tatter and June-Bug and their husbands… Ben and Salina. And a hundred others that made up the company. The kids with them should have been gone and safe by now, but they’d been cut off and had to return. It was now back to alpha, and omega was just around the corner, waiting for most of them.

There was a way out, but it was a long shot.

Ben sat talking with the twins, Jack and Tina.

“Jack, you’ve got to look after Salina, now. I’m going to split the company and lead a diversion team. I think it’s our only way out.” He patted Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll be all right, son; don’t worry about me. I’ll make it. I’m still an old curly wolf with some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Then you’ll join us later?” Tina asked, tears running down her cheeks.

“Sure. Count on it,” Ben said. He shook Jack’s hand and kissed Tina. “Go on, now, join up with Colonel Elliot. I want to talk with your mother for a moment.”

Salina came to his side, slipping her hand into his. They were both grimy from gunsmoke and dirt and sweat. Ben thought she had never looked more beautiful than during her pregnancy; she had stood like a dusty Valkyrie by his side, firing an M-16 during the heaviest of fighting.

She said, “We didn’t have much time together, did we, Ben?”

“We have a lot of time left us, babe,” he replied gently.

She smiled; a sad smile. Knowing. “Con the kids, General. Don’t try to bullshit me.”

“Yeah,” Ben said ruefully. “Yeah, I wish we’d had more time.” He kissed her, very gently, very tenderly, without passion or lust. A man kissing a woman good-by.

Salina grasped at the moment. “Is there any chance at all?”

“Not much of one, I’m afraid.” He leveled with her.

She tried to smile; then suddenly began to weep, softly, almost silently. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I do love you, Ben Raines.” She smiled through the tears. “Even if you are a honky.”

“And I love you, Salina.” He fought back the tears to return her smile. “Now you step ‘n’ fetch yore ass on outta here, baby.”

And together they laughed.

Ben helped her to her feet, gazed at her for a moment, then walked from her to join the group he was taking on diversion. Abruptly, without warning, the silent forest floor erupted into blood and violence. A platoon of paratroopers, quiet and deadly, came at the Rebels; the peaceful wood turned into hand-to-hand combat.

Ben flipped his old Thompson onto full auto and burned a clip into the paratroopers, bringing down half a dozen. Salina screamed behind him. Ben spun in time to see her impaled on a bayonet. Her mouth opened and closed in silent agony; her hands slowly crawled snakelike down her stomach to clutch at the rifle barrel, to try to pull the hot pain from her stomach. She screamed as she began miscarrying the dead child, for the bayonet had driven through the unborn baby.

“Jesus Christ!” the trooper yelled, as he saw what he had done. He tried to pull the blade from her belly. But the blade was stuck. He pulled the trigger—reflex from hard training—and blew the blade free, sending a half-dozen slugs into Salina, throwing her backward from the force.

Ben jerked his .45 from leather and blew half the trooper’s head off, just as Salina collapsed to the ground, her hands working at the bloody mess that was once her stomach.

Ben was at her side as his Rebels, offering no mercy, took the fight to the troopers. The troopers were outnumbered and fighting against white-hot rage. They died very quickly; the Rebels took no prisoners.

Ben gathered her into his arms, knowing there was no chance for her to live. She was fading quickly. “I love you, Salina.”

She looked up at him and smiled for the last time. “Sorry ‘bout the baby, honey. But with our luck it would probably have been a koala bear.”

She closed her eyes and died.

Ben tried to rip away the heavy load of grief that saddled his shoulders and clutched at his heart with cold fingers. He shook away dozens of emotions as he knelt beside the only woman he had ever truly loved. He touched her face, closed her eyes, smoothed her hair, kissed her still-warm lips. He fought his way back to reality.

Dr. Chase pulled him away from Salina’s body and knelt down for a moment, cutting at her maternity slacks with a knife. He covered her with a shelter half and rose to face Ben. “Boy,” he said. “Perfectly normal. All his fingers and toes. Her complexion, your eyes. Bayonet went right through him.”

Ben nodded. “Let’s go!” he shouted. “There is no more we can do here. Help the wounded and let’s move it.”

Ike touched his arm. “Ben…”

“We don’t have time to grieve, buddy. Later.”

The Rebels drifted silently into the forest, taking their wounded, leaving their dead; Salina and the boy lay among the still and the quiet and the dead. Ants had already begun their march across her face. She lay in a puddle of thickening blood, one hand on the arm of her dead child.

The Rebels split up, the first two squads not making it past the edge of the northern border of the strip. A forward observer spotted them and called in artillery. None escaped the deadly hail. Another group walked into an ambush; only a few escaped. The kids lay like pebbles on a beach, their broken and smashed bodies a grim reminder of the vindictiveness and power of government. A half a dozen Cobra gunships spotted another group and came chopping out of the sky, strafing them with rocket and machine-gun fire.

A few moments before dusk Ben’s group came face-to-face with two companies of government troops.

Jimmy Deluce was caught in a murderous crossfire and died on his feet, cursing the enemy.

Jack had regrouped with his father and now left Ben’s side to help a friend. Jack was almost cut apart by M-60 fire. Tina lobbed a grenade into a machine-gun nest and finished it off with a burst from her M-10.

Sam Pyron watched his wife shot dead, and the West Virginia mountain boy rose to his feet, screaming his outrage. He walked toward the soldiers hip-firing an AK-47 and cursing them. He took more than a few with him into that long good-by.

Ben took a slug low in his left side, the slug traveling downward, bouncing off his hipbone, the force of it knocking him against a tree, stunning him. A concussion grenade slammed him into darkness.

Ben was spared the sight of Pal taking a .45 slug through the head. He did not see Valerie torn apart by automatic rifle fire. He would be informed much later that Pal and Valerie’s children had run into the line of fire trying to get to him, and had been cut to bloody ribbons.

Voltan died. Megan was taken alive and raped, then shot. Al, Abby… many, many more died. Lila walked in front of a Claymore and was blown into tiny bits. James Riverson helped carry Ben out of the forest and across the border, the big man walking and weeping. His Belle was dead, and so were their kids.

By the time darkness fell on the now nonexistent government of the Tri-states, not many Rebels had escaped. Less than three thousand had made it out. But Badger and dozens more had escaped weeks before, and headed underground.

The zero squads.

TEN

Senators Richards, Goode, Carey, and Williams were having a drink before their usual Thursday-night poker game in Richmond. They would never get around to playing poker, and it would be their last drink before death took them behind her misty curtain of sunless eternity. They all felt safe, knowing that three secret service agents were guarding them. The agents were there, but they were very dead, cut down by silenced .22 automatics.

Williams jerked up his head, the fresh drink in his hand forgotten. “Did any of you hear anything?”

Carey laughed. “Relax, Jimmy. You don’t really believe in those so-called zero squads, do you?”

Sen. Jimmy Williams ran nervous fingers through thinning hair. He did not reply. Outside, a late-summer storm was building; heat lightning danced erratically and thunder rumbled across the sky, almost an ominous warning in cadence.

Senator Goode leaned forward. “Jimmy, it’s been over three months since the Tri-states’ defeat. Ben Raines is dead. Eyewitnesses have reported it. If anything was going to happen, don’t you believe it would have occurred by now?”

“No.” Williams spoke. “I don’t. We allowed the women and kids to be killed—slaughtered like animals. Just like we did the Indians. They’re going to get us. We’re dead men and don’t even know it.”

Senator Richards looked up into the gloom of the darkened hallway. “Oh, no!” he shouted. “Oh, my God!”

The senators looked first at their colleague, then into the faces of hate and revenge and death. Standing in the hallway stood two men and a woman. They held silenced automatics in their hands.

Goode fell forward on his knees and began to pray. A self-professed “good Christian man,” Goode had been the first to vote for war against the Tri-states.

Carey’s face turned shiny from sweat and a trickle of spit oozed from a corner of his mouth. He began to rub his hands together and lick at his lips.

Richards dropped his drink on the carpeted floor. His eyes were wide and he urinated in his shorts.

Only Williams remained calm. “I knew you people would come,” he said. “I told them to leave you alone. I was against fighting you.”

“We know.” The woman spoke. “And because of that, you’ll live. And the Tri-states will live again, too. Remember that.”

“Yes. Yes, I will.” Williams bobbed his head up and down.

The automatics began to hum their dirges. Richards, Goode, and Carey jerked onto the floor and died. The assassination team left as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. They had a lot of work ahead of them.

Williams sat for a long time, looking at the cooling bodies of his friends. His eyes grew wild and he soiled himself. The telephone rang and he ignored it. He began to giggle, childlike. The giggling changed to laughter and he howled his madness as blood vessels burst in his head. He fell to his knees on the floor and cried and prayed. A massive pain grew out of his chest—a huge, heavy, crushing weight. He screamed, his heart stopping its beating. He died.

General Russell called for more coffee. He was working late in his office. A sergeant brought him a fresh pot, poured a cup, and opened a packet of sugar, stirring it in.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes,” Russell said. “You may leave.” He tasted his coffee, added more sugar, and took another sip. He would be found the next morning, dead, his system full of poison.

Dallas Valentine and the first lady, Fran Logan, lay moaning and thrashing on the bed, both of them reaching for the final pinnacle of climax. Neither of them heard the door swing open. They were enjoying mutual climax as the Rebel with the silenced submachine gun sprayed them with .45-caliber slugs, turning the silk sheets red with blood.

The Rev. Palmer Falcreek answered his telephone. A voice said, “Let he that is without sin cast the first stone.”

“What the hell did you say?” Falcreek said.

“I said”—the voice rang in Falcreek’s ear—“open the drawer in the middle right of your desk, you semi-sanctimonious mother-fucker!”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Falcreek raged. He jerked open the desk drawer and half the house blew apart as the heavy charge was detonated.

Senator Higley worked late in his office. The storm didn’t worry him and neither did the myth of the zero squads. He left his office at nine-thirty. Halfway down the steps of the Senate office building he sat down abruptly, twitched once, then slowly rolled down the steps, the hole between his eyes leaking blood and gray matter.

Senator Pough stepped out of his porch for a breath of cool night air. He heard a thump and looked down. Between his feet, on the porch, lay a hissing white phosphorus grenade. Pough had only a few seconds to feel panic, attempt to run, and scream just once before the grenade exploded and seared him to the house.

Rep. Carol Helger answered the donging of her apartment doorbell and took a twelve-inch bayonet through her chest. The young woman who shoved the heavy blade into her spat on the still-writhing body, left the blade in her, and quietly left the building.

The zero squads were busy that stormy, revengeful night. Very busy. The final tally was thirty-one senators and seventy-four representatives dead. Twelve cabinet heads dead and the entire Joint Chiefs were also wiped out. A few zero squad members made it out of Richmond to rejoin the eastern-based Rebels. Most died in shootouts with the police. Only one zero squad member had not worked that night of terror. He slept soundly in a motel room three hundred miles from Richmond. He had only one person to kill.

Badger Harbin was to kill the president of the United States.

Richmond went into a panic. No one could possibly guess at the number of assassins roaming the streets, killing at random. Innocent men and women were killed by federal agents and police during raids on suspected Rebel sympathizers. Martial law was declared. The police were federalized. It was the beginning of America’s first true police state.

President Logan smiled and leaned back in his leather chair. He was very pleased with the way things were going. Seven weeks since the awful assassinations, and the country was settling down. He had rid himself of a cheating wife and accomplished his life’s dream: he had an iron grip on the country. The previous night he had dreamed of being crowned king of America.

Yes, Logan smiled, things were sailing right along. And, best of all, that damned Ben Raines was dead. That damned troublemaker was finally dead and through.

Or was he? The president frowned at the thought. His agents swore that Raines was dead; swore they’d shot him and a young blonde woman who was with him. Said they saw them fall out there in Washington, up near the British Columbia border.

“Damn it!” Logan swore. Why hadn’t they made more effort to retrieve the body and bring it back with them? Put the stinking, bullet-riddled carcass on public display, to show people that when the government says do something, by God this is what happens if you don’t follow orders.

The president stood and stretched. He walked out of his office and up the hallway. “Get my guards,” he told an aide. “I’m going for a walk.”

Logan tried to take a walk every morning at ten o’clock, rain or shine. He had missed his walk the past few days because of meetings and was irritable because of it. Now he would have his walk.

His last walk.

Outside the new White House, as it was still called, across the street in a public park, a young man sat, feeding the birds and the squirrels, enjoying the cool breeze of fall; a handsome young man, in his late twenties or early thirties. He looked very much the part of a highly successful executive, dressed in the height of fashion. He’d drawn the attentions of a dozen ladies strolling. The young man had smiled at them, then ignored them. Seemingly preoccupied with the time, he kept looking at his wristwatch.

Ben Raines gazed at the reflection of his face and upper torso in the still waters of the little creek in northern Idaho. He said, “Lord, man, you look like you’ve been dissected and rejected.”

Ben was now in his fifty-third year, completely gray. His face was lined and tanned; body still hard, eyes old.

“No…” A voice spoke from behind him. “Never rejected. Not by me.”

Ben turned, smiling, to look at the woman who had stood by him during the past very bad months. She returned the smile.

“At last count there were nine bullet scars in your hide.” She touched one of the newer scars, pink and dimpled. Her touch became more intimate as she moved her hand from his shoulder to his chest, touching her lips to his mouth.

“I have a meeting in an hour,” he reminded her.

She grinned. “General, there may have been a time when you could last an hour. But not since I’ve known you.”

Together, they laughed.

In the small park across from the White House, Badger Harbin put his hand on the briefcase. He had heard the newscast, some weeks back, that Gen. Ben Raines was dead. Badger wanted very much not to believe that. And a part of him did not. Gen. Ben Raines, Badger knew, was a hard man to kill.

The attaché case under his hand was ready. In that case he had carefully prepared and packed ten pounds of C-4 plastic explosive, to be detonated electrically, activated by a tiny switch located under the handle of the briefcase.

Badger smiled. It was similiar to the grin of the Grim Reaper.

Vice President Addison stood in the president’s now-empty office and fought a silent battle within his mind. The president had been his friend for more than thirty years. But Hilton had done so much twisting and changing in his social and political philosophy over the last years… Aston felt he no longer knew the man, and he was ashamed of himself for remaining silent at some of Hilton’s outrages toward humankind.

Aston had been sick at his stomach for a week after the slaughter of the Indians, and for longer than that after Tri-states was destroyed. There had been more than slaughter in both places: rape and torture confirmed. Hilton had brushed that news aside.

“Traitors,” he had said, and would speak no more of it.

The president’s own doctor had come to Aston, telling him of his strong suspicions that the president was rapidly approaching the point of being a madman. Aston didn’t want to believe it. But…

“Yes,” he muttered to the silent office. “His mind is sick.”

Aston then made up his mind: he would have that meeting with the members of Congress who felt the country was heading in the wrong direction. Certain military men would also be present. They would pool their ideas and thoughts, try to work something out. A bloodless coup, perhaps? But it would be difficult, for some units of the military, a lot of national guard and reserve units, and nearly all the newly federalized police supported Logan and his dictatorship.

Aston mused: Logan is no better than was Ben Raines. Actually, he grimaced at the thought, Logan is a lot worse.

Yes, Hilton was sick.

Aston paced the carpet, thinking: My God, how did this great nation ever come to this? What did we do over the years that was so wrong?

“We drifted away from the Constitution, you idiot!” he said aloud. He moved to the president’s desk. There, he seated himself and cursed.

He picked up the binoculars that Hilton used to study the faces of people who walked past the White House. He adjusted the glasses until he had Hilton in focus, striding across the lawn, toward the fence by the sidewalk. Lifting the glasses, he caught a movement across the street, in the park. He studied the young man as he moved slowly onto the painted crosswalk leading to the sidewalk in front of the fence. The young man carried an attaché case.

Aston suddenly felt he was having a heart attack. His chest hurt, he had trouble breathing, his head felt light.

“My God!” he yelled to the empty room. “That’s the bodyguard. General Raines’s bodyguard.”

He grabbed up the phone, punching a button for a line. He ignored the light signifying the line was busy. He punched another. Busy. Cursing, he ran from the room.

Outside, the guard had unlocked the gate, allowing the president to step through to the sidewalk. He was alone except for his contingent of secret service agents, some feet behind and ahead of him. One stood by his side, street-side. The president noticed a well-dressed young man walking toward him. The young man smiled; a nice, open, friendly smile, and Hilton returned the smile. Hilton wished everybody would like him. He only had the country’s best interests at heart. Hilton suddenly felt very good. It was a beautiful fall day.

“Paul, call that young man over here.” President Logan gave his last order.

When the secret service agent hailed him, Badger punched the button trigger of the deadly attaché case. It would blow in thirty seconds.

“Sir!” a secret service man called to VP Addison. “What’s wrong, sir?”

“Stop them!” Aston said, gasping for breath.

“Stop who, sir?”

Aston rushed past the man, ran down the steps. In his haste, he stumbled, rolling down the steps, gashing open his head, cracking his skull. He was flung into darkness. The secret service men ran to help him.

“Hello, there, young man,” President Logan said to Badger. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Badger grinned as he finished his silent count of twenty. He stepped up to the president, the force side of the attaché case toward Logan. “General Raines sends his compliments,” Badger said. And just before the heavy charge blew them all over the White House lawn and into history, Badger added, “You rotten son of a bit—”

EPILOGUE

Reflect how you are to govern a people who think they ought to be free, and think they are not. Your scheme yields no revenue; it yields nothing but discontent, disorder, disobedience; and such is the state of America, that after wading up to your eyes in blood, you could only end just where you began; that is, to tax where no revenue is to be found, to—my voice fails me; my inclination carries me no farther—all is confusion beyond it.

Burke—first speech on conciliation with America

Ben looked about him, but he was not really seeing the several hundred men and women that made up his personal contingent of the western-based Rebels. No, his mind was far away. He was seeing Salina in the dim light outside that motel—he could not remember exactly where it was. So long ago, he sighed, but yet, only yesterday.

And now, his sigh deepened, I am past middle age, and she is dead, rotting in a forest. And my son—dead—as are all the others who fought and died for what they believed.

On both sides, he carefully, reluctantly, reminded himself.

General Krigel had his eastern-based Rebels ready to go, as did Conger in the mid-north, Colonel Ramos in the southwest, and General Hazen in the midwest.

Now, in the swamps, the mountains, the deserts, and the badlands and woodlands, many of the marines and paratroopers and SEALs and Rangers and Green Berets and Air Force personnel and regular infantrymen who had refused to fight anymore against the Tri-states, and had deserted, were gathered, awaiting Ben’s orders to go. The Rebel dream had not died; it was as strong as before. Whether it would bloom as a beautiful child, or become as evil as a cancer, only time and history would know.

And now, it was time: Ben would give the orders and guerrilla warfare would once more shake the country, and possibly, the rebuilding world.

Again.

God! He was so weary of fighting.

Ben shook away his thoughts of things and people past and dead and said, “Badger completed his assignment. Logan is dead. VP Addison is hospitalized in a coma. Many military units are in revolt against the government; some others want to take over the government, continuing Logan’s dictatorship. It’s time for us to make our move toward rebuilding our dream of a free state.”

Ben looked at the men and women around him: at Ike, sitting on a log, his right boot off, looking at his big toe sticking through a hole in his sock; at his adopted daughter, Tina, cradling a CAR-15 in her arms; at Jerre, who stood by his side. At the Indians who had waited for his return; at Judith, reporter-turned-warrior; at James, ever calm; at Cecil, Ph.D. with an AK-47 in his hands; at Dr. Chase, at least seventy, and still as tough as a mountain goat—and just as ornery.

Ben had to smile. The people who surrounded him were of all persuasions and races: black, white, red, yellow, tan, brown. At least here, he thought, the color line is broken. But God, at what cost?

“Dad?” Tina pulled him back to the present, then lost him as Ben turned his eyes to the valley that stretched before them.

There were mountain peaks far in the distance. A gentle haze lay over the area. It was so lovely and so lonely in its peacefulness, so quiet and beautiful.

Once again, Salina slipped into his thoughts, and his heart ached for her. He felt no guilt for his feelings. Jerre knew he was, and would always be, in love with Salina. At least a part of him.

He stood up from the rock he’d been sitting on. Ben was tired, but he knew he could not let it show. Could never quit.

He looked at his Rebels, the people ready to die for what they felt was right. He buckled his web belt, adjusted the canvas clip pouch, and picked up his old Thompson.

“All right, people,” he said. “Let’s do it.”