Eleven.
Once again, Raines's Rebels had lucked out, in more ways than one. They had uncovered several tons of supplies: food, clothing, guns and ammo, walkie-talkies, and planes.
The Rebels outfitted Harris and his people, then waited for the pilots from the old Tri-States.
While they waited, Ben radioed back to Cecil, asking if Dr. Chase had attempted any contact with General Striganov.
"Not yet, Ben."
"Tell him to forget it. We're on a roll out here and I don't want to tip our hand."
"Ten-four. What about this Colonel Khamsin business, Ben?"
"Bring me up to date."
"I just spoke with Base Camp One not half an hour ago. They're convinced those people are telling the truth about the IPA."
"About the what, Cec?"
"The Islamic Peoples Army. It was the children with them that convinced our people they're telling the truth.
Seems the kids all say that several times a day, these ... whatever the hell they are, stop whatever they're doing, spread some sort of mat, and squat down, as the kids put it, and pray. All in the same direction."
Ben's sigh was audible over the miles. "I think, Cec, we've got big trouble." "I think you're right, buddy. Even if the IPA'S force is only a quarter of what is claimed, we're in trouble."
"It never ends, does it, Ben?"
"It certainly appears that way. Talk to you later. Hold down the fort."
Ben signed off. He turned to Harris.
"Maintain this charade for as long as possible, Harris. I don't think we can continue playing radio interference for very much longer. Striganov is probably suspicious by now, and I'm sure Hartline is. But if we can keep this up for another twenty-four hours, we'll have shaved the odds down and gained a lot of ground. The more outposts we can seize, the more Striganov is going to have to split his forces to regain them."
"But won't that also cut down the size of your personnel?" Harris asked.
Ben smiled. "Perhaps," he said, and would say no more about it.
Ben had no inclination to discuss his battle plans with anyone-not even his own people. Yet.
The northernmost IPF outpost in California, located at Youreka, just a few miles south of the Oregon border, lay quiet under the springtime sun. It was a small outpost, but a vital one. It was also a lonely post for the soldiers stationed there. Before the bombings, now more than a decade past, the town's population was about six thousand. Now it was down to about two hundred men, women, and children.
The IPF lieutenant in charge of the Youreka station had monitored all the requests of General Striganov's radio operator; and listened to the garbled responses from some stations. It was puzzling, but, to his mind, nothing to get alarmed about. It probably was that radioactive belt that had hovered over the earth for years.
He stepped outside the building for a smoke and a breath of air.
The silence got his attention. He looked around him.
There were usually some townspeople about, begging for food or asking to see some friend or relative that had been seized by the IPF.
Or some local woman willing to sell herself for better treatment.
Sometimes a man or boy willing to do the same.
That always amused the lieutenant. He held Americans in contempt. The mighty Eagle. Now clawless, its people groveling about, willing to suck a cock for a can of beans or spread her legs for a package of cigarettes.
Or part of the cheeks of male or female ass for a good butt-fucking.
He wondered where the people were on this bright, beautiful morning.
He would never know the answer to that.
He heard a twangand lifted his head just as the fiberglass, field-pointed bolt, fired from a crossbow, hit his chest. He knew a few seconds of very intense pain as the point hit his heart, shattering it. He dropped to the ground, only seconds away from dying.
An attack, he thought. Against us!
Here? Impossible, he thought. Not from these cowardly Americans.
Then he died.
The Eagle had risen, silently screaming its rage.
Lizard-camoed Rebels rushed the outpost, leaping over the body of the arrogant lieutenant. The point man reached the door and slipped inside, darting to his left; other Rebels quickly entered the blockhouse; they carried .22 automatics, the pistols silenced.
Two Rebels stepped into the radio room. They lifted the silenced .22's and shot the two people in the room in the back of the head. They closed the door and pulled the bodies out of the chairs, taking their place behind the wall of equipment.
Other Rebels were going about their deadly work, silently and efficiently.
The Rebels assigned to the small barracks-room found a half dozen IPF personnel sleeping in their bunks.
The Russians never awakened from their sleep.
In less than two minutes the blockhouse was secure and in Rebel hands.
The section leader opened the door to the radio room. "Can you change to our frequency and scramble?"
"Yes," he was told. "Just as soon as I change out some parts. Take me about five minutes."
"As soon as you do, inform Eagle One we are secure here."
The radio operator nodded his understanding.
Some two hundred and fifty miles south of Youreka, in Woodland, Rebels from Ike's contingent slipped quietly and unseen around the IPF compound. The small band of Rebels was heavily outnumbered and Ike had told them to forget about salvaging any of the radio equipment; just knock out the installation and let the chips fall where they may.
Or in this case, the bodies of the IPF personnel inside the compound.
At a signal from the section leader, a Rebel lifted a 66mm rocket launcher, sighted it in, and put the rocket through the window of the radio room. The room exploded in a cloud of mortar, brick, wood, blood, and pieces of human bodies.
Raines's Rebels gave no quarter to the IPF forces inside the compound. If Ben and his Rebels were to build something constructive out of the ashes he would play the fiddle and call the tunes.
He had turned his theory into fact back in theTri-States. He had proven that a society can exist without criminals or crime. For if you don't have one, you won't have the other.
And Ben's philosophy was instilled into the hearts and minds of his Rebels.
Ike's contingent hit the IPF hard, taking no prisoners. In less than half an hour, the battle was over; all that remained was the dust and smoke that lingered like a bitter reminder over the compound.
"Radio Eagle One that Woodland is ours,"
the section leader said.
The Rebels now controlled nine of the IPF'S outposts, stretching from Youreka down to the Napa Valley.
Then Ben abruptly called a halt to it, confusing all his teams and team leaders, including Ike.
It was late afternoon when Ike finally got through to Ben.
"Cease and hold, Ben?" he questioned.
"Yes. I want to discuss it, but not over the air. There is always a chance our transmissions could be descrambled. I've already spoken with Dan. You both have access to small planes and people to fly them."
He gave Ike map coordinates. "Meet me there in the morning. We'll go over the plans.
I'll see you then."
Ben signed off.
Ike scratched his head and looked at his XO.
"What's up, Ike?"
"With Ben, you just never know. But whatever it is, the Russian and Hartline ain't gonna like it, you can bet on that."
"Another outpost cannot be reached, General,"
Hedda reported to Striganov.
"You mean the signals are garbled?"
"No, sir. Silent."
Georgi turned slowly in his chair. He sighed deeply; a man in frustration. "Raines," he said. "He's making his move. I was wrong and Hartline was right. But where is the son of a bitch?"
"Hartline?" Hedda asked, confused.
"No! Goddammit, woman.
Raines."
Hedda wisely chose to remain silent.
"He's pulling something. But what?-other than the obvious. Raines is a wolf. He's circling, not yet showing me his plan. Just as sure as I commit personnel to one place, the guerrilla bastard is going to pop up in another. I know how his mind works."
Wrong. He did not know how Ben's mind worked.
He just thought he did. Arrogant people always think they're much smarter than they really are.
"Yes, sir," Hedda said. She would never admit it to the general, but she was very frightened of Ben Raines and his Rebels. They were savages.
Brutal Vikings. Ben Raines and his Rebels paid no attention to the rules of warfare. They wereall, to a person, thugs.
"Contact Hartline," Striganov ordered. "Have him fly down here first thing in the morning. We have to start planning our strategy. We cannot allow Raines to get the upper hand, in anything."
"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes."
When Hedda had closed the door behind her, General Georgi Striganov's face tightened as he jerked out a map of his IPF'-CONTROLLED territory and quickly scanned it. With a colored pen, he carefully Xed each outpost that had a garbled signal, and the one that had gone silent.
He stared at the map. He could make no sense of any of it.
There were two hundred and fifty miles between the northern outpost and the southern outpost. Raines just didn't have that many men.
Or did he?
Striganov leaned back in his chair, his mind busy. Perhaps Raines had recruited more people ...
Yes!
That had to be it. Just as he had recruited-or rather, Hartline-those warlords, Ben Raines had probably done the same.
But that would not be like Ben Raines. Raines hated even the thought of warlords.
But would he use them as a last resort?
Yes, Striganov thought, he probably would.
The end would justify the means.
The Russian carefully noted each position he had marked on the map. Raines would be the strongest south of Highway 20, he felt. At least four of his outposts, probably five, had been knocked out there. So it reasoned that Raines would be the weakest at Youreka ...
No!
Big Lake. Raines would have teams spread out north and south along Interstate 5. Big Lake would be stretching it thin for Raines, out of his supply route.
Big Lake would be the first outpost the IPF would retake. But first he and Hartline would monitor the transmissions coming from the outposts. Raines would make a mistake; he would slip up. Striganov was sure of that.
And then the IPF would pounce.