Fire in the Ashes

After what seemed an eternity, the muzzle of the .45 was removed from the pilots’ necks. Both men slowly turned their heads and fought to keep from puking as the grisly cargo was loaded onto the plane, placed in seats, and buckled in.

“Refuel now,” they were told.

Tanks topped, the Rebel said, “Have a nice, safe journey back home, boys."

Then he was gone.

Taxiing away, the copilot said, “Al Cody is gonna have a fit about this."

“Fuck Al Cody,” the pilot said tersely. “Man, if I knew how to go about it, I'd join the Rebels now."

“Well, hell! Why didn't you ask back there?"

“Did you feel like making chit-chat with that .45 in your neck?"

“Shit, no!"

“Then just fly the plane; don't ask stupid questions."

The Air Force personnel were released unharmed; all but four of them who had elected to fight. They lay stretched out in an empty hangar, their bodies covered with blankets.

“If you men are smart,” the leader of the Rebel unit told them, “you'll walk off this base the instant we leave and don't look back. ‘Cause the word is goin’ out: you are either one hundred percent for us, or one hundred percent against us. Just like the government mentality, boys, no gray in the middle. If that's the way they choose to fight, it's okay with us."

“How do we join you?” one asked.

“Just walk out with us."

“That suits me, man."

Nine of the airmen walked out with the Rebels.

Ben Raines's movement was once more rolling, picking up steam with each tick of the clock.

Five hours later, in Richmond, Al Cody stood in silent trembling rage as he viewed what was left of his men. He walked out of the plane and stood in the darkness on the tarmac. His fists were clenched and his voice choked with anger as he spoke.

“I'm going to find you, Ben Raines. I swear it. I'm going to find you and publicly hang you. And I'm going to enjoy it immensely."

Cody walked away from the death-plane. He was a short, stocky man with iron gray hair and the belief that his government could do no wrong. Al believed if his government made a rule, it didn't matter if ninety-nine percent of the people were opposed to it—it was the law, and by God the public would obey it, and if they didn't they could damn well pay the price by being branded a criminal.

Cody stopped on the tarmac and ran blunt fingers through his hair. He turned his cold expressionless blue eyes on a senior agent who waited by his car.

“Get Ben Raines. Break the back of the Rebels. I don't care how you do it or how many men it takes—just do it."

“Some of the men are swearing dire revenge about this,” the agent jerked a thumb toward the plane. “They're talking about anything goes, sir. They're saying find the Rebel sympathizers and break them, any way we can."

Cody fought against his inner feelings. He felt revulsion at the thought of torture. It cut against the grain of his Christian upbringing. But ... these were trying times. These Rebels were no better than those damned Irish IRA men and women—terrorists, murderers.

“Do it,” Cody spoke through clenched teeth.

“But Senator Carson and the president ...?"

“We'll keep silent and maintain a low profile on this for as long as possible. If any reports get out, we deny them—right down the line. President Addison is a weak sister; Senator Carson is getting old. Don't worry about them. I think now we must fight fire with fire. Get Sam Hartline. Have him meet you tomorrow and lay it out for him. Tell him to get his boys rolling."

“Jeb Fargo and his bunch tried their hand against Ben Raines,” the senior agent reminded his boss. “You know where that got them. Dead."

“And Kenny Parr,” Cody recalled. He sighed. “They are terrorists, Tommy. That's how we have to look at the Rebels. Break them, Tommy. Just do it."

Al Cody got in his car, tapped the driver on the shoulder, and drove away into the still-rainy night.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy Levant said softly. “But I don't have to like it."

* * * *

The FBI of the late 1990s bore no resemblance to the crime-fighting Bureau of old. They were more an anti-guerrilla unit than an anti-crime organization. Organized crime, per se, was practically nonexistent; the bombings of 1988 had seen to that—worldwide.

The Bureau had men and women working on cases involving murder and rape and extortion and government-related criminal cases, but by and large they were pitted against Ben Raines and his Rebels.

And the men and women who made up the new FBI were not the highly educated and dedicated personnel of old. The bombings had not only changed the face of the United States, but had drastically altered the lifestyles of its remaining citizens. Factories and shops were once more rolling and producing, yes, but life was still a struggle for many of the survivors. Just putting bread and meat and potatoes on the table was an effort for many citizens ... not just in the United States but worldwide.