Part 14 (1/2)

”As far as they went, they reported it b.u.mpy but pa.s.sable.”

Ben studied the map for a moment. The shortcut looked inviting. Maybe just a tad too inviting. The uglies would know that forward recon people would check out the road for at least some distance. So if there was an ambush planned comand Ben felt sure that was what lay in wait for them -- it would come at the very end of the shortcut.

”Too good to be true, gang,” Ben finally said, thumping the map. ”Ten-fifty those orders. We'll take the long way around and completely bypa.s.s Parkfield. We'll take this little spur down here at Paso Robles and pick up 58 at Creston.

Tell Lead-foot and his Wolfpack to spearhead the tanks. They'll leave the main column and cut back east here at San Miguel, come up behind our ambushers, and give them some grief.”

”Yes, sir.”

”Tell them no heroics, Corrie. Tell them to go in fast and get out fast.”

”Right, sir.”

Moments later, the sounds of motorcycles cranking up drifted to Ben. The bikers now all rode the big Harley-Davidson motorcycles. They carried submachine guns, grenades, and side-arms. They were a wild bunch, but totally dedicated to Ben Raines and loyal to the Rebels.They had needed a second chance at life, and Ben had given it to them. They all to a person would die for Ben. The bikers dressed as they pleased, and Ben let them, for more than one reason. The bikers could go into enemy territory and look and behave exactly like the enemy comat least for a while. They had done so several times, returning with valuable information.

The bikers roared out, anxious to get into a good fight.

”Mount up, people,” Ben ordered. ”Let's go see some new country. We'll take it slow. We don't want to get too far ahead of Ike and Cecil.”

The long column stretched out, cutting southwest and heading for San Miguel, some twenty miles away. The road was in bad shape, but not as bad as Ben had feared. This road had obviously not been used very much since the Great War, with most traffic staying with the Interstates and better-known roads.

At San Miguel, the bikers had tied one of the yellow bandanas that all Rebels carried onto the city limits sign, a signal that the town was clear.

The beautiful old historic mission, the Mission San Miguel Archangel, had been destroyed. Ben had been expecting it. The Rebels had seen a lot of churches and missions destroyed over the years. The people, survivors of the bombs and the deadly gas of the Great War, had lived through that only to see a deadly rat-borne plague strike that further cut the population. Many had blamed G.o.d, and had taken their misery out on the clergy and the churches.

”Stupid d.a.m.n people!” Ben muttered, standing in front of what was left of the old mission. He shook his head and walked back to the wagon. ”Let's go, Coop. Corrie, tell the forward people we'll bivouac just as soon as we cross this spur. Tell them to find us a place on 46. We'll wait for Lead-foot and Beerbelly there, and see what Ike and Cecil are doing.”

The main column did not swing over to the Interstate to check out Paso Robles. Ben sent the Scouts in with some Dusters to give the town a once-over while the long column turned west and pulled over at the bivouac site.

Ike had smashed the resistance at the old military reservation and was personally escorting a few prisoners over for Ben to interrogate. Cecil had punched through at Coalinga and was bivouacked a few miles south of the town. Georgi and West had just begun their turn south and had pulled over for the night in the Owens Valley.

Ben decided that the battalions west of the Russian and the mercenary would stay put the next day, allowing those troops to their east to pull even with them.

Ben's CP for the next few days would be an old ranch house just outside of a small town that had once been called Whitley Gardens. Thecoffeepot was on when Ike pulled in with the prisoners and shoved the first one into the den.

”Stand there,” Ike told the sullen-faced young man.

”And keep your mouth shut until you're told to speak.”

”f.u.c.k you, fatso!” the punk told the stocky Ike. He closed his mouth and his eyes widened in fear as Ben picked up a .45 autoloader from a desk and clicked it off safety. ”Hey, man!”

the punk hollered. ”I got rights, you know?” He coughed, a deep, racking cough.

”You have only what I decide to give you,” Ben told him, his voice low and very cold. ”Whether you live or die is solely up to me. Whether I hang you, shoot you, stomp you to death, or let you live is my decision, and mine alone. Do you understand all that, you worthless piece of s.h.i.+t?”

”You Ben Raines, ain't you?”

”Yes.”

A dark stain appeared on the young man's crotch, dampening his very dirty jeans. He bobbed his head up and down. ”Yes, sir. I sure do understand where you comin' from.” He coughed again, and Lamar studied him intently.

”Good,” Ben told him, laying the .45 back on the desk, c.o.c.ked but not locked. He waved a Rebel forward.

The young man watched as a briefcase was opened; it contained a strange-looking object.

Microphones were set up and the volume tested and adjusted. The operator of the equipment looked at Ben and nodded his head.

”This is a voice//ress a.n.a.lyzer,” Ben told the punk. ”Our scientists have vastly improved upon the old models, which used to be called psychological stress evaluators. Our people tell me that this machine is eighty-five percent accurate in showing the operator whether or not a subject is lying. Now let's get all the bulls.h.i.+t out of the way. I'm going to ask you a number of questions. Everything you say is being recorded. On that machine, and on tape. Now, you know my name; you know a lot about me. Believe every bad thing you ever heard about me.”

”I heard a bunch of bad things about you, General.

How you -- his ”Shut up! If you lie to me, I'm going to kill you. Right here, in this room, without hesitation. Do you understand that, punk?”

”Yes, sir!” he almost screamed the words. ”Ax me anything you like. I'll tell you anything you want to know.”

In another building, Dan Gray was interrogating another prisoner, using the same methods.

Ben stared at the young man. ”What is your name?”

”Henry Gavin.” Cough.

”Fine. Henry, how many people live in or around the Los Angeles area?”

”Thousands and thousands, sir. I don't rightly know the exact number.” Cough.”You have lived in that area?”

”Yes, sir. I live there. I was borned there.

Twenty-five year ago.”

”Borned there,” Ben said softly. ”Where are your parents?”

”I don't know. Dead, I reckon.”

”Don't you care where they are?”

”No.” Cough. ”Why should I? All they ever done was make me go to school and beat me when I hung out with the Dukes.”

”Who are the Dukes?”

”My gang,” he answered proudly. ”See this red headband I got? All Dukes wear red headbands.

We're one of the toughest gangs in the city.”

”And that makes you proud?”

”d.a.m.n right.” Cough.

”I suppose you and the Dukes and the rest of the gangs have been active in cleaning up the city, caring for the sick and the old and very young, and setting up schools and hospitals and so forth?”

”Huh?” Henry blinked. ”h.e.l.l, no! Who wants a bunch of dumb s.h.i.+t like that?”