Part 12 (1/2)

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 h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.k for a can of beans or spread her legs for a package of cigarettes.

Or part of the cheeks of male or female a.s.s for a good b.u.t.t-f.u.c.king.

He wondered where the people were on this bright, beautiful morning.

He would never know the answer to that.

He heard a tw.a.n.gand lifted his head just as the fibergla.s.s, 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 a.s.signed 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.