“Oh, I realize that he is a formidable foe, General. He has more than proven that. But time is on my side. Since we know he is using one of our radios, he cannot give you his location. We would be there long before you arrived. I have people monitoring all frequencies, General McGowan, so there will be no more clever messages from or to General Raines. And this will be the last communication between us. Good-bye, General McGowan.”

  After a few seconds’ pause, Ike said, “If you’re listening, Ben, give ’em hell!”

  Ben smiled and turned off the radio. “I plan on doing just that, Ike. Count on it.”

  Just as next dawn was streaking the sky, Ben climbed up a good thousand feet above the terrain and settled in amid the rocks, uncasing his binoculars. He began carefully scanning the area all around him. One of his radios, with fresh batteries in it, was on, with the volume turned down low and the radio on scan. If Runkel had spoken to one of the infiltrator teams, as he had told Ike, they should be arriving anytime.

  Ben wanted to know how many more he was facing.

  Then he stiffened as he spotted movement far below him. He shifted the lenses. More movement to his left and to his right. All right, then, so Runkel had called in at least one of his other platoons, maybe all of them, and they were trying to flush him out, guessing at his location.

  Too late for Ben to look for a new location now. He would just have to sweat this out.

  “Hell, it had to come, sooner or later,” he muttered.

  He took a long drink of water, then stretched out on his belly. His tiger-stripe BDUs were filthy, caked with grass stains and dirt, so he blended right in with his surroundings. Ben watched and waited.

  The noose began to tighten. Ben had plenty of ammo, so he knew he could take plenty of them before they ever reached his location. And with the .270, he could do some long-distance killing before they came into range of his CAR. He had four grenades in the rucksack he had taken from the body of one of Runkel’s men.

  “If it comes down to Raines’s last stand, boys,” Ben muttered. “I will take a hell of lot of you with me before I go into that long good-night.”

  Several of the men stopped at the base of the mountain and looked up. Ben did not move, although he knew damn well the searchers could not see him from where they stood. Then three of the men started climbing up.

  “And away we go,” Ben whispered, remembering the line from an old TV program.

  One of the men waved at the other group, and two men broke off and started climbing up the gentle slope.

  Closer they came, until they had closed the distance to less than two hundred yards. Looking through the scope, Ben could tell the men were talking, but the distance was still too great to make out any of the words.

  Ben lifted the .270, sighted a man in the crosshairs, then hesitated, lowering the rifle. The men seemed to be arguing and reluctant to climb any further up the grade, for the going was becoming more difficult.

  From down below, near the base of the mountain, someone shouted. The men paused and looked back. They were now about a hundred yards from Ben’s position and Ben had lined up what appeared to be a noncom in the crosshairs.

  The noncom waved toward the mountain, then shrugged and lifted his arms in a gesture of “I do not understand.”

  Ben was using the earplug to the radio and orders suddenly crackled in his ear. Runkel’s voice. “You’re wasting your time up there. Raines would not put himself in such a position. There is no way out for him.”

  The noncom waved his understanding and shouted at the others. They paused in their climbing, turned, and then started down the slope.

  “Lucked out again, Raines,” Ben muttered.

  Ben waited amid the rocks until the searchers had faded into tiny dots in the distance. Then he began working his way down the mountain. The men were heading for deep timber. From intense study of a detailed map, Ben knew that timber extended for miles and miles in all directions.

  “Dandy,” he said. “I love it. Now, Runkel, I’ll show you some tricks, you asshole.”

  Too far away for Ben to see, Colonel Hugo Runkel paused and looked back toward the mountain. Then he scowled and shook his head.

  “Something, Colonel?” a sergeant asked of him.

  Runkel cut his eyes to the man, then shook his head. “No, I guess not. Damn that Raines!”

  “He is good, Colonel. We cannot take that from him.”

  “He’s very good, Sergeant. But this time I think we just might have him in a box. At the very least, we’re pushing him, putting him on the run.”

  “He is proving to be a very elusive prey, Colonel.”

  “I think he is in the timber just ahead, Sergeant. Pass the word to the men to be very, very careful. Look before taking each step. We have lots of time. Our own people and those aligned with us are attacking at spots all up and down Raines’s eastern lines. General McGowan will be too busy there to worry much about us. I want Raines dead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am confident that this time we have him.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir.

  Runkel stared at the senior sergeant, mulling over whether the man’s words held any note of condescension. He decided they had not. “Move the men forward, Sergeant. Have them maintain a twenty-five-yard interval.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Some distance away, Ben had circled wide, jogging for several hundred yards, then walking for a few minutes, then repeating the drill, covering a lot of ground that way. He paused, taking a tiny sip of water and checking his compass. Then he was up and moving.

  He cut to the north a few points, heading for the timber at an angle. He wanted to come in behind Runkel and his men, but did not want to come in directly in the middle of the wide line of searchers. He wanted to give himself some running room, either left or right.

  He was in the timber, and it was deep, dank in spots, and dim. Runkel’s men were making no effort to hide their tracks. The foliage in most areas remained damp all the time, and their trail was easy to follow.

  Ben had slung the .270 tight behind his back, at an angle. He wished he did not have the added encumbrance, but he did not want to abandon the weapon. He might never come this way again. Ben paused, squatting down in the deep brush and silently screwed the long silencer onto the threaded end of the muzzle of the old Colt Woodsman. He slid a full magazine into the butt. It clicked into place. Ben chambered a round.

  The little .22 did not have much of a punch, it certainly wouldn’t knock a man down, so any shot he made would have to be a head shot, because Runkel’s men were all wearing body armor. But the sound suppressor was the best his lab boys and girls could manufacture, and was constructed to last for a lot of rounds. Many silencers lose their effectiveness after a few rounds, but not this one.

  Ben knew that, because he had personally tested the suppressor before allowing it to go into production, and he had used one just like it many times before in combat, when the situation called for silent killing.

  He squatted there, mulling over whether to leave his pack and long rifle. He finally shook his head in rejection. He couldn’t afford to lose his equipment. He would have to take it all with him, as cumbersome as it was.

  Ben heard the faint pop of someone stepping on a dead branch, then silence. He could just imagine the soldier silently cursing himself for his carelessness.

  Ben waited.

  The soldier came into view. Too far off for Ben to chance a shot. The man stepped closer, moving slowly, slowly. Ben lifted the .22 and sighted in. The man took one more step and Ben shot him in the head, the bullet entering through the temple. The man sank silently to his knees, then softly fell forward, making so little noise the sound would not carry more than a few yards.

  Ben eased over to the dead man and relieved him of his grenades and rations packs. Three days of rations and a full pack. Runkel was going all out this time. Ben faded back into the timber and waited. A couple more kills and he’d be set for food.

  “Come on, boys,” he muttered. “Ben’s hungry.”

  NINE

  Ben stayed where he was, not wishing to be spotted moving away.

  “Herman?” the man working to what had been Herman’s left called. “Where are you?”

  Herman softly broke wind in death as gasses escaped him.

  “Herman?”

  Ben waited.

  The second soldier came into view, dim in the thick timber and brush, his outline too obscure for Ben to chance a shot. The man again softly called out Herman’s name and moved closer.

  “What is it, Hans?” Another voice was added, this one coming from Ben’s right.

  Shit! Ben thought.

  “Herman has vanished, Nils. He is not responding to my calls.”

  “Be careful, Hans.”

  Hans did not reply. He took two more steps and Ben shot him between the eyes. The man died with a very strange expression on his face. He slipped to the ground almost noiselessly. Ben turned just as Nils was making his way through the brush, almost on top of Ben’s position. Ben shot him twice in the face and caught the body before it could hit the ground.

  Ben shoved the .22 autoloader behind his web belt and quickly fanned Nils’s body, taking matches in a waterproof container, grenades, and field rations. He did the same with the other dead men. Now his rucksack was more than half full. He had nine days’ rations and nearly twenty grenades.

  Ben fell back about a hundred yards, then cut straight north. He had gone about half a mile before he heard the first shout. He smiled and kept on making his way through the timber. He hadn’t done as much damage as he had hoped to do this day, but he had certainly given Runkel and his men something to think about.

  He kept moving north for a time before cutting straight east. Come get me boys, he thought. I’ll be waiting.

  Colonel Runkel stood over the bodies of his men, now wrapped in ground sheets in preparation for burial, and cursed Ben Raines. He had slapped one of his men for referring to Raines as a ghost, and a moment later had apologized to the man for striking him.

  Runkel had inspected the bodies, peering closely at the tiny bullet holes. Raines had to have shot them at very close range, using a silenced small caliber pistol. No doubt about it, Raines could move as silently as a ghost. Runkel vowed to keep better control on his temper.

  Runkel checked his map. This forest range continued for miles, and Runkel concluded, so must they.

  “Bury the men,” he ordered gently. “Then we’ll move out.”

  “Which direction, sir?” a sergeant asked.

  “East,” Runkel said wearily. “East.”

  Several miles away, Ben built a small fire from dead, dry wood that would be practically smokeless, and brewed a cup of coffee and heated some rations. He leaned back against a boulder and savored his coffee; the brand that Runkel’s men carried in their accessory packs was better than what the Rebels carried. He’d have to check that out . . . if he ever took a prisoner alive, that is.

  Ben tried to plan his next move, but that was difficult because he did not know which direction Runkel planned to move. He made a silent bet it would be east.

  From his position in the rocks, several hundred feet high, Ben had a clear view of the beginnings of the vast forest range. How quickly nature reclaims her own when there is no interference from man, Ben mused. This area should remain nature’s own, he decided, just as it is. Another place for the animals to run free and wild, just as God intended them to do. He’d see about that when this little private war was over.

  Ben smiled. If I survive it, that is, he added.

  Ben always liked to put a disclaimer on self-certainty, lest he become over-confident. Too much of that can very easily cause a man to become careless and make a misstep. And that could earn a man a very narrow place in the ground, very quickly.

  Ben buried his food wrappers and carefully extinguished the small smokeless fire. He drank the last of his coffee and rolled a cigarette. Then he set about rearranging his gear so he could carry it more comfortably and move more swiftly.

  That done, he strapped on and shouldered his gear and moved out. He stayed on the south side of the vast range of timber and covered a lot of ground before deciding to call it a day and begin searching for a place to make camp.

  Ben felt sure he was at least several miles ahead of Runkel and his teams, for they would be moving very cautiously in the deep timber, placing each step carefully, wary of another ambush.

  Ben found a tiny creek and after looking all around, decided to bathe and wash his BDUs, putting on his only spare set. He carefully shaved in the icy water, and then sat for a time, soaking his feet in the creek. As he wriggled his toes in the cold water, he became slightly amused at how such simple pleasures could fill a man with contentment. No TV, no radio, none of the amenities that he had long grown accustomed to.

  We are not that far from the caves, Ben thought, turning philosophical. For the most part, we are still hunter/gatherers. The man who is the best hunter will claim the most attractive woman and the best and most secure cave, and he will have followers. The man who couldn’t hit a dinosaur in the ass with a spear would be relegated to living in a hollow tree, surrounded by losers of his own ilk, most without the comforts of a help-mate; or at the best, a female companion who whined and complained constantly and who physically resembled the first cousin to an ape, and who had the intelligence to match.

  Ben carefully dried his feet and sprinkled on some foot powder before pulling on fresh dry socks. He felt at least a hundred percent better. He had inspected the many bruises on his body—those that he could see—and was pleased to find they were changing colors, healing rapidly.

  He packed up and moved a mile or so away from the creek, making his night camp well away from the tiny stream. He spread leaves thick on the ground to soften his bed before he spread his ground sheet. He was camped under a low and thick overhang of leafy branches, and judging from the sky, there was no chance of rain.

  Someday I’ll write a journal about all this, Ben thought. Or perhaps allow some skilled interviewer to tell the story about how I played a small part in pulling this nation out of the ashes of defeat and despair. I could explain in depth and detail what has become universally known as the Tri-States philosophy of government. Might be fun to do that someday, he concluded. But I’d have to pick the interviewer carefully.

  Ben stretched his frame out, sighed in contentment, and snuggled into his covering. Just before sleep took him, he smiled at his use of the word “someday.” If he wasn’t real careful and if luck didn’t stay with him, there was a good chance his somedays could end in a matter of a few hours.

  So don’t get too cocky, Raines, were his last thoughts just as he settled into sleep.

  Ben slept deeply, far too deeply, but he was very tired, and his body still had not fully recovered from the battering it had taken in the fall off the roadway in the motor home.

  When he awakened, it was already grey light and someone was watching him—standing, or sitting, very close to him.

  “You don’t have to pretend you’re asleep, General,” the female voice said, coming from behind him. “I know you’re awake. Your breathing changed. Relax. If I was an enemy, you’d already be dead.”

  Ben turned and stared. The woman was kneeling down about three feet from him. “Good morning,” Ben said, struggling out of his coverings and reaching for his boots.

  “Mornin’, General. You have been leadin’ those people chasin’ you on a merry chase, now, haven’t you?”

  “I have certainly been trying.”

  The woman laughed softly. “You’ve been doin’ more than tryin,’ General. I’ve been listenin’ on the radio and sometimes watchin.’ You’re damn good in the woods.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m better,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But I was raised in these parts.” She leaned over and stuck out a hand. “Jenny Marlowe.”

  Ben took the hand. It was as hard as his own. “Ben Raines. What in the world are you doing out here alone in the wilderness, Jenny?”

  “It isn’t wilderness to me, General. Told you, I was raised not too far from here. My pa used to run cattle just south of here. You want me to start a fire for coffee? I could use a cup.”

  “If you have some dry wood.”

  She smiled. “I reckon I know that much, General.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Why don’t you go take a leak and wash your face and hands and I’ll get things going here.”

  Ben chuckled. “I’ll just do that, Jenny. The rations are in my pack.”

  “Don’t need ’em, General. I got bacon and eggs and potatoes. How does that suit you?”

  Ben’s mouth started watering at just the thought. “It sounds wonderful!”

  Jenny reached behind her and pulled a pack closer. She pulled out a battered skillet and coffeepot and then started gathering up wood from the small pile Ben had put together and covered the night before.

  By the time Ben had finished his morning business, Jenny had built a small fire, sliced the bacon, and it was sizzling in the pan. The aroma was absolutely delicious.

  She tossed Ben a couple of potatoes and without question, he pulled out a knife and began peeling and slicing. Jenny filled the battered pot with water and set it on the inner edge of the crude circle of stones that kept the fire from spreading.

  Ben stole several looks at the woman as the light got better. He guessed her to be about forty. Not beautiful, but, well, very attractive in an outdoorsy way.

  She moved the fresh-sliced bacon over to one side of the skillet and dumped in the potatoes. Then she looked square at Ben. She had beautiful grey eyes. Her hair was light brown, and cut very short. “Alone, you said awhile ago? Good guess. Yeah, I’m alone. Me and my horses and a few pigs and chickens and cattle I got hid out. You’re lookin’ at what I guess is the last livin’ member of what used to be known as the Montana Mountain Militia.”

  “I’m familiar with it. Quite a group before the Great War.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27