residents left in the three-state area, while certainly glad to see the newcomers, were still not quite certain what was going on around them. But it looked as though things were shaping up—in a hurry.
The trucks and trains and planes continued to roll and rumble and roar into the area, bringing in looted booty from all over the nation. And more people arrived, some of them the type that wanted something for nothing. They did not last long. The graveyards began receiving new additions to their silence. For this was frontier country, and while the East had been settled and under law (and lawyers) for three centuries, much of this part of the nation had been settled for only about seventy-five years. Justice here came down hard and swift, but as fair as Ben could make it, considering the conditions under which his people were working. Here, no one needed to steal, there was work for all, and everybody worked—or got out. Or died.
As Logan’s laws became more tyrannical, more people fought back, and Logan could do less to stop Ben Raines and his people in their breakaway nation. But Logan could do something about those blacks who were bent on creating a New Africa.
“Logan’s mercenaries have pushed the blacks out of south Louisiana,” Cossman told Ben. “He’s told them if they want to work the land and reopen the factories, to go ahead. But the oil and the gas belong to the government, end quote.”
Cossman had looked at the communications equipment and grinned, rubbing his hands together in glee. Now, under his direction, if it was broadcast from anywhere in the world—or space, for that matter—he could and would monitor it. In a very short time, the three states controlled by Ben’s People, as Logan had begun saying, would have the finest communications network in the world, including public radio and TV, free from the constraints of the FCC and the mumblings and threats of pressure groups, who used to maintain (and would again) that they “only wanted what was best for the people.”
“He won’t stop there,” Ben said. “He’ll never permit a New Africa. Is Cecil Jeffreys in charge down there?”
“Right.”
“Can you get him on the horn?”
“I can try.”
It took twenty-four hours to reach Cecil.
“Ben!” His voice crackled through the speakers. “I hear you’re doing great things up there. Congratulations.”
“I hear things aren’t going so well for you.”
“There have been a few minor setbacks,” Cecil admitted, caution in his reply. Both men knew Big Brother was listening, monitoring the conversation.
“Don’t believe a word Logan says, Cecil.”
“He said he’d let us reopen the factories and work the land, Ben.”
“Perhaps for a time, buddy, but Logan is a liar, and you know it. He’s power-mad and has been all his life. He’ll do anything to gain that power. Look at the switch in philosophy he’s made.”
“We have to try, Ben. How is Salina?”
“Great. Fine.”
“Ben? Word I get is that you’re breaking away from the Constitution. Dangerous, if true.”
“It isn’t true, Cecil. We’re not breaking away from it; we’re returning to it.”
“We just got some people in from up north. They say there is a hit team coming after you. Can’t pinpoint exactly when.”
Salina’s fingers dug into his arm. “Hit team?” Ben questioned over the miles. “Government?”
“No. Jeb Fargo.”
“I know who he is: little Nazi prick.”
“That’s all I know, Ben. So you be careful; you’ve made more enemies than we have.”
After the men said their good-bys and good luck, Salina said, “Logan is somehow tied in with Fargo. I never did trust that man.”
“One day Cecil will look up, and there’ll be troops standing on his front doorstep. You let just one white person report he or she’s got trouble in New Africa; just let one of Cecil’s blacks screw up one time and Logan will crush his dream.”
“
“He’s the leader, honey—so he’ll get the blame for failure.”
“And here, Ben?”
“I’ll get the blame; it’s my dream. But most people here are—for now—white.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“You know it does, Salina.”
“Everyone expects a nigger to screw up, right?”
“You said it, babe, not me.”
It had been talked about for years: breaking the United States up into several nations. But it had never been taken seriously. Until now.
Survivors were, or so it seemed, fleeing their devastated homelands, from all over the world, all of them heading for the land of opportunity: America. And Logan, with his small military, seemed unable to stem the tide or kill the dream.
And as is probably the case with many high-level decisions from heads of state, it was the wife of the king, the premier, the prime minister, the chief, or the president who made the final decision, or at least outlined the plan.
“People are unemployed, Hilton,” Fran told him. “And just look at all these tacky people coming in from the islands and Europe and Lord only knows where else. Start the draft up. It will give people something to do. And just look at all the ex-soldiers coming in, too. Officers among them. They will be grateful to you for giving them work, and in return, you’ll have loyalty from them.”
“Marvelous idea, Hilton,” Dallas Valentine, the secretary of state, said. “And we can get rid of those officers who dislike us so.”
Hilton agreed; then said, “But all these people setting up little kingdoms around the country?”
“Oh, big deal,” Fran told him, a pout on her lips. “Let them have their two-bit little kingdoms—for as long as they last. Look what we control: the oil, the gas, all the ports that are usable, all the shipping, the breadbasket areas. We’ve got a lot more area than we have people to settle it. So let these people try—you know they’re going to fail, ninety-nine percent of them. And when they do, they’ll look to you for help, and you’ll be a big man to them when you bring them back into the fold. Then, as we grow stronger, we can crush those who didn’t fail.”
“Marvelous idea, Hilton,” Dallas said. Logan smiled.
He liked to have yes men around him. Made him feel good. He also liked that term: bring them back into the fold. It was kind of religious-sounding. He’d have to ask Rev. Palmer Falcreek over to the White House for lunch with him… soon. Tell him about it. Falcreek was such a good man. Already he was setting up a committee to boycott any film that came out of what was called the New Hollywood. Falcreek wanted only good, clean, wholesome entertainment. Dogs and horses and stuff like that. Cowboys with inexhaustible six-shooters. None of that wiggle- jiggle stuff.
“Of course, you’re right, dear,” Hilton said. “Why shed blood?”
“
“Jeb Fargo?” the president questioned. “What has he to do with this? His people are farmers, dear.”
Yeah, Fran thought, with submachine guns and blazing crosses. “Oh, Hilton! I declare, sometimes you’re so dense. Fargo is a Klucker from Georgia. They ran him out of Mississippi years ago.” She didn’t tell him Fargo was also a Nazi. It had not taken her long to learn what many people had learned years before: her husband was not always with it.
“Klucker?”
“KKK, dear.”
“Oh. Well… I didn’t know that. I know only that he is loyal and a good, decent, churchgoing man. Palmer Falcreek says he has the good of the country at heart.”
Long as he could run around in a bedsheet burning crosses, Fran thought. “Of course, dear.” She smiled at
