“I kind of backed into this thing,” a young man was saying. A small group of the new arrivals were sitting in the shade, talking.
“How do you back into being branded a traitor?” he was asked.
“Chain of events,” the young man grinned. “I was going to school at the University of Virginia. This would have been my senior year. Pre-med. I was walking down the street one Saturday afternoon with some friends; we were all laughing and joking. But not disturbingly so; not vulgar or even boisterous. I bumped into this federal cop. That’s all—I swear it. Just bumped into him. He grabbed me and tossed me against the building. Scared the hell out of me. Called me a punk… called me all sorts of names. I just couldn’t believe it. That’s when it all came rushing to me. A police state. This is really a police state.
“I looked at the cop and I said, ‘Hey, man—just fuck you!’ He hit me and I hit him back; I mean, I really knocked the snot out of him. Knocked him flat on his butt. Other cops came and arrested me. They… uh… well, they worked on me some in my cell. Stripped me and… it got pretty embarrassing and perverted, if you know what I mean.
“Well, that damned judge gave me five years for hitting that cop. Five years. I got a chance to make a break for it and took it. Hid out for several weeks until a group of young people found me and took me to Memphis. You all know the rest.”
The Rebels were a strange cross-section of Americana. College students and professors, lawyers, clerks, doctors, truck drivers, pipeliners, engineers, artists, musicians, writers—a hundred other professions that made up not just the field units of the Rebels, but people whose jobs were to stockpile and cache food, clothing, weapons, ammo, bandages, boots, socks, jackets, tents, blankets, sleeping bags, fuel, lanterns, rope and wire, tools, and the hundreds of other items essential for guerrilla warfare.
And they were becoming more skilled in hiding their true occupations from the always-seeking eye of Big Brother; from Hartline’s mercenaries, and from Cody’s agents.
It was infuriating to VP Lowry.
“I told you to lean on the families of those suspected Rebel sympathizers,” Lowry said, his face ugly and mottled with rage.
“And just as Alice Tyler predicted, it backfired,” Cody replied. “It just made the people turn against the government that much quicker. I stopped it.”
“I also told you to put a lid on the press.”
Cody’s chuckle was totally void of mirth.
Hartline sat in the VP’s office. So far he had said nothing.
Cody said, “This is America, Weston—not South America. We’ve had a free press in this country for several centuries; that isn’t something that can be squelched overnight. I…”
“I can censor the press,” Hartline said quietly. “You just give me the green light—and a written promise you’ll back me up—and watch me go to work. I’ll muzzle them so goddamned fast they won’t know what hit them.”
“How?” Lowry asked.
“Same way we did in… ah… certain countries in South America and Africa back in the mid-eighties.”
“Can you guarantee your plan will work?” the VP was interested, leaning forward, eyes shining. “Will there be torture?” A tiny dribble of spit oozed from one corner of his mouth.
Cody did not notice the flow, but Hartline did, and thought: a lot of repressed emotions in the VP. A lot of dark, covered emotions. “Yes,” Hartline smiled. “I surely can.”
“Do it,” Lowry ordered. “And start here in Richmond. Film it, too. I wanna see it.”
While you beat your meat, Hartline thought. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
SIX
The warm days of late summer passed quickly for the Rebels in the Great Smoky Mountains. They were up with the sun and trained until dusk. They were all nut-brown from the sun and lean and hard from the training. Long, lung-straining uphill runs were twice a day; push-ups, sit-ups, duck-walking uphill until one’s legs felt muscle would surely rip from bone. Brutal demanding physical training was a fact and a part of everyday life. They learned rappelling, demolitions, how to make homemade bombs from chemicals found in any farmer’s supply outlet.
They were taught disguise techniques, running the gamut from street beggar to businessman to apple Annie. Reflexes were honed down to a razor-sharp edge.
In close combat training, Ike circumvented the unnecessary and went straight to the killing blows. A few of the new people were hurt during this, one was killed, but the training never stopped.
The mountains exploded with the sounds of grenades and mortar and automatic weapons fire. In rifle training, both Ben and Ike were adamant on one point.
“You’ve all got to become expert shots. In many instances, the enemy will be wearing flak vests, body armor; so you’ve got to learn to hit the leg, the arm, or the head. The leg or arm is good in one sense. Knock a leg out from under a man and he’ll lie on the field and scream. That’s demoralizing to his buddies and pretty soon someone will come to his aid. Then you can kill them.”
Hartline and his men, backed by FBI agents with warrants charging several newspeople with treason for refusing to cooperate with the congressional mandate to submit all copy before airing, entered the Richmond offices of NBC. This was to be the test network.
Hartline, carrying an M-10 SMG, shoved the elderly guard away from the doors, knocking the man sprawling, and marched into the executive offices. He jerked one startled VP of programming to his feet and hit him in the mouth with a leather-gloved right fist. The man slammed against a chair and fell stunned to the carpet.
“Here, now!” a news commentator ran into the room. “You can’t do that.”
One of Hartline’s men butt-stroked the newsman with the butt of his AK-47. The man’s jaw popped like a firecracker. He was unconscious before he hit the carpet, blood pouring from the sudden gaps in his teeth.
“Where is the bureau chief?” Hartline said. “Or whatever you people call the boss. Get him in here, pronto.”
A badly shaken young secretary stammered, “It isn’t a him—it’s a her. Ms. Olivier.”
“Well now,” Hartline smiled. “That’s even better. Get her for me, will you, darling?”
Before the secretary could turn, a voice, calm and controlled, spoke from the hall. “What is the meaning of this?”
Hartline lifted his eyes, meeting the furious gaze of Sabra Olivier. He let his eyes drift over her, from eyes to ankles and back again. “You kind of a young cunt to be in charge of all this, aren’t you, honey?” he asked.
“Get out!” Sabra ordered.
The words had just left her mouth when Hartline’s hand popped against her jaw, staggering her. She stumbled against the open door, grabbing the doorknob for support.
“Dear,” Hartline said,
“You’re Sam Hartline,” Sabra said, straightening up, meeting him nose to nose, no back-up in her. “Vice President Lowry’s pet dog.”
Hartline never lost his cold smile. He faced the woman, again taking in her physical charms. Black hair, carefully streaked with gray; dark olive complexion, black eyes, now shimmering with anger; nice figure, long legs.
Sabra turned to a man. “Call the police,” she told him.
Hartline laughed at her. “Honey, we
Sabra paled slightly.
The man on the floor groaned, trying to sit up, one hand holding his broken and swelling jaw.
Hartline said, “Get that pussy out of here. Toss him in the lobby and have that old goat call an ambulance to
