attempting to rebuild some sort of workable society out of the ruins of war and anarchy and a worldwide plague. Hopefully, they could fan a spark from the ashes.
Ben thought that just maybe they could pull it off. Maybe.
God knew they had to try.
Ben didn’t think humankind would have another chance.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
May, 2001
The men and women of the IPF, International Peace Force, had landed quietly on Canadian soil, on their way to the United States. Their route had been long and often tedious. They had waited and trained and studied for ten years before making their move. They had planned well.
They had sailed from home port in March-not the easiest month to leave-and skirted south of Cape Farewell, into the Labrador Sea. They sailed into the Hudson Strait, passed around Mansel Island, keeping to the east, then angled south by southwest until the mouth of the River was in sight. There, they offloaded boats and equipment for the river trip.
They followed the Nelson into Lake Winnipeg, then began a tortuous trek overland. But most were young and strong and the trip was nothing compared to the training they had been undergoing for the past decade.
All came through. Anything for the Motherland and for the development of a meister rasse.
The IPF picked up Highway 10 in Canada and procured vehicles from the abandoned cars and trucks. They headed for the United States border, dropping off small contingents of IPF personnel along the way. They saw very few people alive in Canada. Those they saw seemed more curious than hostile.
Had the people in Canada known what type of monster mentality they were facing, they would have turned hostile in a hurry.
But by the time they discovered the truth, it was too late for the few Canadians left alive in the areas where the IPF landed.
In the United States-the late, great United States-the IPF set up base camp in Minnesota and radioed back to home port they were at their objective. They were told two more ships had set sail and had steamed near the mouth of the Nelson. There, they were awaiting orders to offload men and equipment.
In Minnesota, the IPF broke off into teams and fanned out into the countryside, testing the mood of the people. In a great many cases they found men and women-entire families-who were just barely hanging on to life, victims of the many roving gangs of thugs in the land.
The men and women of the IPF spoke grammatically correct English, with only a very slight accent. They were very polite: the men were often courtly in their dealings with American women, straightforward and open with the American men. At first. But conditions and deportment among the IPF were subject to
sudden and drastic changes-very soon.
An American man asked where the people had come from.
“Originally, Eastern Europe,” came the reply, always with a smile.
“That would account for the accent.”
“Yes.”
“And you want?”
“To be your friend, and for you to be our friends. To live in peace in this troubled world. To try and find the cause for the terrible tragedy that has befallen us all, and to correct it.”
“Isn’t that what we all want?”
“Yes,” Gen. Georgi Striganov said with a smile. He was a strikingly handsome man, tall and well-built, with pale blue eyes, fair skin, and blond-gray hair. “Indeed it is.”
The American stuck out his hand. “I’ll tell you what the problem was. The goddamn niggers wanted everything given to them and the goddamn Jews went along with it. Every time you looked at the TV there was about a million greasers comin’ across the border, grabbing up jobs that should have gone to Americans.”
General Striganov listened with a sympathetic smile on his lips.
“Taxes kept goin’ up and up and up; it never seemed to stop. Everything for the minorities and to hell with the taxpayers. I said it, and by God that’s the way I feel about it.”
Striganov shook the man’s hand. “My name is Georgi. I think we’re going to get along very well. Now
tell me: How can we help you?”
Ben watched Ike pull into his driveway and get out of the pickup. Ike walked up to Ben, resting on his hoe handle in his garden.
“El Presidente,” Ike said with a grin, “it is time, I believe, for me to speak.”
“Quote the Walrus, “Of shoes-and ships-and sealing wax.” Maybe I don’t want to hear it, Ike.”
The grin never left Ike’s face. “Hell, Ben, that never stopped me before.”
The two men had met down in Florida, back in late ‘88, the ex-Seal and the ex-Hell-Hound. They had been close friends, like brothers, ever since.
“That certainly is true, Ike.”
“You need a woman, Ben.”
“Oh, hell!”
“Hear me out, ol’ buddy. Things are lookin’ pretty good around here, thanks to you. You somehow put some steel in the backbones of those who follow you. I personally didn’t believe you could do it-but you did. With any kind of luck, pal, well make it here.”
The usage of the informal noun brought memories rushing to both men of Pal Elliot, a black man who had been instrumental in shaping the original Tri-States. Pal, his wife Valerie and their children had been killed in the governmental assault on Tri-States.
Ben shook away the memories of people dead and events past. “I am perfectly content with my life as a bachelor, Ike.”
“That’s bull and you know it, Ben. You got too much he-goat in you for that.” He grinned. “Have you seen the twins?”
“Which set?” Ben asked sourly.
Ike laughed and punched the man playfully on the shoulder. “Rosita’s set.”
“No.”
“They got their momma’s good looks and your eyes. You know what she named them?”
Ben had to smile at the memories of Rosita. “Ben and Salina. Not very subtle of her, I’d say.”
“Have you seen Dawn?”
“Get to the point, Ike,” Ben said wearily. “If there is a point.” He knew very well what the point was.
“That’s your baby, Ben.” It was not phrased as a question.
“Yes,” he admitted. “She said she was going to have it and nothing I could say would change her mind.”
“And now you’re alone and have been for some months.”
Ben shrugged.
“What are you going to do: put a rubber band around it and become celibate?”
Ben laughed at just the thought. “That would be painful, buddy.”
“The rubber band or celibacy?”
Ben tried his best glare on Ike. It didn’t work, bouncing off the stocky man. “Ben, you’ve been rattlin’ “round in that big ol” house like a pea in a dry pod. For all you’ve been through, you still look like a man forty years old. I know-a lot of us know-you’re restless. Would like to take off and ramble. But you can’t do that, Ben. You’re the glue that holds us together. You was to take off, Tri-States would collapse.”
Ben did not like to think of himself as being that
important to the society. It bothered him. “And you think a woman would help settle me down, is that right, Ike?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I read Roanna’s newspaper every week. Maybe I should advertise?”
“It isn’t funny, Ben.” Ike was serious.
“And I’m not treating it as a joke, Ike. Damn it, Ike, I don’t want a harem. And I’m not liking the feeling I get
