Ben thought of several people and many things he would be more than happy to compare the Russian to and with. But he kept silent.
“And, Ben, there is this: We aren’t monsters. If the people do not wish to have the injection, they may breed-selectively-with someone of fair skin. The offspring will do likewise, all very carefully controlled, of course. And so in time, several generations, they will conform. Selective breeding. It’s all up to the individual, I assure you.”
“How magnanimous can you be?” Ben said sarcastically. “And if the newborn child does not conform in color to your plans?”
“It will be destroyed for the good of the pure race.”
Ben felt a small sickness within him grow larger. He looked at the handsome features of the Russian and in his mind, the man wore the face of evil, his hair that of a Medusa.
Ben heard himself saying, “It will never work, General Striganov.”
“Oh?”
“When I leave here, I am going to spread the word about you.”
“But of course you are. I fully expect you to do that.”
“And you’re not’ going to try to stop me from leaving?”
“No, indeed, Ben. I’m not a barbarian.”
Ben could but look at the man and wonder if he was insane.
“You see, Ben, we’ve already injected over five thousand blacks, Hispanics and Jews. All your spreading the word will do is slow the process a bit, but really not very much. In the end, General Raines, we will be victorious.”
“I fail to see how, General.”
“Because a great many people simply do not like blacks and Spanish people, Ben. A like number-maybe even more-do not care for Jews. Those people will turn them in to us.” He smiled at how simple it all was-in his mind.
Ben thought the smile resembled the SS death’s-head insignia. “Let me guess how you plan on keeping records, General Striganov: little, portable tattoo machines.”
The Russian applauded Ben. “How marvelously astute of you, President-General Raines.”
Ben’s lunch lay heavy on his stomach. The once-delicious meal felt as though it had turned wormy. He had
lost all taste for the wine. He wanted to run outside and breathe deeply of the summer air. He felt the invisible odor of death and evil and everything hideous and unimaginable through his clothing, sinking into his flesh. For a brief moment, Ben entertained the wild thought of reaching across the table with his steak knife and slashing the Russian’s throat. He rose from the table.
“I am going to stop you and your master plan, General Striganov.”
“You will forgive me if I don’t wish you luck, General Raines. But no matter-you will be unsuccessful, I assure you of that.”
Ben’s smile was grim, the smile of a mongoose looking at a cobra. “You will forgive my lack of manners by not offering to shake your hand?”
“Perfectly understandable, General Raines.”
Ben walked out of the building and to his waiting troops. “Let’s go,” he said. “First chance you get, pull over to the side of the road.”
“Something the matter, sir?” Sgt. Buck Osgood asked.
Ben looked back at General Striganov, looking at him through a window. The Russian waved merrily. “Yeah,” Ben said, “I need to puke!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“So you didn’t speak of dividing lines?” Ike said.
“No, I blew it,” Ben replied. “Got mad. Lost my cool. Almost my lunch. I wish I had. I wish I had vomited all over that bastard. He’s got to be stopped, Ike.”
“I agree. Al Maiden time, Ben?”
“With much reluctance, Ike. I don’t like Al Maiden. Cecil doesn’t like Al Maiden. There isn’t a black in all of Tri-States that likes him. He’s a militant white-hater. He’s as bad in his own way as Striganov.” Ben shook his head. “No, he isn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. The man reminds me of Kasim, that’s all. But I know he isn’t that bad.”
Ben had met Kasim back in the late fall of 1988, at a motel in Indiana. The man had been traveling with Cecil, his wife, and several other blacks, including the lady who was later to become Ben’s wife, Salina. Kasim had hated Ben from the beginning, and the feeling had been more than mutual with Ben. Kasim had later been killed by Hartline’s mercenaries; Cecil’s wife and family, along with Salina, had been killed during the
government assault on the first Tri-States.
“Juan Solis?” Ike asked, shaking Ben out of the misty memories of the past. Ike had lost his family during the bloody and needless battle of Tri-States, and, like Ben, sometimes retreated into memory.
“Him I like. Yes, get in touch with both of them. Sorry to have brought you up here on a false alarm, Ike.”
“Got me out of the house for a little while.” Ike grinned. “You want to meet with them in Tri-States, Ben?”
“Yes. Tell them what’s going down.” Ben sighed. “But for God’s sake, Ike, don’t tell Maiden to come in for the meeting. You’ll get him mad and he’ll puff up like a spreading adder.”
Ike laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “Hell, Ben. Maiden is just doing what you did back in ‘89: starting his own little country.” There was a twinkle in Ike’s eyes. He knew only too well he was touching a very sore spot with Ben.
Ben bristled. “Damned if that’s so, buddy, and you know better.” Then he smiled. “You do love to needle me, don’t you?”
“Helps to keep you young, ol’ buddy.” Ike grinned lewdly. “And with Gale, boy, you’d damn well better stay young. That lady is a spitfire.”
“Tell me. OK, buddy, you head on back. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
So often when tragedy strikes, the first glimpse is misleading. The initial scene depicts total desolation, seemingly void of life; but there are almost always survivors
at the second glance: men and women who somehow made it through the impossible.
Such was the case with Juan Solis and Al Maiden and their followers.
Juan had surfaced only a few weeks after Ben and his Rebels and pulled into the new Tri-States. Juan had sent patrols out, looking for Spanish-speaking survivors, urging them to resettle in New Mexico and Arizona. Some eight thousand had, with more trickling in each day. Juan was building, as Ben had done back in ‘89, a society of like-minded men and women whose aim was to rebuild from the ashes of chaos and destruction a workable, fair society, with schools and businesses and a strong economy. Juan’s was not an all-Spanish-speaking society. Just like Ben’s Tri-States, there were people of all faiths, all nationalities.
Al Maiden had surfaced on the East Coast, claiming parts of North and South Carolina. But unlike Juan, Al’s regime was a rocky one, with many of his followers objecting to Maiden’s constant barrage of not-too-subtle hate directed at the whites. When Maiden tried to drive the whites out of his disputed territory, most of his own people had stopped him, horrified at Maiden’s unwarranted actions and bitter vituperation.
Ben’s intelligence corps had predicted that unless Maiden changed his methods, he would, probably within a year, be assassinated, with a much more moderate black coming into power. That would be Mark Terry, a former IBM executive, Harvard graduate, class of ‘83. Mark was a very vocal opponent of any type of New Africa. Mark had met secretly with Cecil Jefferys several times during the past year, seeking advice
from the level-headed VP of Tri-States and the first black to ever become vice president of the United States. When there had been a United States.
Cecil had told him bluntly that, “You would be doing the world in general a great favor if you would just shoot that ignorant, bigoted, biased son of a bitch and pull your followers out and into Tri-States. Then we could get on with the process of rebuilding.”
