when I leave the farm. That’s why I’ve been keeping a low profile, and why Cecil is being groomed-not that he needs any grooming-to take my place, and the sooner the better.”
“Cecil’s a good man,” Ike said guardedly.
“Drop the other shoe, Ike.”
“Nobody can take your place.”
Ben felt temper building in him. He fought it back. “And I don’t like that crap either, Ike. Damn, buddy, nobody is indispensable-you should know that. Nobody!”
Ike stood quietly, waiting by the fence. Finally he waved his hand and sighed. “All right, Ben, let’s don’t fuss about it. Too much to do without putting that into it. Two reasons I came out here. You won’t discuss number one, so here’s number two: Intelligence keeps picking up some strange radio transmissions. They came to me with it “cause, well…”
“They’re afraid to come to me with them,” Ben finished it. There was a flat tone to his voice.
“I reckon that’s about the size of it,” the Mississippi-born-and-reared Ike admitted.
“That really makes me feel swell, Ike.”
Ike spread his hands in a gesture of “what can I
say?” When he spoke his voice was soft. “You know you’re bigger than life to a lot of people, Ben.”
“And I get the feeling it’s getting out of hand.”
“Maybe. Anyway, we pinpointed latitude and longitude. Coming from just south of the Arctic Circle. Twenty degrees west longitude, sixty-five degrees north latitude. They’re coming from Iceland, Ben.”
“Iceland! But Iceland was supposed to be destroyed, Ike.”
“You got it. And the transmissions are in a funny language. It’s almost Russian-but it isn’t. It is a Russian dialect, though.”
Ben nodded his head thoughtfully. “Could be one of a dozen or so. Latvian, Croatian, Georgian. What do you make of it?”
Ike shook his head. “Strange, Ben-weird. You remember that we got reports back in “89 that Iceland was hot, took several nukes nose-on.”
“Yes,” Ben’s reply was thoughtful. “We damn sure did. And as I recall, I wondered why they would-or should. OK, they’ve got to be broadcasting to somebody, Ike.”
“Right. To a base in northern Minnesota.”
“Now that is interesting.”
“I did a little checking “fore I drove up to see you, since you never seem to leave this raggedly ol” place,” Ike added dryly. Ben ignored that dig. “Doctor Chase says it would have been highly unlikely the plague would have hit that far north. Extreme temperatures, hot or cold, seem to at first stall it, then kill it.”
“Wonder why he never told me that?”
was “Cause you don’t never leave this goddamn place!”
“Uh-huh. You have someone attempting to translate the language?”
“Right. Ben, what are you thinking? Man, I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
Ben slapped his friend on the back, his mood suddenly lifting. “Ike, I want you to personally get me a full platoon together.”
“Now, damn it, Ben!”
“I want supplies for a sustained operation. Full combat gear. Mortars and light howitzers.” “Goddamn it, Ben!”
“At least two APC’S and rig .50’s on all the Jeeps, no telling what we’ll run into.”
“If I had known you were gonna pull this kind of crap I’d have never come out here!”
“And have one of Doctor Chase’s doctors accompany us. No telling what we’ll find. Get on that right away, will you, Ike?”
Ike stood for a moment, glaring at his friend. Ben returned his gaze sweetly, blandly, the picture of all innocence. Ike finally turned away, muttering under his breath.
Ben rubbed his hands together, a grin moving his mouth. Ben Raines did not like inactivity. He liked to be on the move, liked action.
This was just what the doctor ordered.
Sam Hartline looked like the stereotyped Hollywood mercenary-when Hollywood existed, that is. Six feet, two inches, heavily muscled, a deep tan, dark brown hair graying at the temples, cold green eyes, and a scar on his right cheek.
Cecil had summed up Hartline several years back.
“Sam Hartline is a goddamned psychopath. And one hard-line nigger hater. He was with Jeb Fargo outside Chicago back in “88 and
‘89.”
“Mr. Hartline,” General Striganov greeted the mercenary warmly, with a smile and a firm handshake. “How good to meet with you at last. Did you have a pleasant trip up?”
“Very nice,” Hartline replied, his eyes taking in and silently appraising the Russian. The man looked to be about the same age as Ben Raines, and in just as good physical condition. Hartline wondered if the Russian was as tough as Ben Raines. He’d damn well better be, he concluded, if he’s thinking of tangling with Raines.
“You have laid claim to the entire state of Wisconsin,” General Striganov said, not losing his smile. “Don’t you find that a rather ambitious undertaking, Mr. Hartline?”
Hartline’s smile was as cold as the one greeting him. “Not at all, General. The people seem to be coming along splendidly.”
Striganov leaned back in his chair. “You know, of course, who I am and what I represent?”
Hartline shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You’re a former member of the KGB.” He smiled. “The Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Brozopasnosti.”
Striganov’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Then the rumors concerning Hartline’s linguistic abilities were not exaggerated.
“A general in the Russian Army. Or what is left of that army.”
The smile did not quite reach Striganov’s eyes. “I assure
you, Mr. Hartline, we are of more than ample number. Ah, well, shifting away from me for a time, Mr. Hartline-may I call you Sam? Thank you. Sam, it is quite obvious to any intelligent being that communism-that type of order advocated and practiced by my superiors over those long decades-simply did not work. It was much too repressive. Would you agree?”
“Yes, General, to a point, I would.”
“Ah, good. We are of like mind already. Half the battle is won, I believe. Sam, I have some excellent English tea; would you care for more? Good!” He ordered more tea sent in. “You see, Sam, I was one of those who led the rebellion-for want of a better word-against the Politburo back in ‘88.1 was a colonel then, but with quite a following.” A look of anguish mixed with regret passed over his handsome features, quickly disappearing.
“We failed,” Georgi said simply. “The world exploded in nuclear and germ warfare. You know all that-ancient history. We shan’t fail again. Not if you agree to help me instead of fighting me.”
Hartline had no intention of fighting the Russian. But he saw no point in revealing his hole card just yet. “I’m still here, General, listening.” Hartline sipped his hot tea. It was very good tea. The best he’d had in months. “Earle Gray?” he asked.
“But of course. None finer. Before you misinterpret my previous statement, Sam-I am still a communist. I was born a communist, I shall die believing in that ideology. But I lean more to the socialistic aspects of the philosophy, and away from the harshness-more or less-of hard-liners.”
Hartline knew the man was lying. But he decided to
play the game. “But you do believe in the caste system.”
“But of course! And so do you, nyet?”
“Da,” Hartline replied, his eyes locked to the cold gaze of the Russian. “I speak fluent Russian, General.”
“I know,” Georgi said.
Hartline began musing aloud. “Divide the people into classes. At the second level, the doctors and scientists
