blond and handsome and intelligent-both genders pale-eyed, of course.
All families of the perfect people had been researched carefully for flaws. And so far, the children born to the IPF over the past decade … perfect. Not one defective. All beautiful. Selective breeding would work, even that idiot Hitler had known that.
Striganov stirred restlessly in the back seat. He poured a glass of wine and dipped a cracker into black caviar, chewing slowly, savoring each bite.
But that fool Hitler had almost destroyed any hope of the revival of a Mactep Paca, a Meister Rasse. It was one thing to let a race die out naturally-more or less-but to destroy them with ovens and gas and starvation …
That was unthinkable. Barbaric. Savage. It served no useful medical purpose. For even defectives could be used in experiments. True, Hitler did once have a few experiments going, but his were not on the grand scale of the IPF.
Striganov really never thought that what he was doing was just as terrible and barbaric and horrible-perhaps even more so. The Russian actually believed-had convinced himself-he was doing humankind a service, not a disservice. What he was now putting into effect had been his lifelong dream, ever since as a child he had read and absorbed the rantings and
ravings of that only-sometimes-lucid little paper hanger.
Yes, the little man had had-at times-some good ideas and thoughts. But Striganov was so very glad the man had not succeeded. For his own theories and ideas were so very much better.
A master race, a fully workable caste system-that was the ultimate achievement. A world whose leaders and thinkers and breeders at the top level would all be fair-skinned and blue-eyed and handsome and intelligent.
How could anyone wish for more than that?
But suddenly a frown crossed the handsome features of the Russian. For there was only one flaw in an otherwise perfect master plan.
Ben Raines.
“Ben, do we send troops in to help Juan and Mark?” Lieutenant Macklin posed the question at a briefing before the battle. “They won’t have a prayer without some support from trained combat troops.”
“No.” Ben stood firm in one of the most agonized-over decisions he had ever had to make. “That is what Striganov is hoping I’ll do. Hoping I’ll further weaken this thin line we’re maintaining.”
“Do they know this, Ben?” Hector asked.
“Yes. The leaders do. And I’m sure most of the line troops sense it as well.”
“It could backfire, ol’ buddy,” Ike reminded Ben.
“I know it-only too well,” Ben admitted the weakness in the plan. “Unless we can defeat the IPF here, those on the west side might punch through and come
in under us with so much force we couldn’t close the pincers on them. I know that. It’s going to be a slugging match, people. We’ll be taking and losing and retaking the same ground-on both sides of the line-twenty times before we’re through. I think Striganov knows-just as I know-this is going to be the stand-up-and-slug-it-out type of battle. And he knows, as I know, we are going to both inflict and take heavy losses.”
But Ben was worried as he glanced at Ike, and Ike knew it. Knew what Ben was thinking: neither ex-Seal nor ex-Hell-Hound was an expert in this type of fighting. Both of them were trained-and highly so-in the art of guerrilla warfare: that dirty cut-slash-run type of unconventional warfare. The men had defended the original Tri-States in the West, and done it well but they had been forced out. Not because of lack of courage, simply because of superior manpower thrown at them by forces of the United States government, when Hilton Logan was president and his hate for Ben Raines had finally erupted into bloody warfare.*
And it was superior manpower they were again about to face.
Ben rose, signaling the meeting was over. He shook Ike’s hand, then Hector’s. “Showdown time, gang. Let’s win it and get the hell back home. We got crops to harvest in a few weeks.”
Ike and Hector and Mary smiled, nodded and walked away. Mary was part of Ben’s HQ’S company. “See Out Of The Ashes.
Ike went to the east, Hector to the west.
To war.
But only one of the two men would return from the final battle.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Gen. Georgi Striganov, in full battle dress, stood on the north side of Interstate 70. Ben Raines, in full battle gear, stood facing the Russian from the south side of the concrete strip. As if on silent command, the men walked across their two lanes of concrete to face each other, median strip separating them. Each man had requested this one final meeting before they began man’s most awesome means of settling disputes: war.
“You’re looking disgustingly fit and well, General Raines,” Striganov said. “It pays for men our age to keep in shape, da?”
“I will agree with that, General.”
“Nice to know we can agree on something, General Raines.” His eyes drifted to Ben’s old Thompson SMG. “My word, General. Where did you ever find that antiquated weapon?”
“I’ve had it a long time, General,” Ben replied. “It’s an old friend.”
“Friends can sometimes disappoint a person, General-let one down, so to speak. If one depends
upon them too much.”
“It hasn’t yet.”
“Pray that it doesn’t.” Striganov smiled. “My people are, to use one of your quaint Western expressions, kicking ass to the west and the east. I think you sacrificed those people, General Raines, and I think you know you did.”
“Perhaps. But in war, no one is indispensable. Not you, not me.”
“You don’t believe the latter any more than you believe a mule can fly, General. General? This does not have to be. Join me and let us work together.”
“Toward a master race?”
“But of course, General Raines. Why not?”
“Because I believe what you are doing is more than evil, it’s monstrous.”
The Russian shrugged that off. “Yes, I keep forgetting you were once married to a half-black wench, weren’t you?”
Ben said nothing.
“And now a Jewess shares your bed.”
Ben remained silent, thinking: He’s got people in Tri-States, and he just gave that fact away. I wonder why? Slip of the tongue? “That is correct, General. But I don’t think of people in race categories. They are just human beings.”
The Russian spat contemptuously on the ground. “What a noble thought,” he said, his voice full of open scorn. “Fortunately for me, I do not share your misguided philosophical meanderings. I saw some time back that the pure white race is the master race, the most intelligent of all the races-by far. And General, you are, I believe, too intelligent a man not to see that.
You are just idealistic at a time when that is a luxury that you cannot afford.”
“I will admit to being somewhat of an idealist,” Ben said. “Personally, I think it is an admirable trait to possess-if one keeps it in perspective.”
The Russian studied the American. He should have ordered snipers to accompany him and shoot Ben Raines. That would have solved a great many problems. But Striganov had always prided himself on being an honorable man, and he fully believed he was just that.
A great many people would have cheerfully called him anything but honorable.
Striganov shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Perhaps. I am sorry it has to be this way, President-General Ben Raines, for I think in many ways we are quite alike. But…” Again he shrugged.
Ben stood tall and silent, watching the Russian study him.
“I shall conduct myself and my troops as gentlemen during our upcoming confrontation, General Raines, carefully observing all the articles of war.”
