told him. The deaths of the young and old bothered him about as much as swatting a fly. “Colonel Fechnor was assigned to my command and he was only obeying orders like any good soldier.”
Col. Valeska Fechnor breathed a silent sigh of relief. He would have to think of some way to repay Hartline for getting him off tenterhooks. This could have turned into a very ugly scene.
General Striganov calmed himself slowly by taking deep breaths and clenching and unclenching his fists. He turned away and gazed out the front of the open tent. He would have to tell his historians that it was the mercenary who ordered the old and the young used in such a horrible manner; let future generations know that he, personally, had nothing to do with anything so monstrous.
“Anyway,” Hartline said with a smile, “we won, didn’t we? Raines is pulling his people back, turning tail and running. So the victory is ours.”
“Ben Raines is most definitely
turning tail and running,” the Russian told the mercenary. “He is merely executing a perfectly logical military option. I would do the same if the situation was reversed. One battle does not win the war. And do not attempt to do with Ben Raines what you succeeded in doing with the inferior minorities. General Raines would not hesitate to shoot. He would not like it, he might weep while giving the order, but he would shoot. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
“Yeah,” Hartline agreed. “You’re right about that, I guess.”
Striganov withered him silent with a cold look. “I am almost always correct, Sam. And never again do anything of today’s magnitude without first consulting me. Is that clear?”
“Clear as rain,” the mercenary said, the scolding bouncing off him. Hartline had a hide of iron.
“Yes, sir,” Fechnor said crisply.
“Very well,” Striganov said. “The matter is closed. We shall count our dead, give them a proper soldiers” burial, then map out strategy for the upcoming campaign against General Raines. And it will not be an easy one. Do not-either of you-delude yourselves into believing otherwise. Unless we are lucky enough to kill Ben Raines-in combat-his people will fight forever, constantly a thorn in our sides.”
“Have some of your people down in Tri-States ambush him,” Hartline suggested.
“No,” Striganov said. “I will not stoop to Raines’s level of fighting. Not yet, at least. Besides, you can bet Raines will ferret those people out when he gets back. If he gets back. I was arrogantly wrong when I admitted to him I was aware of his Jewess bed-partner. My mistake. I shall be big enough to admit it. All right, now then, how great were the losses of the black people?”
“Fifty to sixty percent,” Hartline told him. “Maybe seven to eight hundred got away. Certainly no more than that.”
“Their leaders?”
“Al Maiden is dead. Mark Terry got away. Took Peggy with him and cut out.”
“Peggy?” Striganov questioned. “Who is Peggy?”
“No one of any importance.” Hartline waved the question aside.
“The Mexicans?” The Russian glanced at Colonel Fechnor.
“They fared a bit better. My men have counted some five hundred dead. We took less than two hundred prisoners. The rest ran away like cowards.”
“Pursuit?”
“None. My men stopped at the Missouri River. As you ordered.”
“Good. Very good, Colonel. I commend you.” He walked to the tent opening. “Now, gentlemen, let us honor our gallant dead.”
Ike was furious when he met with Ben. Ben let the ex-Seal blow his tanks until he wound down. Ben then waved his friend to a seat.
“I was plenty pissed too, Ike. But then I got the whole picture from a survivor out of Maiden’s command.” He told Ike what the IPF and Hartline’s mercs had done.
Ike sat in horrified silence for a few seconds. “Ben … that’s the worst goddamned thing I ever heard of. Jesus Christ! Kids and old people.” He shuddered his revulsion. “I will admit my guys pulled some pretty raunchy shit in “Nam, but nothing like that.”
“It’s low, buddy, I’ll sure go along with that. Well, it’s done, and nothing we can do about it. Let’s get down to hard facts, buddy: How many people did you lose?”
“Too goddamn many. I lost just about twenty-five percent. Another ten percent wounded so badly they’re out of action for weeks-maybe months.
Equipment fared a lot better. We got ninety-five percent of our howitzers and armor out.”
“Thirty-five percent of your command, then?” Ben questioned, a deep and very personal sense of loss touching him. He knew every man and woman in every unit.
“At least.”
“Don’t feel too badly, Ike. My figures are just about the same as yours. Cecil’s bunch took one hell of a pounding, too. He lost almost forty percent. And I hate to see Hector’s losses when he comes in.”
“I know he took a beating. When Hec’s left flank caved in-wrong choice of words-was overrun-he lost an entire company right there. Last radio contact I had with him, he told me he took some heavy losses. Striganov really threw some people at him. Hec told me he was outnumbered four, five to one.”
“I’ve sent out scrambled messages for any survivor to the east to come across at Cairo. That’s why I asked you to leave people there. I got a hunch they’ll be in pretty bad shape. Chase is sending medical teams over there to assist.”
“You heard Maiden’s dead?”
“No. I hate that. We were beginning to be friends. Mark Terry?”
“I just heard he was wounded, but managed to get out. He rescued one young woman from the front of an APC.”
“They’ll be drifting in pretty soon, I imagine. I hope so. We’re going to need all the warm, breathing bodies we can muster.”
“Plans?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know what we’re going
to do, Ike. I want a fully attended meeting of the minds as soon as everybody gets in.”
“I wonder if the Russian knows how really weak we are?”
“I doubt it. And he must not find out. If he threw everything he had at us right now, he’d hammer us into the ground.”
It was a downhearted and beaten group of men and women that straggled southward toward Cairo, Illinois. Although they did not speak of the horror, the picture of the naked women lashed to the front of the APC’S and the old people stumbling along, frightened and humiliated, was a mental scene none could erase from their minds.
And for many, the thought nagged at them: Was I acting cowardly by refusing to shoot?
It was a question that many would never resolve to any degree of satisfaction.
Mark and Peggy encountered the first group of troops from New Africa at Du Quion, Illinois. Mark, his resentment toward them still a hot fire within him, at first would not acknowledge their presence. He drove past them without speaking, waving or even looking directly at them. Outside of the deserted town, he pulled over, conscious of Peggy’s unwavering stare on his face.
He parked on the shoulder, sighed and then cut off the engine. He turned to face her. “What is it you want me to do, Peggy?”
“I want you to go back and rally your people. The fight isn’t over, Mark. The fight can’t ever be over until
the Russian and Hartline are both dead and the dream of… of the master race is dead with them.”
“Those people back there are cowards,” Mark said, jerking his thumb in the direction from which they had just come.
“Oh, Mark, they aren’t any more a coward than you are. And in your heart you know that’s true. They’re confused and troubled and I’m sure they feel they let you down.”
“Let me down? Hell, they did let me down! And not just me. They let Ben Raines down. And there is something else, Peggy. I keep replaying that awful scene in my mind, over and over. And I keep asking myself this: If those people lashed to the front of those APC’S, those people being herded in front of the troops, if those people had been white instead of black, would my troops have stood their ground and fired?”
