burning shards of phosphorous searing the flesh and burning to the bone and beyond.
Then the Shillelaghs began seeking targets, the missiles destroying anything they were locked onto during their fiery journey.
As the bearded, robed old man called the Prophet had told Gale, “It was not a war of great magnitude.”
But it was enough for the IPF. With a bitter taste in his mouth, and an oath on his lips, General Striganov ordered his people to retreat.
Just seconds after Ben saw what was happening through his binoculars, he jerked off his headset and ran out of the bunker, startling Mary and Buck.
Ben yelled, “Spearheaders go-go-Go!”
With Colonel Gray’s Scouts and the LETTERRP’S leading the way, the Rebels charged across the no-man’s- land, screaming their rage and fury at the retreating forces of the IPF.
“Keep the rounds in front of the IPF!” Ben yelled back to the bunker. “Call it in. Drive the bastards back to meet us.”
The heavy artillery and mortar crews lifted their cannon and tubes and adjusted klicks. A barrage of explosives landed in front of the retreating IPF troops, forcing them to turn around and face the advancing Rebels charging toward them.
Six thousand troops of Striganov’s IPF had initially faced the men and women of the Rebels on the four sides of the battleground. Just over three thousand IPF troops had been killed in the first few days of fighting. As the IPF were slowly pushed and forced into a small valley just north of Highway 136 in northern Missouri where they took the heaviest casualties to date. The Rebels closed the pinchers and began the final slaughter of the master race.
It was not quite Gen. Georgi Striganov’s Armageddon, but it was to be the last battle for more than ninety- five percent of the troops facing Ben Raines’s Rebels.
Many of the surviving IPF troops were already leery about fighting the Rebels, for they had heard all the stories about Ben Raines’s supposedly supernatural powers, about him being something of a god, about his abilities to face death down.
Of course, outwardly they scoffed and made jokes about that. But for many, inwardly, they weren’t so certain.
When the troops of the IPF turned to face the advancing Rebels, fear sprang into their hearts. For the “pure master race” of supermen and superwomen found themselves facing blacks, whites, Indians, Jews, Hispanics, Orientals and practically every other race of people known to exist on the face of the earth.
And they saw pure hate in the eyes of the Rebels. They saw the silvery glint of cold steel affixed to the weapons, the long bayonets gleaming in the cool fall sunlight. For most of the IPF troops, that would be the last thing they would ever see.
The IPF was forced to fight rage against what they stood for, love of country and a fierce dedication to justice and personal liberty, and an almost fanatical loyalty toward Ben Raines. And the IPF knew, to a person, they were beaten.
Miles away, heading back north to safety, Gen. Georgi Striganov sat slumped in the cushioned comfortable security of his armored car. He had tried to direct the operation from the rear, knowing that it was a mistake, but one he felt he had to make, one his advisors had practically insisted upon. He was safe, yes, but his best troops had been wiped out.
His thoughts were as ugly as the bitter taste lying sour on his tongue.
Using the radio in his armored car, Striganov called in to his HQ. “Evacuate west,” he said tersely. “Until I arrive, Colonel Fechnor is in charge. I want plan B put into effect at once. Move all personnel and equipment west into the Oregon, Washington and Northern California areas. Order all troops from Iceland to commence their sea journey to America-utilize the long
route for safety. Transport the experimental minorities with care, for the females are not far from birthing. Put the evacuation plan into effect immediately.”
The Russian sank back into his seat. “Goddamn Ben Raines,” he cursed. “Goddamn his soul to the pits of hell!”
To hell! he thought. To hell? He shook away the thought of any punishment after death. He didn’t believe in that myth.
Or… did he?
“What do you want done with the prisoners, General?” Colonel Gray asked Ben. It was a useless question, for the Englishman knew perfectly well what Ben’s reply would be.
Ben looked at him. His smile was grim: a slight upturning of one corner of his mouth. His eyes were bleak. “Shoot them,” he said.
The Englishman nodded and turned away.
“Gather and inventory all weapons and equipment,” Ben ordered. “We’re going to need it.”
A thin cover of smoke lay over the little valley of death. Bodies were piled on top of bodies as the Rebels moved into the carnage, stripping the dead of anything they might find useful.
“Tell our engineers to bring earth scrapers in here,” Ben told Lieutenant Macklin. “And scoop out mass graves for the IPF.”
She walked away, happy to be leaving the immediate area, for the stink of the dead and mangled bodies was ugly to her nostrils.
Ike appeared at Ben’s side. Ben glanced at him. The
stocky ex-navy SEAL had come through the fight unscathed. Ike wore a long face.
“What’s up, Ike?”
“Hector’s dead, Ben. He took a round right through the head.”
Ben sighed heavily. Another friend lost. Hector Ramos now joined all the others who had died to defend liberty. “I’m sorry, Ike. Hec was a friend of mine, too. Have him buried apart from those bastards.” Ben jerked his thumb toward the piles of dead IPF troops. Something told him that Ike was not through with his report. “All right, ol’ buddy. Drop the other shoe.”
“OK, Ben, but it ain’t good. Prelims show we took a thirty percent loss. Another four hundred too badly hurt to fight. We lost twenty tanks to suicide teams from the IPF, six mortar carriers. One long torn completely out of it, another that will have to have major repairs. One PUFF was shot down, all aboard dead. Two spotter planes down- crews still missing, presumed dead.
“In other words, we’ve got about eighteen hundred troops still able to fight?”
“That’s stretching it, Ben. Make it fifteen hundred. Be more like it. And some of them are more badly wounded than they want us to know.”
“Very well,” Ben said, mentally tallying up the troops still able to fight. “So what it boils down to is this: Pursuit is out of the question.”
“Nil,” Cecil said, walking up. He had commanded the west flank. “The last intelligence report we received stated that Striganov had at least another six to eight thousand troops in reserve-but not all of them on American soil. We may have the spirit and the
cause, but Striganov simply and flatly has us outgunned and out-manned the way we are.”
“Stopped dead in the water,” Ben mused. “At least for a time.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’m betting Striganov and his people won’t stay in the North. I’m betting he’s already given orders to pull out and relocate. But where?”
“To the west,” Juan said. He and his people had just pulled in from their positions on the west side of the Mississippi River, just above that area defended by Ike’s Rebels. “Or to the south. I think those are the only two logical moves left him. You said some time back, Ben, the Russian would probably have eyes and ears out and know we are planning a move to the east. He couldn’t move into the once-heavily-industrialized Northeast, for those areas-many of them-will be hot for another thousand years. He certainly would know the work you people did in the new Tri-States, the building and the cultivation of crop-lands. He might go there, but I’m hunch-betting he’s pulling out to the west.”
“California, Oregon, Washington areas, maybe,” Ben said, more to himself than to the others. “Putting as much distance between us as possible, knowing we would be very much overextended by attacking his people with that much of a supply gap between us.”
