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berth, both out of respect and out of fear, for many Rebels still
believed that Ben was very nearly a god. Ben had tried for years to
dispel that nonsense but soon learned that the harder he tried, the less
successful he was. And the old Thompson he carried was right up there
with Ben. Many Rebels refused to touch it, even though there was not a
single piece or part of original equipment left. Ben had tried other
weapons, but always returned to the old Chicago Piano. It took a man to
control the .45-caliber spitter, especially with a fully loaded drum
hung under it, but even at middle age, Ben was still very much one hell
of a man.
Ben lingered over breakfast, then refilled his coffee mug and returned
to his CP. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east when all his
batt corns began radioing in.
"We're sitting on ready," Corrie called to Ben.
There had been no mention of calling for the surrender of the punks and
the creeps in the city. That time had passed. Ben could not ask for the
women and children to come out, for the Rebels had learned that the
creepies had a nasty habit of including their own perverted women in the
bunch. But many women who had aligned themselves with the punks and
thugs and street slime had left the city, and the Rebels had let them go
... after taking the younger children from them. The surviving Canadian
people had opened their arms to the young.
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William W. Johnstone
Ben looked at the luminous hands of his watch. "A few more minutes."
Cooper sat on the steps of the porch, his eyes closed, dozing. Jersey
sat on the porch with her back to the front of the house, her M-16
across her knees. Beth was inside, writing in her journal. Corrie was at
the radio.
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Ben drained his coffee mug and placed it on the floor of the porch. "All
right, Corrie," he called. "Bring the city down."
Fifteen seconds later the sky was split with bright flashes as the big
guns roared. The first rounds began landing on the city, and they
included everything from the 105-mm rounds to the huge projectiles from
the Ml 10A2, the big 203-mm (8-inch) self-propelled howitzers, which
could lay back some 24,000 yards and lob conventional rounds in and put
rocket-assisted rounds in from a distance of nearly 34,000 yards. But
its rate of fire was slow, about four rounds every three minutes, due to
the weight of the projectiles, since each round weighed just over two
hundred pounds. But the damage it caused was awesome.
President Blanton had sent several civilian observers up to Ben's
position (they had arrived the day before) and were still sleeping in
their quarters when the big guns began to roar. They rushed outside to
see the gray horizon pocked with fire and smoke. The three women and
three men ran out into the street, slightly disoriented, and walked the
short distance to Ben's CP. They were startled to find him sitting
calmly on the front porch, reading a Dan Parkinson novel of the West and
sipping coffee.
"What is happening, General?" Catherine Smith-
77
Harrelson-Ingalls asked. It had taken those subtle man-haters about a
generation to figure out that when they married and kept their maiden
names, they were not shedding the despised man-names but instead just
keeping their father's name. Now with the nation once more emerging out
of the ashes and re-forming, it was chic in some circles to go one step
further and add their mother's maiden name as well.
Ben looked up at her. "Artillery, Miss ... ah ... what is your name?"
"Catherine Smith-Harrelson-Ingalls. And it is Ms."
Ben blinked. "Did your mother have a grudge against you when you were
named?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Never mind. We're shelling the city."
"Whatever on earth for?"
Jersey was sitting on the steps, staring in disbelief at the woman. Beth
looked at Corrie, who winked at Cooper, the silent gesture stating
clearly that things were about to get lively.
Ben carefully marked the page and laid the book aside. "Ms.
Whatever-your-name-is, it is common practice during war to use artillery
from time to time. It not only is very destructive, but it also
demoralizes the hell out of those being shelled."
"Do you have the president's permission to do this?" another woman piped up.
"Lady," Ben said, mustering all the patience he could, "I don't have to
have Blanton's permission to do a goddamn thing. Now why don't you
people go on down to the mess tent-it's that way," he said, point-
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78
William W. Johnstone
ing, "and have some breakfast. After that, stay the hell out of my
business."
"Well!" Ms. Smith-Harrelson-Ingalls said.
"Where are you holding the prisoners?" a man asked.
Jersey giggled, which was something that Jersey rarely did.
"Did I say something funny?" the man asked.
"If we take any prisoners, they'll be held over there." Ben pointed.
"Somewhere."
"What do you mean, if you take prisoners?" a woman asked, looking around
her at Ben's personal team.
"Creeps don't surrender," Cooper said. "Never. As for punks, who the
hell wants them?"
"They're human beings, for God's sake!" a man said.
"Cooper, please escort these people to the mess tent," Ben said.
"How long is this barrage going to continue?" the woman with three last
names asked.
"For twenty-four hours, lady," Jersey answered. "I recommend the
scrambled eggs. They're pretty good. Goodbye, Cooper. Have fun."
"My name is Ralph Galton, General," a young man said. Ben figured him to
be about thirty-five. About the same age as the others. "I report
directly to ex-President Timmy Narter."
"How wonderful for you," Ben said.
Galton ignored the sarcasm. "We are all concerned about the humanitarian
aspects of this operation."
"It's none of your goddamn business, sonny."
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79
"I beg your pardon, sir, but it most certainly is our business. As you
may know, President Narter has re-emerged from hiding and is chairperson
of the-"
Ben waved him silent. "I don't want to hear about it, sonny. Tell him to
go build a house."
"You're very disrespectful, sir."
"I've had it," Ben said, and stood up and turned, facing the group. Both
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his hands were balled into big fists. Beth quickly stepped between them
and said, "Breakfast is being served at the mess tent. I would suggest
you go there, right now. Cooper? Take them. Now!"
After the group had left, Jersey said, "Where are all these damn people
coming from? Where have they been hiding for all these years? What have
they been doing all the years since the Great War?"
"Waiting for us to do their dirty work, Jersey," Ben said. "It's typical
of a certain type of mealymouthed liberal. They knew if they stuck their
heads out of their holes, the thugs and street slime and creepies and
outlaws would have them for lunch. So they waited while we did all the
work-and they knew we were doing it. That's what pisses me off about
that bunch. Blanton admitted it. They knew all along we were killing
punks and thugs. They knew we weren't cutting any of them any slack. And
they let us do it. But now, oh boy, but now . . . this is the last great
gathering of slime in the Northern Hemisphere. The liberals are safe
now, for a time. Now the liberals can come out of hiding and strut
around puffing out their chests and weeping and pissing and moaning
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