William W. Johnstone

The word spread like a raging forest fire across the torn nation: Ben Raines is dying.

Sam Hartline’s spotters reported large groups of Rebels gathered around Ben’s command post, standing quietly. Waiting.

Then the word came, buzzing out of the radios:
The Eagle is dead.

Hartline sent in a team to check it out. They reported back with grim satisfaction. Ben Raines was dead. The Rebel movement was in chaos.

Sam Hartline leaned back in his chair and howled his laughter.

“Get the boys ready,” he ordered. “We’re gonna kick those damn Rebels into the sea!”

WILLIAM W.
JOHNSTONE

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eISBN-13: 978-0-7860-2796-5
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First Pinnacle Books Printing: January 1998

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DEATHWATCH

Book One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

six

seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Ninteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Book two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Book three

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Ben stood in the deep timber that surrounded his camp and listened to the sounds of nature returned to pure nature. Was earth’s destruction the work of God? he pondered. Back in ‘88, when the world’s leaders finally decided upon the ultimate answer to everything—war—was God’s hand guiding the human hand that pushed the button?

Had He tired of it all? Had He so wearied of humankind’s continuous screwing-up that He, not mere man, decided upon the ultimate response?

Ben didn’t know. But he strongly suspected his suspicions were correct.

1 am facing so many problems, he silently mused. And not the least important of them is the matter of getting back to God. If this shattered and battered land is to ever pull itself out of the ashes and back to some degree of normalcy, the land and its people are going to have to have some divine help.

Not a very religious man, and certainly not a praying man, Ben felt impotent in his lack of ability to communicate with The Man.

He thought of Gale. He smiled. Or The Woman— whatever the case may be.

But, he thought with a sigh, I firmly believe the age of miracles is long past. And since God so loved His warriors, perhaps He is looking to warriors to aid Him. So—he touched the butt of his shoulder-slung Thompson—let us give God a helping hand.

But, he mused, looking heavenward, it is a two-way door, Lord. I can’t do it alone. So don’t leave me alone. Lend me a hand.

Amen. Or whatever.

Ike and Colonel Dan Gray stood several hundred meters back from Ben, watching him.

“I do believe the general is praying,” Colonel Gray remarked.

“Probably,” Ike agreed. “Ben never wanted the role of leader. He damn sure never asked for it. Everybody just thrust it at him without giving him any options. I’ll say this, though: a hundred years from now, when this nation is once more functioning, and historians are writing about how it pulled itself out of the ashes of war, that man standing right over there will be the man they write about.”

“Most assuredly. I do wish he’d carry a more modern weapon, however. That damned old Thompson has to be fifty years old.”

Ike grinned. “There isn’t an original part left in that thing. It’s been reworked so many times it’s practically brand new.”

They watched as Ben touched the stock of the Thompson submachine gun and turned, looking at the men looking at him.

“Does Ben know that weapon is nearly as revered and feared as he is?” Gray asked.

“Yes. But he doesn’t know what to do about either.”

Ben walked toward his friends and fellow warriors.

“If he pulls this off,” Gray said, referring to the upcoming confrontation with the Russian commander of the IPF, Striganov, and the mercenary, Hartline, “Ben will be more feared and revered than before.”

“He knows that too. He also knows he doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’s just got to do it, and he’s going to.”

Ben was fast approaching them.

“He’s fully recovered from his wounds,” Gray observed. “And you know what that means.”

Ben settled it. “Assimilate all the recon intel thus far received,” he ordered. “Ike, get on the horn and tell your motorized battalion to push it. Get here. Both of you meet me in my CP in one hour. We’re jumping off in forty-eight hours.”

Ike grinned. “Yes,
sir!”

“It’s going to be a bloody son of a bitch!” Ben told the Rebels gathered in his command post. He pointed to a spot on the map on the table. “Striganov and Hartline control everything, and I mean
everything,
from the Nevada line west to the coast in this area of California. In Oregon, Hartline’s people control everything west of Highway Ninety-seven. Now both men have their people spread pretty thin. But even at that, we’re going to be badly outnumbered.”

“Ain’t we always?” a young lieutenant muttered, caught herself, flushed, and glanced at Ben. “Sorry, General.”

Ben smiled. “That’s all right. And you’re right. But right, I think, is the key word here. We’re right, and they’re wrong. Now, our recon intel shows that Striganov and Hartline have beefed up their own people considerably by enlisting a lot of these local warlords. Their people are, for the most part, ill-trained with a noticeable lack of discipline; but they’re very savage. As much as I despise Hartline and Striganov, I will give them credit for having professional soldiers under their commands. But we must not discount the warlords. Bear that in mind—always!

“I hate to split our forces. But under the circumstances, I don’t see any other way to accomplish our mission. We’re not going to stand and slug it out, people. We try that, and we’ll get creamed. As good as we are, we can’t survive against these overwhelming odds in a stand-up, conventional type of war.”

Ben paused, noting the grins of Ike and Gray. “You two apes find something amusing about all this?” he asked.

“Oh, quite, General,” Gray said.

“Oh, just ducky, lovey,” Ike mimicked the Englishman’s precise manner of speaking. Something the Mississippi-born Ike had been doing for years.

The two men were very close friends, although that was hard to pick up from listening to them.

Dan looked at Ike. “Cretin!”

“Smartass!” Ike popped back.

“Barbarous pirate!” He was referring to Ike’s belonging to the famous, or infamous, Navy SEALs.

“Stuck-up snob!” Ike told him. Dan had been a member of England’s famous, or infamous, depending on one’s point of view, SAS.

“Illiterate redneck!” Dan countered.

Ben let them have at it, knowing that when soldiers stop bitching and joking, you have a very bad morale problem.

Colonel Dan Gray drew himself up to full height and sneered at Ike. “Of course,
my
Scouts will lead the way into this upcoming fray.”

“That’
your
ass!” Ike popped off. “Your Scouts couldn’t find their way to the bathroom. SEALs go in first.
My
people will spearhead.”