Anarchy in the Ashes by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

The hippies and the flippies and the Yippies. No, sir. If the IPF people can reach our young, us older folks can bend down, put our heads between our legs, and kiss our asses goodbye.”
    â€œI’ve got some three thousand fighting men and women who just might have something to say about that, sir,” Ben told the man.
    â€œI don’t care if you’ve got thirty thousand,” the man stated flatly. “If a time has come, it’s come. Mr. Raines, you ever seen a young person – any young person of any generation – who would rather work than play? I haven’t, and neither have you. That’s why they’re young folks; they have yet to learn the work ethic.” He tapped the side of his head. “The IPF people, now, they’re smart – give them credit for that. I think they’re evil, but they’re smart. They’re sending kids into the countryside – nineteen, twenty years old, good-lookin young people. The young people are all blue-eyed and blond, and they’re pulling in our young folks faster than eggs through a hen.”
    Something ancient and evil stirred within Ben. That remark about blond and blue-eyed triggered something... a memory recall. But he couldn’t pin it down. It would come to him.
    The man was saying, “Now you on the other hand, Mr. Raines, you’re the picture of toughness, discipline, hard work – a fighting man. Many of the young people – not all of them, but many – won’t be able to relate to you, sir. They’ve had enough of war and disaster. And if these IPF people can convince them you stand for war and they represent peace, we’ve had it.
    â€œNow, your people know what you’re doing is right; I know it and most people my age know it. But you’re going to have one hell of a time convincing a lot of the young people.”
    Earthy wisdom, Ben thought. Plain, old-fashioned common sense. Why in God’s name did the American people ever turn their backs on this type of thinking?
    â€œAre you suggesting I don’t even try to talk with them?” Ben asked.
    â€œOh, no. You can try. But I recall tryin’ to talk to my youngest boy back in ’87. Like tryin’ to talk to a fence post. His mind was made up, and there wasn’t nothing I could say or do to change it. He pulled out one morning to see the world. I guess he seen it, ’cause I damn sure never saw him again.”
    Caught up in the hell of global warfare, Ben mused. “Anything else you can tell us about these people from the IPF?”
    â€œNot a whole hell of a lot more to tell. I heard one of them talk about Iceland, wonderin’ how things was goin’ back home. But if these folks is originally from Iceland, I’m a Baptist preacher.” He smiled. “And I’ve been a Methodist all my life. Their leader is a man calls himself George. But I heard some of his people call him General Strogonoff. That’s not the right way to pronounce it. Something like that, though.”
    â€œHow do they conduct themselves?”
    â€œThey’re well-trained and polite. But I get the feeling they’d as soon kill a man as look at him. And the few black people left around here walk real light around them, as if they can sense something nobody else can.”
    The memory recall leaped strong into Ben’s brain: Hitler. The master race. He kept that to himself.
    Ben thanked him and the man returned to hoeing in his garden. Ben turned to Colonel Gray. “Dan, get Judy Stratmann and Roy Jaydot. Have them dress in jeans and tennis shoes – like the young people. Get them duffle bags or knapsacks and tell them to look trail-worn. We’ll pull back and bivouac in Greeley, keep our heads down. Tell Judy and Roy to find out what’s going on up at Rolla. We’ll sit back and wait.”
    The Englishman saluted and left.
    â€œJames,” Ben waved to Riverson. The six-foot-six