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Beth, the statistician on Ben's team who was responsible for keeping
track of resources and materiel during times when they were at war,
nodded. "It's just as you predicted, Ben. The hideously high taxes
they've been collecting all these years have been used to support the
vast bureaucracy of their government and their stupid welfare programs
instead of for the good of the working citizens who are paying them."
"Maybe they'll finally glom onto the fact you simply cannot pay people
not to work and expect workers to keep propping up the system. It goes
against all human nature," Ben said.
31
"Well, folks, politics is your bailiwick," Doc said. "I just came to
tell you about the plague, so I'm off."
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"Headin' for the golf course?" Coop asked with a smile. He was always
kidding Doc about his quest to break 100 on the golf links around the base.
Doc smiled. "Yeah. I've got this new driver that is guaranteed to let me
hit the ball three hundred yards."
"That just means you'll have to trek that much farther into the woods to
find it," Coop said.
"Ain't that the truth," Doc said as he waved good-bye and headed out the
door.
Corrie, the team's communications expert, looked up from one of the
portable headsets she was fiddling with. "What are you going to do now
that peace is threatening to break out, Ben? Take up golf like Doc Chase?"
Ben smirked. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about us warriors being out
of a job, Corrie," he answered. "If I remember my history correctly,
there haven't been too many years since man crawled out of the
primordial muck that warriors weren't much in demand. It seems human
beings just can't seem to get along for any length of time with each
other. If it's not the color of their neighbors' skins that causes them
to go to war, it's the fact that one nation has something another wants
and doesn't want to work to get it. It's always easier for politicians
to send us in to do their dirty work rather than have the courage to
pass laws that are painful to the voters who keep them in office. So,
no, I'm not going to take up golf. I'm going to keep my .45 cleaned and
oiled and be ready for the next hot spot to pop up, as one always does."
32
Claire Osterman was sweaty, exhausted, and covered with mosquito bites
by the time she'd walked the five miles to the service station and the
nearest phone.
She stood the shotgun in a comer and walked into the office. "I need to
make another phone call," she said.
The proprietor, a tall, skinny man with several days' growth of whiskers
on his face, looked up at her from under the brim of a large, black,
flop-brimmed hat as he cut a piece of tobacco off a plug with a pocketknife.
"You got money? Long-distance calls ain't exactly cheap, ya know."
Claire felt in the pockets of the pants she'd appropriated from the
Holts. Damn, she thought, she'd forgotten to take the stash of money
Bettye Jean Holt had squirreled away in her sugar bowl, hidden from her
husband.
"Listen, I'm calling a friend to come pick me up. I'll tell him to bring
the money to pay you back for the call."
The man grinned, exposing teeth yellowed by years of chewing poor-grade
tobacco. "That ain't gonna cut it, little lady," he drawled in the soft
accent of south Tennessee. "No money, no call, It's as simple as that."
Claire tried to put a seductive smile on her face, in spite of the
swelling that still remained in her broken jaw. "How about I pay another
way, handsome," she purred, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her
shirt. What the hell, she thought,
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33
r
I was that old saying, any port in a storm.
I The owner of the station stared at her body, thinner than
? before due to the near-starvation rations of the Holts, but
? still twenty pounds overweight, and her sagging, lifeless I breasts.
I "That might git ya some food, but yore not near pretty
I enough for a long-distance call, lady."
I Claire's face blushed red and her heart hammered in anger.
H Why, that lousy no good son of a bitch, she thought, humili-
I ated at the rejection.
I "Okay, have it your way," she said quietly through teeth
? gritted tight.
I She turned around, picked up the Holts' shotgun, and
opened the door. After making sure no one was around, she whirled and
pointed the barrel at the man.
"What's your name, mister?" she asked.
He looked up, eyes widening at the sight of the scattergun pointing at
his face. He held up both hands, as if he could stop the buckshot if she
fired. "Uh ... I didn't mean no disrespect, ma'am. Go ahead an' use the
phone."
"I said, what is your name?"
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