Danger in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Cecil touched his arm. “You know, of course, Ben, that I am the exception when it comes to blacks?”

  “I know it, Cec. So is John Simmons. So was Pal Elliot. Salina. Valerie and Lila. Megan. Major Johnson. The list is long; do you want me to repeat every name, Cec?”

  “No. No, of course not. It’s like being flayed with a tiny knife after you say each name. Ben, you know what? I sometimes think we should just quit trying to see that the races get along. Sometimes I just want to separate them; put the rednecks on one coast, the militant blacks on the other coast. Let the Latinos have the southwest and you and me and Ike and those who follow us carve something productive out of the center of the country . . . and keep the others away from each other.”

  Ben smiled down at the murky mess that was laughably called coffee. “And would that work, Cec?”

  “Why, hell, no! We’d be fighting more then than we are now.” Cecil sighed and pushed his empty plate from him. “I am really not looking forward to seeing Lamumba today.”

  “Seeing who?”

  Cecil turned his head away so Ben would not see his smile. “Lamumba. The guy who heads up the local return-to-Africa group.”

  “Oh, shit! Another Kasim.”

  “Please. I just ate. I do my best not to remember that fool!”

  “How many members does this Lamumba have?”

  “You ready for this?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. About three hundred.”

  Ben stared at him. “Are you joking?”

  “Unfortunately, no. And they’re all well-armed, and they all hate whites.”

  “How come John didn’t tell me about this?”

  “He elected to tell me instead. I did not feel like kissing him at the news.”

  Ben watched Cecil’s eyes as a young black woman entered the mess tent. She wore captain’s bars on her collar. Her field pants fit her very well.

  Cecil sighed and shook his head. “It’s hell to be middle-aged, Ben.”

  Ben said, quite smugly and deliberately, “Hasn’t bothered me a bit.”

  Cecil looked startled for a second, and then caught Ben’s drift. “Look, honky . . . that’s supposed to be my line!”

  Chuckling, the two men emptied their trays and left the tent.

  Captain Patrice Dubois watched the men leave. She had not been with the main force of Rebels long, having just come in from Old Camp One up in North Georgia. “Handsome man,” she remarked to a sergeant, also a woman.

  “Which one?”

  “Both of them. But General Raines is untouchable, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Hang around,” she was told. “Somebody’s been feedin’ you a line of bullshit.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s General Jefferys I was talking about.”

  “He’s free. Lost his wife not too long ago. Cancer. His first wife was killed during the government assault on Tri-States.”

  “Tough.”

  “You’re new in camp.”

  “Yes. I’ve been up in North Carolina most of the time; attached to the North Georgia Rebels. I’ve been instructing in guerrilla warfare.”

  “What’s your specialty?”

  Captain Patrice Dubois smiled. “Silent killing.”

  “You ought to be assigned to Colonel Gray’s bunch, then. Gray’s Scouts. That bunch is randy, honey. Tina Raines is assigned to Gray’s Scouts.”

  “The general’s daughter?”

  “That doesn’t cut any ice around here, sister. You either pull your weight, or you’re in deep shit.”

  The two women Rebels took their trays to a table and watched as a handsome young man entered the tent and joined the growing mess line.

  “What a hunk!” Patrice said softly.

  “The general’s son. Buddy. He’s taking a full platoon out today to clean the nests of Night People out of Monroe.”

  Patrice shook her head. “Where is General Raines’s daughter?”

  “Acting as CO of the Pathfinders on their way to see if New York City is still standing.”

  Patrice chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Absolutely no favoritism in this army, is there?”

  “None, honey. None at all. And no racism, either. General Jefferys hates a nigger as much as General Ben Raines hates a redneck.”

  “But isn’t what you just said a form of racism?”

  The sergeant smiled. “I really think you ought to volunteer to go with the generals today, captain.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Down to talk to a bunch of goofballs who want to form a New Africa and kill all the whites around here.”

  The sergeant never stopped sprinkling a bit of salt and pepper on her eggs. She did not catch the odd look on Dubois’s face.

  “Maybe I’ll just do that,” the captain said.

  TEN

  “Blockade at Charlotte Pike exit, general,” Tina radioed back. “And it’s a good one.”

  “Hold what you’ve got, I’m right behind you.”

  The Rebels had inspected the bodies of the dead Night People at dawn, and found the same deformed, disfigured, and stinking men and women as Tina’s Scouts had seen in Memphis. The Rebels had not been impressed.

  “I hate to waste explosives blowing these damned things,” Ike said. “Back off and put a rocket into it to see if it’s wired, then we’ll just ram it out of the way.”

  When the rocket hit the barricade, the whole mess went up with a roar that knocked several Rebels off their boots.

  “Son of a bitch!” Ike said, shaking his head and thumping his ringing ears. “Well, piss on ’em. We don’t need a Metro Airport to land the planes that will be resupplying us.” He looked at his map. “We’ll bypass this place and hit Seventy just outside of Dowelltown; take that all the way over to Crossville. We’ll use that airport, if possible.”

  “And just maybe, along the way, we can pick up some intel as to just what the hell is going on around the cities,” Tina suggested.

  “Yeah. All right, people, back it up and let’s cut south. Blaze us a trail, Tina.”

  “Request permission to accompany the generals today,” Patrice said, with a sharp salute.

  “We’re not much on saluting around here, captain,” Ben told her. “When you get to know how we operate,” he softened that with a smile, “you’ll know when to salute, believe me. Permission granted.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m Captain Patrice Dubois.”

  “Are you Creole?” Cecil asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. I don’t remember much about my background. Only that I’m from New Orleans and I was ten when the Great War came.”

  Cec looked at Ben and smiled. “Ah, youth!”

  “Yeah. A gathering of old men, that’s us.”

  “Great movie.”

  “I liked the book.”

  “You would.”

  Patrice did not have the foggiest idea what either man was talking about.

  “You have read Gaines, have you not, Captain Dubois?”

  “I . . . ah, no sir.”

  “I have a copy. I’ll lend it to you.”

  “And some Faulkner, too, Cec.”

  “Spare her that, Ben. You might like to study novels; I prefer to enjoy them.”

  “Faulkner is enjoyable.”

  “Right, Ben.” He looked at Patrice. “Have you had breakfast, captain?”

  “You saw me in the tent, general.”

  Cec smiled. “Yes. So I did.”

  Ben started whistling “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  Cec gave him a dark look.

  The look was wasted. Patrice Dubois had never heard of the smash hit South Pacific, or any of the music from it.

  “How can it be an enchanted evening, Ben — it isn’t even good dawn yet?”

  “It’s the mood that counts.”

  Ben walked off, humming “Matchmaker, Matchmaker.”

  “You two act more like brothers than friends,” Patrice observed.

&
nbsp; “We’re both, Patrice.”

  “And yet you are going this day to run off a group of blacks who only wish to live as their ancestors lived.”

  She caught the shift behind Cecil’s eyes, and knew she’d lost points.

  “You have a lot to learn, captain.”

  “I’m a good student, general.”

  But the ice that had formed in Cecil’s eyes was still there.

  “Perhaps. Time will tell.”

  “General, I don’t understand the Rebel philosophy.”

  “Then why did you join?”

  “The truth?”

  “I would prefer that.”

  “For survival, general. Oh, being a Rebel is a damn good way to get killed, sure; but it’s also the best way I know of to stay alive . . . if you can make any sense out of that.”

  “I can. But you don’t agree with what we’re doing?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

  “What about it confuses you?”

  “I’ve been with the Rebels for over two years. This is the first time I’ve seen any one of the three generals of the Rebels. I still haven’t seen General Ike. I’ve been sent to Michigan, to Florida, and to North Georgia, each time the units getting larger. And I’m fully trained. I have been the only black in an all-white outfit. And somehow I don’t think that was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t. Those are my orders. I also place a lone white in an all-black or all-Latin unit; just to see if they can cut it.”

  “I see. And have I ‘cut it’?”

  “Obviously. I’ve seen no bad reports on you.”

  “And you would see them, personally?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The camp was fully awake now. Those Rebels who were not in a family unit were lining up at the mess tents around the town, for breakfast.

  “Are you going to order Lamumba and his followers out of the area, general?”

  “No. Just tell them that we’re all going to get along. Then if they can’t see their way clear to do that, they can carry their asses.”

  “And you are absolutely convinced that this way, the Rebel way, is the best way?”

  “Oh, yes, captain. If I was not certain, I wouldn’t be a part of the movement. And, Miss Dubois, I would suggest that you make up your mind . . . quickly.”

  Cecil turned and walked off.

  “Had your breakfast, son?” Ben asked Buddy.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be pulling out within the hour.”

  Ben inspected the gear Buddy was drawing from quartermaster. He added a few items and then nodded his approval. “The next outpost will be somewhere around the Shreveport area; just east of that city. When you’re finished in Monroe, resupply and reconnoiter all the way to Shreveport. Clear the Interstate of any obstacles . . . stationary or living.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben was startled to see the huge bulk of Command Sergeant Major James Riverson gearing up.

  “What the hell are you doing, James?”

  “Preparing to move out with Buddy, general.”

  Riverson was one of the original Rebels, having been with Ben since ’88.

  “On orders from whom?”

  “My own,” the big Top Kick said flatly.

  “What if I need you here?”

  “You don’t.”

  Grunting, Ben walked away, toward the platoon of Rebels gearing up to confront the Night People. Somehow, it came as no surprise to find nearly all were hardened veterans of dozens of battles.

  Ben spoke to one Rebel. “Looking after the general’s son, Mike?”

  “Why, no, sir!” the battle-hardened vet said, a bland expression on his face. “Just followin’ orders, sir.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “General Jefferys, sir.”

  “Ummp,” Ben grumbled. “But of course. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Rebels smiled as Ben walked away. Damned if they were going to let anything happen to Buddy.

  Ben caught up with Cecil. Captain Dubois was tagging along, some distance back. Ben commented on it.

  “She doesn’t as yet know where her loyalties lie, Ben.”

  “Ahhh. Got to the heart of the matter very quickly, did you?”

  “It would appear so. How many personnel do we take with us on this . . . odyssey?”

  “Hell, it wouldn’t make any difference if I said none. Fifty would still be close by.”

  Cecil smiled. “True. I’ll order a team.”

  “Good. We’ll meet at your office at nine.”

  “See you then.”

  Ben walked to his already staffed and busy office, checked in, but found he could not concentrate on the paperwork: dozens of reports from roaming teams of Rebels all over the battered nation. He left them stacked on his desk and got into his Jeep, electing to drive through the town.

  He wanted to tell Hiram that he had not gunned down his son without provocation. But he knew that Hiram’s hate was so great he would never believe him. Ben made up his mind just to let it lie and wait for Hiram to make his move.

  He drove the streets, conscious of the Rebels in Jeeps behind him . . . always with him. Ben had reached the point where he paid no attention to them . . . almost.

  He drove past the town’s factory buildings, now empty, their windows broken-glass-mute eyes. And again, the thought came to him: why, if a building is empty, do certain types of assholes and crapheads feel compelled to break the windows? Having grown up in a rural area, during a time when vandalism was not tolerated, Ben could never understand the motivation behind it.

  Still didn’t.

  He wondered how Cec and Patrice were getting along? A very pretty but rather odd lady. Ben would have someone run a check on her. Ben had once prided himself on knowing everybody in the Rebel army. But it had grown so, become so diverse and complex, that it was now impossible.

  His thoughts shifted to Denise Vista, the Indian woman they’d found enslaved in Kansas. Their affair had been very intense and, it appeared, very brief. That was fine with Ben. He really did not wish to become emotionally involved with another woman. He knew his faults only too well; knew that he was complex and not that easy to get along with.

  He wondered how Gale was doing.

  He smiled at the thought of her. What a character she was.

  He thought of Rani.

  He quickly put her out of his mind.

  He wished to God he could find a woman who didn’t want to tie him down. For Ben was not the tying-down sort.

  The women he had known walked through his mental memory banks. He had, in his own way, loved them all. And yet, of them all, his thoughts always returned to Jerre. She had been so young, and yet so full of wisdom, realizing that Ben had a dream, a mission, and a woman forever by his side was not included. Salina had known that, too, but in quite a different way.

  He knew that Jerre was still in the Rebel army, but he was damned if he knew where. Perhaps, he mused, that was best for all concerned.

  And Rosita had borne him children. Little Short Stuff, he had called her. She had known, too, that no one woman would ever be able to hold him back. And she had, with a smile, stepped aside.

  And Cecil was about to get involved with Patrice; Ben knew all the signs. But for Cecil, that was good. The man had not found his mental mate since Lila.

  Everything and everyone had changed, as was the nature of things. Even Ben’s outlook toward ’necks had changed. Because they had changed. And that puzzled Ben. He did not understand why that particular group had changed from Good OF Boy to savage, and in such a short time.

  Dawn came walking and smiling into Ben’s mind. The mother of his twins.

  Jesus Christ, Raines! he mentally berated himself. What are you trying to do, repopulate the earth singlehandedly?

  He’d been accused of that, he recalled.

  He checked his watch. An hour until he would meet with Cecil. He wondered how Ike and Tin
a were doing.

  They had hit an ambush on old highway 96. For once, Tina had not been leading her Scouts; the two Scouts who had been at point were killed when automatic weapons fire raked their Jeep. The Jeep had slewed off the road and nosed into a ditch.

  Ike and his people had gone on into Murfreesboro to check out the town, letting Tina and her Scouts go ahead and cut east, in order to clear any obstacles they might encounter.

  “Well, we sure encountered one,” she muttered. “Ham? Have you spotted them?”

  “Just across that little bridge,” Ham called. “I’m setting up mortars now. But I’m going to have to walk them in from the east. If we blow that bridge, we’re screwed!”

  Tina waved most of her team left and right, to protect their flanks, and sent the rest back to protect the rear. “Walk them in when you’re ready, Ham!” She called. “Hal! Set up that recoilless rifle right over there. Bernie! Can you back that Jeep over there and use the .50? Good. Go!”

  Ham began dropping rockets down the tube, deliberately aiming long so he could walk the rounds in. After three adjustments, he hit pay dirt . . . or raw meat, as the case was. The high-explosive round landed right on the mark and sent two once-living bodies several feet into the air; one of the men was minus half his head.

  “Every other round WP!” Ham ordered his two mortar crews. “Do it!”

  The .50 caliber began chugging and Hal began working the recoilless rifle, the gun hammering, tossing out the six-pound rounds that destroyed nearly anything they came in contact with.

  Then the Scouts came in for a rude surprise: the enemy they were engaging was just as well armed as they. Mortar rounds began dropping in on the Scouts’ position. And a heavy machine gun began belching. But before the mortarmen could get their range, Tina was shouting her team back.

  “Bug out!” she shouted. “Fall back. Move!”

  The Scouts fell back a good mile from the combat zone and regrouped while Tina called Ike.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on over there?” Ike’s voice came through the walkie talkie.

  “We’ve hit a solid pocket of resistance. And they’re well armed.”