Courage In The Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  A 95-pound 155 M107 high-explosive round landed on the roof and Bonny Jefferson got several tons of building material on his head. The outlaw was crushed along with several of his men.

  Jack Hayes and several of his men had been secretly planning a method of escape once the Rebels launched their attack. They had hidden a broad-beamed boat with a workable inboard motor just below the Beluga Whale Lookout. They managed to reach the spot without being blown to chunks and shoved off. They were all grinning and giddy with relief at their successful escape.

  Their grins faded as they spotted a single Apache gunship slapping toward them, coming in low over the water. The gunner’s aim was right on target as he fired the 30mm chain gun located in the nose of the chopper. What was left of Jack Hayes and those foolish enough to be in the boat with him twisted and turned slowly in the water as they sank to the bottom of the bay, and their blood left a momentary trail as they slowly slid deeper into the murky waters.

  Art LeBarre was blown out of a building, his body cut in dozens of places by shards of concrete and splinters of glass. The outlaw staggered to his feet, looking wildly around him, just as an M692 round exploded directly in front of him. Seconds later, all that was left of Art LeBarre was one thumbless hand lying in the street.

  Dickie Momford was blown off the top of a house. He landed on the handlebars of a motorcycle. One handlebar drove all the way through the outlaw. He dangled, jerked, kicked, and screamed for a long time.

  Smithers was knocked down in the street by the concussion of an exploding round of HE. He crawled under the porch of a house and fought to regain his senses. Once his head stopped spinning, he began to dig frantically with his hands at the soft earth under the porch. He’d dig a hole, get in it, and pull as much of the dirt as he could over him. That way, the Rebels wouldn’t find him and he’d be safe.

  A 95-pound (94.6-pound, actually) M107 high explosive round landed directly on the house. Smithers had been right about one thing: the Rebels never would find him. No one else would either.

  Pat Brown and Gil Brister—two so-called bad men who had outlawed, raped, robbed, assaulted, tortured, and in general made life miserable for anyone they came in contact with all over the lower forty-eight, Canada, and Alaska—left the cover of a building and ran for their lives, heading for the bay. Gil was running in a strange sort of jumping, loping way: during a barrage he had shit his underwear, and he was trying to shake his trousers and run at the same time.

  The pair crossed Overland Avenue, and there their journey ended when an M629 round (called Area Denial Munition) dumped its cargo of 36 antipersonnel mines over the area and whizzed on. The antipersonnel rounds exploded all around the two outlaws, and, as the saying goes, that was the end of that.

  Harris Orr and Peters had stuck pistols in their mouths and pulled the triggers.

  Moose and his woman, Big Jean, made it to a pickup truck and were hauling ass out of town. The bed of the truck was filled to overflowing with scared outlaws, hanging on anyway they could. Moose fought the wheel, ducking and dodging the bodies and the burning cars and trucks and other blown-apart debris that littered the road.

  Suddenly Big Jean started screaming, hitting Moose on the arm, and pointing out the window.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, bitch?” he yelled. “Leave me alone, I’m tryin’ to drive this damn thing.”

  Moose cut his eyes and saw what she’d been pointing at and screaming about. A main battle tank loomed in the distance, about five hundred yards off the road, the turret moving slowly, tracking the pickup truck with its 105mm cannon.

  “Aw, shit!” Moose said. “Well, that’s it, baby. See you in hell.” He spoke just as the gunner fired. The pickup truck exploded, sending bodies and parts of bodies flying in all directions.

  “Artillery cease firing,” Ike ordered, looking at the ruined town through binoculars.

  The sky stopped raining death, and the land grew quiet.

  “Take the town,” Ike said.

  Tanks rumbled up. Ground troops followed them close in. Stunned, crying, wounded, and near dead men and women began staggering out of the burning rubble. The Rebels quickly tied their hands behind their backs with short lengths of rope already cut for this purpose, and the outlaws and their women were escorted to the rear of the column.

  Dan Gray grabbed one man and jerked him close. “Lan Villar. Is the bastard still alive?”

  “He was a few minutes ago,” the outlaw said, the coldness in Dan’s eyes frightening him. “I seen him down on Main Street.”

  Dan waved for his section and began walking toward the center of town. He kicked in the shattered door of the old post office and finally found Khamsin in a small room, on his knees on his prayer rug. Dan waited until the man had stopped ranting and raving and wailing.

  Khamsin looked up at the Englishman, fear in his eyes, sweat on his face, and tears running down his cheeks.

  “Are you finishing making peace with your god, you terrorist bastard?” Dan asked.

  Khamsin replied in a language Dan did not understand. Dan cursed him and lowered the muzzle of his M-16. He pulled the trigger, put half a clip into the Libyan’s guts, and left him to die on his bloody prayer rug.

  Khamsin, the invincible Hot Wind, lay on the bloody floor and screamed as the pain tore through him.

  Dan looked at him, scorn in his eyes. “I hope it takes you the rest of the day and all the night to die, you terrorist bastard.”

  Dan and his team walked out of the post office and began making their way toward Main Street. The streets were littered with bodies in every imaginable position of death. They came upon Jake and Buster, sitting in the middle of a street, their hands held as high over their heads as they could get them.

  “Lan Villar,” Dan said to Jake. “Where is the son of a bitch?”

  “Last I seen him he was sittin’ on the curb ’bout in the middle of Main Street. Said he was waitin’ on a man. You’re Dan Gray, ain’t you? You look like how he described the man he was waitin’ on.”

  “Yes. I am. Waiting for me, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. He ain’t armed neither.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “He ain’t armed,” Buster said. “And believe me, now would not be a good time for either of us to lie to you.”

  “You do have a point.”

  Rebels took the pair of no-goods back to the rear of the column.

  The Rebel battalions quickly secured what was left of the town and those still alive in it. Ike had found and joined Dan by the time the Englishman reached Peninsula Street and was walking toward Main Street.

  “It’s just about over, partner,” Ike told him.

  “Not quite,” Dan replied.

  “Seen Ashley or Parr or Khamsin?”

  “I gut-shot the Libyan bastard in what appeared to be some sort of government building. I left him to die.”

  Ike grunted. “As much grief as he’s caused around the world, I hope it takes him a long time to accomplish that.”

  “My feelings exactly. I was told that young Parr and Ashley are both dead. The building that Ashley was in took a direct hit from an HE round. He was working on his memoirs,” Dan added. “Ashley and memoirs are buried under tons of debris.”

  “I’m sure Ben will be very disappointed when he learns that he won’t be able to read them.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You know where Lan Villar is?”

  “Yes. Waiting for me, so I was told.”

  “Promises to be a good fight, I reckon.”

  “Good is purely up to one’s own interpretation. My intention is to beat him to death with my fists.’’

  Rebels had already found Villar, and hundreds were crowded around the street, sitting on piles of rubble and anything else they could find to sit on.

  Ike disappeared into the crowd.

  The Rebels parted to let Dan Gray through.

  Lan looked up from the curb. “Well, it’s bee
n a long time, Colonel,” he said.

  “Yes, Villar. A very long time.” Dan handed his rifle to a Rebel and slipped out of his body armor. He unbuckled his web belt and dropped it to the street. His helmet followed the web belt. “Get up, Villar.”

  The men were about the same age, height, and weight. Both of them were in excellent physical condition.

  Lan stood up slowly and stared at the Englishman. “I’m not armed.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “How’s it going to be, Gray?”

  “I’m going to beat you to death, Villar. That’s exactly how it’s going to be.” Dan pulled out a pair of leather gloves and worked them onto his hands.

  Lan smiled. “You always were an arrogant bastard, Gray. And your sister had some truly fine pussy.”

  Dan did not lose his cool. He knew the terrorist was trying to bait him, and he did not take the hook. “Are you going to talk the rest of the afternoon, or fight, Villar?”

  Villar balled his fists and walked toward Dan. Dan waited.

  “You won’t be so pretty when I finish with you, Gray,” Lan said.

  Dan stepped forward and knocked the terrorist to the street with a crashing right fist to the jaw. He smiled down at the man. “That’s just one of many, Villar. Now get up and fight!”

  THREE

  Villar rolled to his boots and came in swinging. Dan blocked the right and took a left to his head. The blow was hard and connected with Dan’s skull, jarring him back. He recovered quickly and busted Villar in the mouth with a right fist that brought blood and momentarily glazed the terrorist’s eyes.

  Villar backed up and Dan pressed him. Dan connected to Villar’s belly with a right and popped the man on the jaw with a left. Villar covered up, trying to catch his wind and shake the stars out of his head.

  Dan back-heeled the terrorist and kicked him on the kidney. Villar screamed in pain and rolled away, trying to get to his boots. Dan gave him the toe of a boot right in the man’s mouth. Villar lost some teeth and rolled further away, spitting out blood and busted pearlies.

  Villar lunged and grabbed Dan around the knees, bringing him down to the street. He pounded Dan in the face with a left and a right. On their knees, the men fought silently, the only sounds their grunting with the effort of combat and the smack of fists against flesh.

  The men fought to their boots and stood for half a minute, slugging it out. Dan’s cheek was cut, and he had a growing mouse under one eye. Villar’s lips were bloody and swollen, and blood sprayed from his mouth each time Dan connected.

  Villar missed a wild swing. Dan set his boots and connected with a long right that knocked Villar flat on his butt. Dan stepped forward and kicked Villar in the balls. The terrorist screamed, fell over and puked and held up a hand.

  “Enough,” he gasped.

  Dan reached down, grabbed the man’s arm, and broke it with one smooth, practiced move.

  Villar passed out from the pain.

  “Give me your canteens,” Dan said to a Rebel.

  Dan poured the contents of one canteen over his own head, then stood over Villar and dumped the canteen empty on Villar’s face. He held out his hand for another canteen and poured that on Villar. The man stirred on the littered street and tried to get up.

  “Either get up and fight or I’ll kick you to death,” Dan told him.

  “I have but one good arm,” Lan protested, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “I’m sure my sister pleaded for her life, too,” Dan spoke the words grimly.

  “It was war!” Villar shouted.

  Dan kicked the man on the side of his head. Blood erupted from Villar’s suddenly mangled ear.

  The hundreds of Rebels stood and watched impassively. There was no pity in any of them for outlaws and terrorists. Most had spent their entire adult lives fighting the crud and crap of this earth, and all had seen what scum like Villar could do to innocent people. Villar was getting exactly what he had given to other people, and it was exactly what he deserved.

  Dan stood while Villar crawled to his boots. The terrorist swayed for a moment, then lifted his right arm, the hand balled into a fist. His left arm hung broken and useless by his side.

  With no emotion showing on his face, Dan then proceeded to beat the man to death. The Rebels heard Villar’s ribs pop under Dan’s big, hard, gloved fists. Dan backed Villar up against a wall of a building and killed the man with his fists.

  Twice Dan had to stop for breath and to pour canteens of water over Villar’s face, bringing the man out of unconsciousness. Villar begged for mercy.

  “I’ll show you the same mercy you offered my sister,” the Englishman told the terrorist, and began working on Villar’s belly, his fists hard hammers that smashed the man’s insides to pulp.

  When Villar could not be brought out of unconsciousness, Dan took a jump knife out of his boot and leaned over, grabbing Villar by the hair and jerking his head back.

  Dan cut the man’s throat, wiped his blade on Villar’s bloody shirt front, then spat in the terrorist’s swollen and pain-contorted face.

  The Rebels bulldozed the bodies of the dead outlaws into a huge pile, poured gasoline over the stinking heap and set the mound on fire. When the pile of inhumanity was burned to char, they pushed the remains into a huge hole they had scooped out with earth-moving equipment and covered it over with dirt.

  One chaplain, chosen out of all of them by “low-card loses,” said a very short prayer over the mound of earth, and the Rebels began the job of exiting Alaska.

  “How’s Dan?” Ben asked after Ike had informed him by radio that Alaska had been cleared of outlaws.

  “He’s all right. His hands are swollen but no bones are broken. The medics have him soaking them in some sort of solution.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “I know. He’s all right, Ben. He’s finally got a lot of hate clear of his system. Villar has been a festerin’ sore in him for a lot of years. How are you feelin’?”

  “Chase admits that I’m about eighty percent now and gaining a percentage point every day. It’s going to take us at least six weeks to clear the state. I’ll be back in the saddle by that time. Our statisticians here at HQ tell me the Rebels killed nearly twelve thousand outlaws. We’ve taken a thousand prisoners. That still leaves two thousand unaccounted for.”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever hear from any of them again,” Ike said. “I think they’ve gone hard underground and won’t resurface as outlaws. The people we’re setting up in outposts will never allow the criminal element to get the upper hand again. When those that got away do resurface, my guess is they’ll be very law-abiding citizens for the rest of their lives. They know that one step out of line will leave them hanged or shot. Either way, they’ll be dead.”

  “All right, Ike. Split your battalions and go over the taken ground again. Inspect every road you’ve covered and every road you didn’t go down. Talk to the survivors and take down what they need in the way of supplies. We’ll get it to them. Arm them. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

  “Ten-four, Eagle. Shark out.”

  The Rebels tried for days to contact Nome by radio. They never got any response. If there were survivors on the Seward Peninsula, they wanted to be left alone.

  There were a hundred towns west of the last major highway in Alaska. The Rebels could only hope they were in kinder control than the towns and cities they had just liberated. They had no way of knowing and no way to find out. They had done flyovers in those areas where the planes and choppers could safely go and return without refueling. Anything beyond that margin of safety for the aircraft was charted as unknown.

  Ben ordered Rebels to cross over into Canada, Yukon Territory, to take Highway 5 north as far as the last town shown on any map, and see what they might find. They radioed back that the town had been destroyed and there was no sign of survivors.

  The Rebels would inspect all the other highways and side roads on their way b
ack to the lower forty-eight.

  Ben had looked like death the last time Ike had seen him. The man who met the columns this time was the old Ben. Ben Raines was now back in command, and Ike couldn’t have been happier about that. Ben stood in the road at Tok and waved at the Rebels as they passed by.

  “You are lookin’ good, ol’ hoss!” Ike said, grabbing Ben’s hand and shaking it.

  “I feel fine, Ike. I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I’m getting there. Let’s get all the commanders together in my CP and have some coffee and conversation.”

  Coffee poured and honeyed, Ben said, “The only outlaws we couldn’t account for this run are these: Satan, Meg, and Red Manlovich. All the others are either confirmed dead or prisoners waiting to stand trial. I agree with Ike that when those three I mentioned do surface they’ll probably lead very quiet lives. The mood of the survivors is not likely to change anytime soon, and if any outlaws do show up bulling their way around again, they’ll be dead meat before they can blink.”

  Ben walked to a large, laminated wall map of the United States. “Here is our routes back to the east coast. We’re going to clean-sweep the lower forty-eight. Your battalion routes are clearly marked. Make a copy and study it.”

  “You’re going to deal with Voleta, Father?” Buddy asked.

  “That’s correct, son. I won’t leave for Europe until she and her followers have been neutralized.”

  “I’d feel better about this if our battalions were joined, Ben,” Ike said. “Intelligence shows that Voleta has quite a following in Michigan. What about it?”

  Ben slowly nodded his head. “All right, Ike. You link up with me. All the other battalions remain the same except for Georgi and Danjou. Georgi, you’ll move north a notch as will Danjou. West, you’ll stay where you are. Now then, I’m having a lot of supplies flown in for us to take out on way east. Well be stopping at outposts and setting up new ones, so we’ll need a lot of supplies; no telling how much we’ll have to drop off along the way.”