Trapped in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes. All we need to work out is where your people will land and what sections of the city you will occupy.”

  Khamsin waved his hand. “Minor details, my dear general. We can work that out in five minutes.”

  It was agreed that Khamsin’s men would cross over the next night, by boat, landing at the docks between 72nd and 86th streets. At dawn, they would strike at the Night People, with Khamsin’s army controlling the middle of the city.

  And cutting my people in two, Ben noted. But he agreed with a smile and a handshake. Ben made a note to wash his hands with the strongest soap he could find once this odious meeting was concluded.

  “So we are in agreement, General Raines?”

  “Oh, yes, General Khamsin. Complete agreement.” Ben lifted his teacup in a toast.

  Khamsin smiled and clinked cups.

  “To a great victory, General Raines!”

  “I’m counting on it, General Khamsin. You don’t know how much.”

  Ben forced himself to be cordial with the Libyan for a few minutes more. By that time, Ben noticed the Libyan had begun to sweat just a bit and his voice held a forced note, indicating that he, too, was wearying of the sham.

  Both men rose as one, shook hands, and the Libyan slipped back into the night. Ben sat for a time, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. When Doctor Lindgren came into the room, Ben stood up and waved him into another room and closed the door.

  “Now what the hell!” Tina muttered, looking at Dan.

  But the Englishman was just as baffled as she was. “I don’t know. This is not like the General. Not at all. He’s usually very open with all of us. Something is definitely up.”

  “There wasn’t a truthful note in any of that man’s statements,” Nate said. “Or yours either,” he added with a smile.

  “Well, you knew I’d be lying.”

  “And I don’t know what’s going on, either.”

  “Neither does anybody else. Deliberately so. Trust me and keep all of this under your hat. Thanks a lot, Nate.” Ben turned and walked out of the room, motioning his people to follow him.

  “You ready to tell me what’s up, Dad?” Tina asked.

  “Nope,” Ben said with a smile.

  Tina ground her teeth together in frustration.

  Ben grinned, even with his back to her knowing what she was doing. “Careful, kid. It took me a couple of years back in the Tri-States to get your teeth fixed up. With you kicking and squalling and howling with every trip to the dentist.”

  She screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue at his back.

  “And stop making ugly faces and sticking your tongue out at me,” Ben said, without turning around. “What if your face froze like that?”

  She could not help but laugh. It was the same thing he’d told her as a little girl.

  The rest of the Rebels with Ben had to laugh, and to the newer members, it further heightened Ben’s already overblown mystique. The man had to have powers beyond a mortal person’s comprehension. How else could he know what was going on behind him without even turning around? Of course, those who had been adults before the Great War, and had some experience with kids, knew perfectly well how Ben did it. But they let the younger ones have their fantasies; it helped keep discipline problems to a minimum.

  “Heads up tonight, people,” Ben said, just before turning in. “The creepy crawlies might decide to come out in force.”

  “Damn the man!” Dan said, as Ben closed the door behind him. “What in the world is going on?”

  “I guess he’ll let us in on it in the morning,” Tina said. “I can’t believe he’s actually going to link up with that terrorist.”

  “I guess we’ll know in the morning.”

  But Ben was as silent on the subject the following morning as he had been the night before. He had breakfast with Georgi, Tina, Buddy, and Dan, and never brought the subject up. He excused himself from the table and walked back to his office, Jerre and Jersey, Beth and Cooper going with him.

  “General,” Tina looked at the Russian. “What’s going on?”

  “Your father has not taken me into his confidence, Captain. But I can assure you that he is doing what he thinks is best for all concerned . . . on the side of freedom, that is.”

  “You and my father were once bitter enemies, General Striganov. Now you are allies, fighting together. You don’t think he believes Khamsin is ready to bury the hatchet, do you?”

  “Only in Ben’s back, girl.”

  “Then . . . ?” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “You’re far too young to remember the days of Qaddafi, Khomeini, Abu Nidal, and people of that ilk. Khamsin is one of them. Nothing will appease him except blood and more blood. And even if, God forbid, he is ever victorious, he still will not be satisfied until he has conquered what is left of this shattered world.”

  Dan and Buddy were listening, sitting quietly.

  “I have an idea what your father is going to do. He and I think a great deal alike in many subjects. I say this with all the respect in the world for Ben Raines. I think he is the greatest soldier who ever lived.”

  SEVEN

  Ben took a contingent of Rebels and disappeared that morning, heading back to the area where the children had been found. He prowled the area, noticing the small cracks in the sidewalks and the street—cracks that had blackened burn marks. He found a board and wrapped a rag around one end of it, lit the rag and held it high over one crack. Fire seemed to materialize about five feet over the crack in the street. It flared briefly, then was gone. Ben smiled and extinguished the burning rag.

  “What is that, General?” Jersey asked.

  “Methane. It’s often found in marshes and mines. It’s caused by the decomposition of vegetable matter—among other things.”

  “You think it’s all over the underground tunnels?”

  “Probably. At least there’ll be enough pockets to aid in what I might plan to do.”

  “Which is?” he was asked.

  Ben chose not to reply.

  “How come the creepies haven’t blown themselves up?” Jersey asked.

  “For one thing, many of them don’t cook the . . . meat they eat. And since the temperature remains fairly constant in the tunnels, heating by fire is probably rare. And, I suspect, they’ve found the heavier concentrations and avoid them.”

  “Just what do you plan on doing with this methane, General?” Jerre asked.

  Ben looked at her and smiled. “I might decide to have a pig roast, Jerre.”

  “Of course,” she said sarcastically. “I should have guessed that.” She turned away, muttering about smart-assed generals.

  Ben chuckled and waved the group back to the vehicles. He always felt better after he got one over on Jerre. It was such a rare experience.

  He ordered the short convoy to Katzman’s communications center and met in private with Katzman, sending out coded and scrambled messages.

  The messages sent, with only Katzman and Ben knowing the contents—and the people on the other end—Ben ordered the convoy down to publisher’s row.

  “Ben, goddamn it!” Cecil’s voice roared out of the speaker. “That area has never been cleared. It hasn’t even been checked!”

  “So I’ll check it out,” Ben radioed back. “Relax, Cec. I’ve got a platoon with me.” And Ben knew several companies would soon be on the way. He was counting on it.

  Ike monitored the conversation and ordered tanks into the area for backup.

  Dan monitored and ordered another platoon into the area.

  West sent a platoon of his people in to cover Ben.

  Georgi ordered Rebet to take a detail into the area.

  And Buddy and Tina led their people into the area.

  “Looks like a damn convention,” Ben said with a grin.

  Khamsin sat in his CP across the river, monitoring the transmissions, and wondering what in the name of Allah was going on.

  He shook his head at t
he strange goings-on and asked, “How are the boat and ferry preparations coming along?”

  “Very well, sir,” he was told. “We’ll have enough to transport five thousand in the first wave.”

  Khamsin nodded. Almost half his people landing during the first push. Good. The terrorist leaned back in his chair and smiled. He must remember to say some additional prayers for success.

  After all, he was a very religious man.

  Ben waited until his people had cleared the first few floors of the building that had housed the offices of his old publishing company, then began the climb up to the eighth floor.

  “A trip down memory lane, Ben?’ Jerre asked, climbing up behind him.

  “You might say that. I seem to recall that the bombs came before my royalty check did. I might find it lying about.”

  “Sure, Ben. Sure. And you’ll just take it right down to Chase Manhattan and cash it.”

  He laughed. “I certainly intend to visit that bank later on.”

  Rebet met Ben on the eighth floor and held up a hand. “My people are still clearing this floor, General. If you would wait just a few moments more.”

  “Certainly, Colonel. I’d hate to enter my editor’s office and find a creepy propped up behind the desk, reading one of my manuscripts.”

  “Right, sir,” Rebet said, straight-faced.

  Ben thought for a moment about his editor, and wondered what had happened to him. “Are there any bodies in there, Colonel?”

  “No, sir.”

  When the offices had been cleared, Ben stood in the doorway for a moment, looking in. The place was surprisingly neat, although a thick layer of dust lay over everything. He stepped inside, Jerre right behind him. “The rest of you stay out here,” he ordered.

  “Did you personally know these people, Ben?” she asked.

  “Many of them.” He stopped by an open office door. “This is much more difficult than I thought.”

  Jerre stepped in and picked up a manuscript, blowing the dust from it. She read the first paragraph and looked up at Ben. “‘It was a dark and stormy night’?”

  “Snoopy must have sent that one in.” Ben smiled.

  They moved on to the next office, and Ben prowled through the stacks of manuscripts. “I knew this guy,” he said, holding up a manuscript. He dropped the unopened mailer to the floor. “Shit!” He lifted his walkie-talkie. “Colonel Rebet, send some people in here to box up all these manuscripts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I may get around to reading them someday,” he told Jerre.

  “I’ll help you, if you like.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  He prowled the offices, but without much enthusiasm; he felt as if he was looking at a piece of himself.

  “Were you ever with another publishing company, Ben?”

  “No. I signed with this one right after I hung up my mercenary boots and settled down.”

  “I never knew you were a mercenary.”

  “Soldier of fortune, really. I always fought on the side of democracy.”

  “Where?”

  “Africa. South America. Actually, I was in the employ of the Company most of the time.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Yes. They often had people on both sides.”

  “That’s stupid! Why?”

  “One side has to win.”

  “Covering all bets, huh?”

  “That was the way of the world, Jerre. Looking back, I guess it was a pretty rotten world.”

  “And you intend to change it?”

  “A small part of it. If I can.” He looked at her and something invisible moved between them. But something was always moving between them. Problem was, Ben never knew the quality of it.

  Or he did and refused to admit it.

  She averted her eyes and walked away from him, moving down the hall, looking into the offices, each one with rat-chewed stacks of manuscripts piled all over the place. “How did they ever get anything done?”

  “Beats me. I think they were just about ready to stop accepting manuscripts over the transom.”

  “Do what?”

  “Stop accepting unsolicited manuscripts. A majority of companies already had. Moot point now,” he muttered, thinking, Just about everything has stopped, except for us on one side, and God alone knows how many on the opposing side.

  And nothing in between.

  “What are you thinking, Ben? Something very profound?”

  He looked at her. He never knew when she was kidding when she made remarks like that. But this time her face was serious.

  “I guess so, Jerre. But profound is to the ears as beauty is to the eyes.”

  “And since you didn’t speak your thoughts, we’ll never know, will we?”

  “Something like that. Let’s get out of here. This place is depressing me.”

  “I have all your books, Ben. I’ve picked them up over the years.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “No. I don’t like individual violence.”

  Ben was still laughing and shaking his head as he left the offices. He gently closed the door behind him, and let a lot of memories fade away. His, and those of untold numbers of others.

  He stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, looking around him, and making a lot of Rebels very nervous by his conspicuousness.

  He looked down the street and smiled. “Let’s go have some fun, gang.” Then he set out walking.

  “General!” Rebet called. “Where are you going?”

  “To that bank. I have to make a withdrawal.” Ben caught the flash of sunlight off a rifle barrel sticking out of a window and grabbed Jerre, both of them hitting the sidewalk, rolling under a truck. Ben yelled for his people to take cover.

  Lead began spraying the sidewalks, bouncing and whining off as the Rebels took cover. Suddenly black-robed creepies were all around them, with their hands filled with automatic weapons.

  Ben squirmed around as he sensed more than heard movement behind him. He gave several night crawlers a bellyful of lead at a distance of not more than six feet, holding the trigger back on the Thompson and sending black-robes spinning and squalling into death.

  The concrete front of the building was splattered with the blood of night crawlers.

  Ben pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it through the shattered window of the building. The explosion blew out the rest of the windows and sent one creepy tumbling out onto the sidewalk, wounded but not down.

  Ben finished him with a short burst and then used up the drum spraying the dark interior of the ground floor of the building.

  Before he could reload, a creepy had hurled himself from the adjacent building and was on top of Ben, hatred and fury turning his ugly face into a mask of hideousness.

  Ben slugged him on the jaw, rocking his head back. Ben hit him again, this time in the mouth, and felt teeth break under his gloved knuckles. He clawed his .45 out of leather and thumbed the hammer back, shooting the flesh-eater in the belly, the big hollow-nosed slug ripping out the creature’s back, severing the backbone. The night crawler fell to one side, as limp as a deflated inner tube.

  Ben holstered the .45 and picked up his Thompson, fitting a full drum into the belly and jacking in a round. On one knee, he turned and blew several black-robes into that dark and endless sleep, the .45-caliber slugs stopping them in their tracks and spinning them around, dancing and jerking as death touched them with a cold hand.

  The tanks had begun lashing at the buildings with cannon, .50-caliber and 7.62 machine-gun fire. Flames were already shooting out of a floor of one building, and another building was sending up billows of smoke.

  Below the fire and smoke, the street battle raged on, unchecked.

  Night People were still pouring out of buildings like soldier ants on a rampage, and the Rebels were knocking them down almost as fast as they were charging.

  Several managed to charge through the first line of Rebels and come within several f
eet of Jerre. She lifted her M16 and shot one creeper in the face just as Beth was knocked down by another. Ben stuck the muzzle of his Thompson to the side of the creep’s head and blew the head apart. Lifting the muzzle, he stopped the short advance of black-robes. The slugs lifted one completely off his feet and sent him crashing to the bricks of the street.

  “The woman!” Ben heard one black-hood yell. “Get the woman!”

  Ben grabbed Jerre around the waist, lifted her off her boots, and hauled her into the grenade-shattered building behind them, yelling for his personal team to join them.

  “Jersey and Cooper, get the back. Beth, stay up front with us. Heads up. They want Jerre.”

  Jerre looked at him, and this time there was real fear in her eyes.

  Over the roar and crash and hammer of battle, she said, “You knew. That’s why you ordered me to become your aide, isn’t it?”

  “I felt Khamsin might try to grab you. The creepies must have had the same thought.”

  “You might have told me.”

  Ben triggered off a short burst before replying. He leaned close to Jerre and whispered, “There are lots of things I’m not telling people. You see, kid—we have an informant among us.”

  EIGHT

  A hundred or more creepies came in a suicide run toward the building they had seen Ben carry Jerre into. The Rebel line bent, but it did not break as night crawlers hurled themselves against the line of men and women, screaming their rage and hate and frustration as they died in bloody, stinking heaps on the bricks of the street and the concrete of the sidewalks.

  And for once, Jerre got close to Ben and stayed there without being told and without bitching about it.

  As some unknown signal passed through the Night People, they began fading back into the buildings and alleyways, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

  Ben stepped out of the building, Jerre close to him. “Get the wounded to the hospital, on the double. Sentries double; watch out for a second attack. Beth, call for trucks to haul these stinking carcasses off. And tell the engineers to send some people up here with jackhammers and diamond-bit drills and C-four.”