Trapped in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “You have the chains with you, Cooper?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Beth, tell the lead vehicles to angle off at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. Go on over to the waterfront. I want to take a full look at the sky. I think this storm is just about on us.”

  “Done, sir.”

  Ben twisted in the seat, looking at the cargo space behind the rear seat. All their arctic gear was there, along with cases of ammo, food, camp stoves, grenades, and water. Cooper was a natural-born clown, but when it came to survival, he was all business, keeping the Blazer stocked with everything he felt they might need to stay alive.

  “Did you remember toilet paper, Cooper?” Ben asked him with a smile.

  “I got a box full of hundred-dollar bills, General. About a million dollars’ worth, I reckon.”

  “That should do it,” Ben said, looking out the window, trying to get a glimpse of the sky. He finally gave up on that.

  At the waterfront, Ben stood by the Blazer, waiting until his teams had secured the area; then he walked up to the parkway and took a look around. He had mixed emotions about what he was seeing.

  The sky held a very flat, almost ominous look, stretching from north to west. This weather system was coming straight out of Canada and was coming at them with a vengeance.

  “It’ll hit us this afternoon,” Ben predicted. “And it’s going to be a bitch-kitty.”

  “Do we head back for the CP, General?” Jersey asked, a hopeful note in her voice.

  “What do you think, Jersey?” Ben grinned at her.

  “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

  Ben waved the Rebels around him. “All you people have arctic gear with you?”

  Most did, stored in the trunks and tanks.

  “Those that don’t, double up in a vehicle and head on back,” Ben ordered. He knew his forward teams were supplied with foul-weather gear; he had personally seen to that. “Let’s head on up the line, gang.”

  They backtracked, picked up Broadway, and headed north.

  “Are we going to get stuck up here, Ben?” Jerre asked.

  “I hope not. But there is always that possibility. Doesn’t make any difference. We’ve got the supplies so we can sit it out. I’ve got to see firsthand what Khamsin has to throw at us.”

  But his eyes kept sliding toward the sky as they drove toward his Rebels’ northernmost positions.

  At the front, Ben joined one group of Rebels, startling them by his presence, and viewed the battleground through binoculars. A tank leaped into view through the powerful lenses. Ben lowered the glasses and again looked up at the sky.

  “Is it getting colder or is it just my imagination?”

  “It’s dropped a few degrees, General. The sky sure has a funky look to it.”

  Ben made up his mind. “Fall back, people. Give them some territory and see if they’ll take the new bait. Beth, get me Ike on the horn. Scramble and translator, please.”

  “General Ike, sir,” Beth said.

  “Ask him if his explosives people have left yet?”

  “He says ten-four, sir.”

  “Tell him to get them into position to blow the bridges as soon as possible. Wait for my orders to do so.”

  “Message acknowledged, sir. General Ike wants to know what’s up.”

  “One hell of a fast-moving winter storm, of the major type. That’s what’s up. Now I have to come up with some way of getting the Hot Fart and his turds down a few more blocks. Bump me when your people are in position. Eagle out. Let’s back up, people.”

  The Rebels fell back a full two blocks, leaving it wide open for Khamsin. And this time the troops of Khamsin poured across, moving fast and with very little resistance from the Rebels.

  At 191st Street, Ben ordered a line thrown up and told his people to hold for a few minutes and draw some blood. To Beth: “Get me the forward units east and west of our position.” With them on the horn, he asked, “This is Eagle. Any signs of infiltrators?”

  “Negative, sir. We have them in sight, but they’re maintaining east and west positions in line with the central force.”

  “Ten-four. Get ready to fall back further with Sonny.” He turned to the forward team leader. “Drop some mortar rounds in on them, Sonny. Just as many HEs as you drop in a couple of minutes and then grab your ass and make a run for it.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Get me Ike, Beth.”

  “On the horn, General.”

  “Ike. When I give the word, blow them all, all the way down to the footbridge. You ten-four that?”

  “I copy it, Eagle. Man, it’s gettin’ cold!”

  “I can ten-four that, Shark. I look for snow in about an hour. Must have dropped twenty degrees in that many minutes. That’s why I’ve got to keep Khamsin on the move, so he won’t notice it so much. Eagle out.”

  The flutter and crash of mortars put an end to any conversation level below a shout.

  “Let’s go!” Ben shouted at his team. “Get to your vehicles. Move, move! Sonny! One more minute and you get your asses out of here. All the way down to a Hundred Eighty-first Street. That’s an order!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the Blazer, Ben said, “Beth, tell Dan and Buddy and Tina to get up here. Meet us at the High Bridge Park. We’ll link up at the swimming pool. That’s on One Seventy-third. Tell them to bring five days’ rations, full arctic gear, and all the ammo they can stagger with. I want plenty of fifties and Big Thumpers. Tell them to shake a leg.”

  To Cooper, “Get us down to a Hundred Eighty-first Street, Coop. Then over to the Harlem River Drive. I’m the cause of it, so I want to witness history being shattered. Move. Beth, stay in contact with Sonny and his forward teams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they drove, all could tell it was turning colder very quickly. “Mind if I turn the heater on, sir?” Cooper asked.

  “Be my guest, Coop.”

  “General?” Beth spoke from the backseat. “Our spotters in the skyscrapers have reported in. They’ve been investigating as much of the buildings as possible, and each team has found dozens of creepie bodies. The creepies killed themselves en masse.”

  Ben nodded his head. “Tell them to bust some windows and toss the bodies out. Then have some teams shovel up what’s left and truck it to the barges.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Probably in every building in the city,” Ben said, gazing out the window and seeing the streets grow darker as the massive storm approached, the winds churning and howling high above the earth, the clouds beginning to block the sunlight.

  “It’s going to be a bad one, Ben,” Jerre said. “I’ve seen them out on the plains. It won’t be as bad here because of the buildings, but if you get caught in one out there, you’re dead.”

  “Yes. I’m sure that Khamsin and his people have winter gear, but not like ours.” He suddenly smiled, and Jersey caught it.

  “Oh, hell! I’ve seen that smile before. What are you thinking, General?”

  “Head-hunting, Short Stuff. Cutting some throats in the night.”

  “Coming up on the bridges, sir,” Cooper said, pulling onto Harlem Drive.

  At the High Bridge, Cooper stopped and Ben and the others got out. Ben had left his Thompson in the Blazer, electing to carry the M14, with longer range and just as much punch. He squatted down, staring at the three bridges.

  “What are you thinking, Ben?” Jerre asked.

  “What I’m about to destroy, and I don’t think history is going to treat me very kindly for doing it.”

  FOUR

  “Sonny reporting the fighting is very heavy, General,” Beth related. “He’s steadily falling back, and Khamsin is right on his heels.”

  “When he gets to One Hundred Eighty-first Street, let me know. Once there, Khamsin is going to find the going will not be so easy.”

  “Trucks coming, Ben,” Jerre said.

  Ben nodded, again making a battlefront decision. “Beth, tell my tan
k commanders to get the monsters cranked and up here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks like Colonel Gray brought an extra company up with him, sir.”

  “I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t.” He turned to face Dan and Buddy and Tina. He quickly explained what was happening. “Buddy, you and your team unpack your snow gear. Emergency food packets and fuel tabs; the whole nine yards. If it snows this afternoon, you’re going head-hunting tonight.”

  “Sonny and his people have formed a line at a Hundred Eighty-first Street, General,” Beth reported. “They have linked up with the other companies and are holding.”

  Ben held out his hand as he leaned up against a concrete barrier. “Give me the mike, Beth. This is Eagle to Shark . . .” He sighed heavily, almost painfully. “Shark, blow the bridges.” He slowly handed the mike back to Beth.

  It really wasn’t a spectacular sight—just a dull crumping sort of sound as sections of the bridges collapsed and fell into the river. The tons of debris sent up cascades of water from the Harlem River.

  All up and down the line, from the northernmost tip of the island down to the footbridge on FDR Drive, the bridges that once were vital links to Manhattan were crippled. It took less than one minute to destroy thirteen bridges.

  “General,” Beth said, “Sonny says all fighting from Khamsin’s side has stopped.”

  “I’ll just bet it has,” Ben said grimly. “Khamsin probably went into a state of shock when his recon teams gave him the news about the bridges. Give me the mike, Beth. This is Eagle. Hit them, Sonny. Hit them hard. Tanks, mortars, rockets, everything you’ve got, use it!”

  The thundering boom of 105s and 90mm cannon rolled toward the men and women standing in the now downright cold winds alongside the river.

  Something very soft touched Ben’s face. He brushed it away.

  “Ben?” Jerre touched his arm. “It’s starting to snow.”

  In less than an hour, the snow was coming down so thick and so hard it had dropped visibility to near zero. Ben had led the new companies north to beef up the three companies stretched out west to east along 181st Street, from Lafayette Plaza over to the now impassable Washington Bridge.

  But the near-blizzardlike conditions had brought Khamsin and his people to a dead halt; they had never seen anything like this in South Carolina, and while they had winter clothing, it was not enough to cope with what was yet to come at them from Mother Nature.

  And Mother Nature wasn’t going to be alone in sending surprises at the Libyan.

  ***

  “All the bridges have been blown in our sector, General,” Khamsin was told. “And we suspect that all the bridges on the east side have also been destroyed, or at least crippled.”

  “Not all the bridges,” Khamsin found his voice. “Ben Raines has left himself a hole. Wager on that.”

  The field commander did not think this to be a proper time to remind the Hot Wind that Sister Voleta had warned him not to cross over into Manhattan. Not a good time at all.

  The field commander waited for orders.

  “We cannot fight a war in this miserable weather,” Khamsin said after a long sigh. “And as skillful as Ben Raines is . . .” And it pained the terrorist to compliment Ben Raines in any manner. “. . . I doubt that he can, either. Make certain our loyal troops are well fed and housed adequately. We’ll wait out the storm.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man waited, knowing that his general was not yet finished.

  “Ben Raines is worse than any filthy dog who ever wandered the earth!” Khamsin spat out the words. “He must be destroyed, Akim. Whatever the cost, we must kill Ben Raines.”

  I would much prefer to get my ass clear of this miserable island, Akim thought. Preferably without getting it shot off. But he did not speak those words aloud.

  “Ben Raines will do nothing in this damnable blizzard,” the Hot Wind prophesied. “You may leave now, Akim.”

  “Are all our forward units pulled back?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve used the storm to pull back to our sector.”

  A solid line had been formed at 173rd Street, stretching from the Hudson to the Harlem rivers.

  “Tell our Long Toms to start lobbing them in, Beth. They have the coordinates. HE, Willie Peter, and incendiary. Let’s make it a very long and totally miserable night for the Hot Fart. I want nothing but rubble between us and Khamsin. Commence firing and keep it up.”

  “All Long Toms commence firing,” Beth gave the orders.

  A few seconds later, the men and women on the line at 173rd heard the first rounds sing over their heads.

  Ben smiled. “I hope Khamsin is sitting on the pot when the first rounds fall.”

  “Do you want my team to stand down, Father?” Buddy asked.

  “Yes. Let’s let artillery have the first dance, Buddy. You’ll have plenty of other chances before all this is over.”

  The first rounds of high-explosive shells hit the tops of buildings in Khamsin’s sector and sent tons of rubble crashing down into the streets. Khamsin was not sitting on the pot, but he was changing clothes in his CP when the first rounds came tearing into his sector. He had one leg in his fresh field pants when a round landed just across the street. The concussion of the HE blowing knocked out all the windows and outside-facing doors in his CP and sent Khamsin rolling on the floor. The two guards who had been posted outside the CP’s main entrance were splattered all over the street when the second round dropped in.

  Khamsin managed to get his other leg in his pants and jam his feet into boots as other rounds came in, singing their deadly songs. One round set a building on fire, another round tore the top off another building, and the third round of white phosphorus peppered troops of the Hot Wind as they scrambled for cover, running out in the open. They lay screaming in the streets as the Willie Peter burned through flesh and bone.

  “Khamsin will return the shelling,” Ben said. “Have our spotters in the tall buildings coordinate the returning fire.”

  Ben waited until Beth had relayed those orders.

  “Khamsin doesn’t have the range to reach our Long Toms south of us, so he’ll be trying to drop some mail directly in on us from his tanks and eighty-ones. He’s got the range, if his crews are worth a damn, so get ready for it. It isn’t going to be pleasant. Order the people in bunkers.”

  “All personnel into bunkers,” Beth relayed the orders. “Deep and keep it tight.”

  Ben grinned at her and she blushed.

  It was an afternoon and evening of artillery as the big guns roared and spat out death and destruction, the flames leaping out from the muzzles as the rounds were hurled into the air.

  The Rebels on the front line took some wounded, but no deaths, since they were dug in and heavily sandbagged against shrapnel.

  Khamsin and his people were not so lucky. They had not had time to adequately fortify their positions and were forced to take to the basements. In many cases, the heavy shelling from Ben’s Long Toms brought the buildings crashing down on them, burying them under tons and tons of rubble.

  “All right,” Ben ordered a few hours after dark, with the snow still coming down with blinding thickness. “Have our gunners start demolishing the area between Khamsin and us, Beth.”

  Those orders relayed, Beth said, “General Ike on the horn, sir.” She handed the mike to him.

  “Go, Shark.”

  “What’s up, Ben? We’re sitting down here with our thumbs stuck up our butts wondering what’s going on. What is goin’ on, Ben?”

  “A defined battlefront, Ike. A no-man’s land. We might make several of them before this is all over. When Khamsin advances, I don’t want his people to have any type of adequate shelter. I want them to be just as cold and hungry and miserable as I can make them. Ten-four?”

  “Ten-four, Ben. Holler when you need some more personnel up there.”

  “Be ready to come up quickly, Ike. And pass the word to the others. Eagle out.”

  Ben t
urned to Beth. “Have the shelling continue until midnight. The crews can stand down then.” When those orders had been sent and received, Ben took the mike. “This is Eagle to Tall Eyes. What’s it looking like?”

  The spotters in the skyscrapers reported back. “A lot of fires, Eagle. You’ve got about a four- or five-block area that is burning. Night glasses are picking up a lot of destruction. Khamsin and his people are going to have a rough time of it picking through all that mess.”

  “That’s the plan. Eagle out.”

  The deadly song of the shells as they passed overhead continued unabated. Jerre and Jersey and a few of the others of Ben’s personal team tried to sleep, or at best, rest, during the late hours of the first night of open warfare between the men and women of the Rebels and the troops of the Hot Wind.

  At midnight, Ben ordered all shelling stopped and Khamsin followed shortly afterward. A silence fell over the northernmost section of the island of Manhattan. Ben stepped out of his hastily bunkered CP and looked to the north. The snow was still coming down hard, in thick wet flakes, but the flames from the fires caused by the heavy shelling, leaping high into the night sky, could still be seen very clearly.

  Buddy walked over to join his father. “I have a good feeling about all this,” the young man said. “I know we have a lot of hard fighting ahead of us, and Rebels will be hurt and killed, but I think I can taste victory.”

  “It’s there,” his father acknowledged. “Just as long as we don’t become too overconfident. And don’t forget, we’ve still got your mother and Monte and Ashley to deal with.”

  “How do you plan on dealing with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben admitted. “I’m just taking it one step at a time.”

  One round from Khamsin’s gunner had hit the building across the street from Ben’s forward CP, knocking a huge hole in the front of the structure and littering the street with bricks and mortar and twisted bits of steel reenforcing rod.

  And the snow continued to fall; the streets were already buried under a thick blanket of white.

  “Let’s get some sleep, boy,” Ben said. “Come the dawn, we’re going to be busy.”