Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben and his teams moved to just outside Kerrville, secured their vehicles in several of the many buildings in the old religious encampment, and settled in, monitoring the still-frantic radio transmissions from the Black-shirts.

  Even Ben was stunned to learn that the attacks had killed or wounded nearly half of Brodermann’s forces. His eyes touched the eyes of his team and several other Rebels attached to him. The eyes were smiling, hard warrior smiles.

  It was then that Ben realized the Rebel movement would never die, never be defeated. As long as there was one Rebel left alive, the movement would live. The Rebels did not consider their way to be perfect. They were not striving for perfection. The past system of justice and law and order and all that went with the forming of a society had deteriorated to a confusing and nonworkable mess when the Great War came and wiped the slate clean. Then the Rebels spent years cleaning out the scum and the dregs of society, the human predators. They knew their system of government worked; they had seen it work for nearly a decade. Not for everybody, for a system of laws and rules cannot be devised that will please everyone. But enough people agreed with the Rebel way to try to live under it, with more coming in everyday.

  It would not die. The Rebels would not, could not, let it die.

  And Ben knew they wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Company coming,” a guard called out. “Forward people are bringing them in.”

  Ben stepped out to meet the people, and pegged them at once. Religious fanatics. He’d never met a religious fanatic yet who didn’t share, to some degree, the same look of arrogant smugness, of a closed mind to all opinions save what they personally embraced, and they all irritated the hell out of Ben.

  “General Raines,” the Rebel said, “these people are from something called the Church of the Only Holy Way.”

  “Wonderful,” Ben muttered. “I guess that means if you don’t belong to their faith you will be denied entrance to Heaven.”

  “Exactly, sir,” one of the younger men in the group said.

  “Horseshit,” Ben told him.

  The young man blinked. “I beg to remind you there are ladies present, sir.”

  “If you say so.” Ben looked at the dozen or so men and women, most of them in their late twenties or early thirties. They all looked healthy and well-fed. And Ben didn’t like or trust any of them. “What do you people want?”

  “Protection from the advancing hordes of mongrels.”

  “Where are your weapons?”

  “We don’t believe in violence, sir.”

  “Then turn right around and carry your butts on out of here,” Ben replied. “I’m not your nanny.”

  “General,” a rather pretty woman said.

  “I’m not going to argue the point with you, lady. If you don’t place enough value on your life to fight for it, then I have no use for you. Now is there anything else you want?”

  “I was told you were a cruel man, General Raines,” a beady-eyed young man said, waving a Bible at Ben. “But until now, I did not realize just how cruel.”

  Ben stared at the young man. It has been noted by everyone who ever got personally close to Ben that when he stared at you, his eyes could take on the predatory stare of an eagle just before it sank its talons into prey. The young man suddenly got a case of the twitchy-itches.

  “I may be cruel, sonny-boy. That’s not for me to decide. But what I really am is a realist. And you are beginning to get on my nerves. Now it would be a very wise thing for you and your little group of religious bigots to get in your jalopies or on your bicycles and drive or pedal the hell north. Up to the thirty-sixth parallel. That is roughly a line stretching east to west, right across the center of the nation. It goes through some fascinating places. Roanoke, Louisville, St. Louis, Colorado Springs. Of course, few of those cities are standing now, but I’m sure you could find some converts among the rubble. I’m equally certain they would rape your women, butt-fuck you men, and then turn you into slaves, swap you off for a good horse, or have you for dinner. And if you’re so stupid you won’t pick up a weapon to save your own lives, then I want nothing to do with you. Now get the hell out of here.”

  “May God strike you dead, Ben Raines!” a woman shouted.

  Ben laughed at her. “Now that is interesting, lady. First you tell me you don’t believe in violence, now you’re imploring God to strike me dead. You’re not very consistent, are you?”

  She stood and glared at him.

  Ben said, “Get them out of here and on their way north. Somebody up there will look after them.”

  “Suppose they won’t go?” the Rebel asked.

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Then that makes it their problem, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ll burn in the hellfires for this, Ben Raines,” the beady-eyed young man shouted, waving his Bible “God is on our side.”

  “I do believe I’ve heard that one before,” Jersey muttered.

  Ben smiled and waved at the group and stepped back inside the building. Some of the religious fanatics tried to follow him. Jersey stopped that movement by applying the butt of her M-16 to the belly of the beady-eyed follower of the Church of the Only Holy Way. He folded up like a piece of paper and hit the ground, coughing and gagging.

  “You’ll suffer mightily for that, sister!” a woman shouted. “For you have struck a messenger from God.”

  Jersey narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to give the woman a personal message. A very personal message. Cooper could attest to the fact that when Jersey decided to verbally unload on a person, it was like firecrackers exploding around one’s head.

  “Let it alone, Jersey,” Ben said from the open doorway. “It just isn’t worth it. Believe me, I know from experience.”

  When Jersey gave the beady-eyed messenger the butt of her rifle, the area around the front of the house suddenly filled with armed Rebels. The group who had confronted Ben very quickly got the message: their lives were on the line, and they were toeing that line awfully close.

  “Peace, brothers and sisters,” one of the group said. “Allow us to leave and we shall depart quietly.”

  “Haul your butts, then,” Cooper said.

  The group got their messenger up on his feet and led him away. He was a little pale and a tad shaky.

  Ben was studying a map when his team joined him in the large office of the old complex. A seasoned Rebel medic, but a newcomer to Ben’s personal detachment, said, “You don’t like those kinds of people very much, do you, General.”

  Ben looked up and smiled at the Rebel. A medic that Doctor Chase had transferred to Ben’s command. “Book-burners,” he said. “Self-appointed censors hiding behind their own narrow interpretation of the Bible. In their own way, they are no better than the worst racist group we have ever encountered. We demand a lot from our own people, but there is no one religion among our ranks. I don’t care if you worship a kumquat. Just don’t try to force me to do it. I’ve disliked those kinds of people ever since I was old enough to reason. They’re bullies and cowards waving a Bible. I don’t give a damn what happens to them.” He put his reading glasses back on and resumed his studying of the map. The subject was closed.

  Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman sat in his quarters and looked at the wall. The report transmitted from General Hans Brodermann and typed up by his staff lay on his desk. The most elite and combat-experienced of all his troops had been overrun and their numbers cut in half by a Rebel sneak attack during the predawn hours. Tons of equipment lost. Vehicles destroyed. Hundreds of weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition gone, much of it taken by the marauding Rebels. His people were badly demoralized. The advance had been brought to an abrupt halt.

  What manner of men and women were these Rebels?

  He called out at the knock on his door, and the office filled with his most experienced commanders, from Captain to General. They sat at his gesture and waited in silence.

  Hoffman stood up and looked at the group. Finally he said, “We h
ave marched thousands of miles. We have faced and overcome savage Indian tribes and armies whose numbers were ten times greater than those of the Rebels. Now we have scarcely advanced one hundred and fifty miles into North America and our losses number into the thousands. And they have been inflicted upon us by a band of men and women whose numbers don’t even equal one of our divisions.

  “To the west of us, a mere three battalions of Rebels have effectively halted our advance into California, Arizona, and New Mexico. A very magnificent advance of ten to fifteen miles, I might add. The entire way drenched with blood. Our blood—not theirs. Disgraceful. To date, a rag tag band of North American malcontents, led by a middle-aged man, have managed to bring down the government of the United States, wipe out most of the bands of outlaws and mercenaries, kill off the world’s best known and respected terrorists, defeat and destroy the armies of Khamsin, Lan Villar, and others, then sail halfway around the world and defeat Jack Hunt and his armies in Ireland, move to England and destroy the gangs there, free Hawaii, and now they have stopped us dead in our tracks. How?”

  His commanders remained silent. They no more had the answer to that than did Field Marshal Hoffman.

  Hoffman did not let up. “And to further worsen the situation, Ben Raines has not defeated us with mighty salvos of artillery and huge tank battles. His people are attacking in small numbers in pickup trucks and light vehicles. And on at least two occasions my armies have been stopped and humiliated by a bunch of goddamn Texas cowboys on horseback! We are the finest equipped army on the face of the earth”—Wrong! He just thought that. Ben’s Rebels had equipment that Hoffman and his people did not even know existed—“and our people are being defeated by mounted Texas Rangers. On horseback, for God’s sake! Charging us with six-shooters blazing!”

  “Ah, actually, Field Marshal,” a general dared contradict, “most of those Rangers were using 9-mm semiautomatic pistols and H&Ks or Uzis.”

  “They were still riding goddamn horses, weren’t they?” Hoffman flared, sitting down behind his desk.

  “Ah . . . yes, sir. Twice, that we know of.”

  “What do you mean: ‘that we know of?’”

  “They don’t take prisoners, sir. And they seldom leave survivors.”

  “Well, don’t just sit there with your long faces hanging out. You are among the finest minds I have. Give me some suggestions and solutions.”

  A young major stood up. “Sir. What Ben Raines wants us to do is break up our forces and fight him guerrilla style. I feel that would be a grave mistake.”

  “State your objections to that,” Hoffman ordered.

  “General Raines and all his commanders know the country. They know it from coast to coast, border to border. They have supplies hidden in hundreds, perhaps thousands of secret caches. They have millions and millions of gallons of fuel hidden. Probably billions of rounds of ammunition and explosives. Several years ago our intelligence people reported that Raines’ doctors and scientists have antibiotics—in powder form, sealed in air-tight containers—which will last for years. All they have to do is set up a portable lab, add water, or a few chemicals, and go from there. General Raines planned for this invasion, all the while hoping it would never come, but he was certainly going to be ready for it if it did occur. Our supplies are right now days behind us, struggling to reach us. And that’s if we don’t move from this location. I realize I am the youngest and least experienced man here, Field Marshal. But you asked for suggestions. I am afraid I do not have any solutions.”

  “Thank you for speaking your mind, Major.” Hoffman knew the young major was brilliant, and felt that he had not spoken everything on his mind. He smiled at the major. “What would you do if you were sitting in this chair instead of me?”

  “I honestly do not know, sir. And I admit that I have thought of what I might do. I could reach no conclusion.”

  Hoffman stared at the young major for a moment, then nodded his head. “Thank you, Major Weber. I appreciate your candor.”

  Weber sat down. He knew he had not won any points with the older commanders present, but he had won some points with the Field Marshal, and that was all that mattered.

  Hoffman drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. “General Brodermann learned a hard lesson about the Rebels. But what happened was not entirely his fault. We had to learn how the enemy would fight, and now we know. With savage ruthlessness. Giving no quarter, asking none. And that’s the way we must fight them. We will hold here until our supplies reach us. A week; no more than that. Brodermann has asked that he be allowed to maintain his point position. I have said yes. General Schiller, start our terrorist groups marching at once. Spread them all over the nation. They know what they must do, and being terrorists, they do it extremely well.”

  “Yes, Field Marshal. At once.”

  “General Jahn, are your fallschirmtruppen ready?”

  “Ya, Field Marshal. My paratroops are ready to go at your signal.”

  “Colonel Barlach, are you ready to receive prisoners for interrogation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoffman smiled. “General Daimler?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do be so kind as to bring Colonel Barlach some prisoners. You know how testy he can be when he is not inflicting pain on someone.”

  NINE

  “General Payon’s eyes and ears in Mexico say that Hoffman’s supply trucks will reach him in less than a week. Planes are already landing at the strip near his CP,” Corrie said.

  “I wish I knew what he was up to,” Ben mused. “Beth, did our people get anything of value from those prisoners we picked up and shipped over to Cecil?”

  “Nothing, sir. They just don’t know anything of value. Obviously, Hoffman and his top people play it pretty close to the vest.”

  “And reports of random acts of terrorism are still coming in?”

  “Yes, sir,” Corrie said. “Savage, brutal, and totally senseless acts.”

  “He’s cut his radical fringe loose,” Ben said.

  “All those messages we received for years were true,” Beth said. “The hate for America never died.”

  “So it seems,” Ben said softly. “Those fruitcake groups still hate America and Americans as much, or more, as before. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t.” He smiled at his team. “Don’t look so startled, people. There are a lot of things that I didn’t and don’t understand. Probably never will. Where was the latest attack, Corrie?”

  “About a hundred miles northeast of here. A Rebel patrol found what was left of the elderly couples. Four couples. Patrols had tried to evac them but they said they’d lived in that area all their lives and weren’t about to move now. They were all tortured to death.”

  “Let’s take a ride,” Ben said.

  The four couples, all in their late seventies or early eighties, had lived in a large rambling one story home. They had worked a large garden, had chickens and hogs, and kept the place neat and had obviously been living a quiet and contented life. Ben stood in the large living room and looked at the words written in blood on the walls.

  “Mideast fanaticism shit,” he said, disgust in his voice. “Praise Allah and all that crap. Die in battle and go straight to paradise. Real brave bunch, this group is. Killing a small band of nearly helpless elderly men and women really strikes a blow for their cause. Providing they even know what that cause is, which I doubt.”

  His team remained silent, for they knew that the harming of helpless children and elderly or innocent animals could push Ben’s danger meter over into the red. Cooper, watching Ben’s face, had him a hunch that when they caught up with this bunch—and they would, he had no doubts about that—the outcome for this terrorist group would be about as pleasant as a crucifixion.

  “Buddy’s here,” Jersey said, looking out a blood-splattered window. “He’s got a prisoner.”

  Ben stepped outside to face the dark eyed, olive-skinned man with his hands tied behind his back. Father l
ooked at son. “Where’d you find this piece of shit?”

  The prisoner hissed and spat at Ben, the spittle staining Ben’s shirt.

  “About fifteen miles from here. We think he got separated from the main group. The only thing he will say is how much he hates America and Americans.”

  “Jew-lover!” the man spat out the words, his hard bright eyes staring at Ben.

  “And that,” Buddy added. “He has a terrible complex when it comes to Judaism.”

  “Torture me!” the man shouted. “I will tell you nothing. I will soar on the wings of pain to Paradise.”

  “Oh, you’re going to soar, all right,” Ben told the man. “But not on the wings of pain.” Ben looked at the man and woman from the Rebels’ intelligence section. “He’s all yours.”

  The two-person team picked up their briefcases of chemicals and walked toward a small shed. “Come on, Ali,” the woman said without looking back. “You’re going to sail as high as an eagle can fly.”

  “I will tell you nothing!” the man shouted.

  “Wanna bet?” Ben asked, his smile as hard as flint.

  “I think we might have overdone it,” the woman said. “We turned him into a babbling idiot.”

  “I’m very nearly overcome with grief,” Ben said, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot on the grate over the small fire in the yard. “I might start flailing myself with ropes and chains at any moment. What’d you learn?”

  “His team is working close,” the man said, as the woman poured herself a cup of coffee. “Hoffman sent out several hundred teams to terrorize and demoralize the citizens, all over the United States. Every damn lunatic group that ever existed has linked up with Hoffman. And since you used to work for the CIA, you’re a main target, General.”

  “What else is new?” Ben muttered. “Back when the world was more or less functioning I used to get a half dozen death threats a year . . . at least.”