Tyranny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “It did not take the bio/med team long to determine that the air was fine to breathe, but the water had more germs in it than a city garbage dump . . . but they were nature’s bugs, not man-made. The people were not contagious and posed no threat to the Rebels.

  “The bio/med team gave the column the okay to enter the town.

  “‘Bottger’s gas cause this?’ Ben asked, stepping out of his vehicle and looking around.

  “‘We’re running analyses now, General. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say yes.’

  “‘What has the interpreter been able to find out?’

  “‘Just that one day everybody felt fine, the next day people were getting sick and dying all around them. Whatever it was, it touched everyone with violent nausea, uncontrollable diarrhea, and high fever . . . Breathing became very difficult, and then death to most. Those who survived are very weak, but we think they’re going to make it.’

  “‘Bottger’s crap,’ Ben said.

  “‘Probably.’

  “‘What can you do for the people?’

  “‘Well, actually, very little, sir. Give those who are dying a shot to ease them on their way out. That’s about it.’

  “‘Do it,’ Doctor Chase said, walking up and catching the last part of the report.

  “‘Yes, sir.’

  “Chase turned to face Ben, then grimaced and said, ‘Why should I tell you, Raines; you’d just turn around and tell Corrie. I might as well start giving all orders to her from the outset. Besides, she’s a lot easier on the eyes than you are.’ He turned to face Corrie. ‘You know the drill, dear: no drinking of the water, no petting of animals, no fraternization with the locals. See that those orders are passed up and down the line promptly, please.’

  “‘Certainly, sir.’

  “Chase smiled. ‘It’s so nice to see that someone in this team knows something about military courtesy.’ He turned and strolled off before Ben could retort, chuckling as he walked.

  “‘Somebody must have put thumbtacks in the old goat’s oatmeal this morning,’ Ben said. ‘Feisty old bastard.’

  “Lamar Chase was definitely too old for the field . . . Ben knew it and Lamar knew it. But he was in excellent health and showed no signs of slowing down. As long as he could keep up, he would stay in the field. Like Ben, when it came time for him to leave the grinding world of combat campaigns, he would know and would do so voluntarily . . . He would not have to be told. Both Ben and Chase knew that day was coming for them, but neither of them liked to dwell much on it.

  “‘Let’s see what we’ve got in this town,’ Ben said. ‘As if we didn’t know,” he added.

  “Death, suffering and hopelessness, Beth wrote in her journal as the team walked along. And: Nearly all of Africa is the same. No matter where we go we see the same thing. Bruno Bottger is not responsible for everything that has happened to these poor people, but he is certainly to blame for most of it. He is an evil, immoral man, probably insane, who must be destroyed . . . no matter the cost.

  “She carefully noted the name of the town, dated the page, then closed the journal and tucked it away in her rucksack and buckled the flap.

  “Ben was also keeping a journal, and in content, it was surprisingly very similar to the one Beth was keeping.

  “The other members of the team felt the same way as Beth and Ben about Bottger . . . as did the entire Rebel Army. They had all been pursuing the rotten bastard for too long . . . over thousands of miles and two continents.

  “It was time to bring it to an end.

  “‘Gas masks on,’ Ben ordered. “The smell is going to be tough.’

  “That order did not have to be repeated, for the odor was very foul.

  “‘Corrie,’ Ben said, after only a few minutes of walking through the human suffering. ‘Get the engineers up here with their equipment. We’ve got to get these bodies in the ground. Many of the dead are rotting. We’ve got to get these dead buried . . . and do it damn quick.’

  “No matter where the Rebels looked, there were rotting, maggot-covered bodies. It wasn’t a matter of the living not caring: The survivors were just too weak to bury their dead. They just did not have the strength.

  “Wild dogs and hyenas had made their way into the town to join the birds of prey in dining on what appeared to be hundreds of bodies . . . and there was plenty of dead and rotting flesh to satisfy even the most indiscriminate of appetites, and hyenas and vultures were neither picky nor dainty eaters.

  “The birds of prey did not seem to mind the Rebels walking among them as they ripped and tore off strips and hunks of flesh. The hyenas were another story: The savage animals with their bone-crunching jaws presented a clear menace to the Rebels.

  “‘Try to chase them off,’ Ben ordered. ‘They’re only doing what they were put on earth to do . . . as disgusting as it is. If they won’t back off, shoot them.’

  “After a dozen of the hyenas were shot, the rest began backing away, reluctantly, from the dead, long enough for the Rebels to toss the bodies into the beds of trucks . . . if the bodies didn’t fall apart when they were picked up; then it got really interesting for the Rebels, interesting being a totally inadequate word in describing the procedure.

  “‘Jesus Christ, Ben,’ the XO, John Michaels, said after a few moments. ‘We came over here to fight, not to be subjected to this.’

  “‘I know, John. I know. I’m not real thrilled about it either, I assure you.’

  “‘Then why are we doing it, Ben? We sure as hell don’t have to.’

  “‘Because there is no one else to do it, John. If there were no living watching us—many of them relatives of the dead, I’m sure—I’d have the bodies scraped up into a pile and use the town for a funeral pyre.’

  “The XO shook his mask-covered head. ‘Sorry, Ben. I’m just blowing off steam.’

  “‘I know you are, John. And I understand your frustration. I feel the same way. Believe me, I do.’

  “‘What a fucking thankless miserable job for these young men and women,” John replied, his eyes on the Rebels struggling with the rotting bodies.

  “‘It wasn’t all that thrilling an experience for the dead either, John. Especially when you take into account they didn’t know why it was happening to them . . . or even what was happening to them. But as long as my Rebels are handling the dead, their officers are going to stay with them and witness all the horror of it. I want us all to understand what manner of men we’re fighting.’

  “‘I believe they will all know that, Ben, to the fullest extent.’

  “‘So they shall, John. I want them to know the stink and the rot and the total evil of Bottger and his dream, so when they move against that son of a bitch and his men, there will be damn little pity or compassion shown.’

  “‘I think we can both be sure of that, Ben.’ John looked into Ben’s eyes and inwardly shuddered. He felt as though he were gazing through the fiery, smoky gates into Hell itself. “‘This last leg of the campaign is going to be a brutal, bloody bastard,’ the XO said. ‘There won’t be a survivor left from the other side . . . not unless they give it up right now and beg for mercy.’ John had been with Ben for a long time, and he had witnessed firsthand how low-down and mean Ben could be when he got pissed . . . and right now he was plenty pissed.”

  Perro Loco put down the transcript of the expedition written by Robert Barnes, war correspondent for the United Press, and the journals written by Raines and the female member of his team. Ben Raines was part madman, he concluded, making him a far more formidable adversary.

  Ben Raines and his men were tough, apparently unafraid of a madman like Bruno Bottger or any of his Nazi weapons, even chemical and germ warfare. It would be a test of Loco’s fighting men to face a general like Ben Raines. Loco could only hope that Raines’s battles with the forces of the USA had weakened him.

  It was a gamble worth taking, a chance to control all of the American continent. What difference would it make if he lost a few thousa
nd men? Fighting men were expendable. Central and South America were full of men who were willing to risk their lives for the promise of money.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Harley Reno and Hammer Hammerick were riding in the lead jeep with a couple of Gato’s men as they headed deeper into the jungle. The second jeep contained Corrie and Beth, and the third held Gato, Ben, and Anna, who refused to leave Ben’s side when Jersey wasn’t around to guard him.

  Ben was talking to Gato about what he thought Perro Loco’s plans were when he saw Reno suddenly reach over the driver of his jeep, grab the wheel, and steer the vehicle off the trail into the brush.

  Ben grabbed his driver’s shoulder and yelled, “Stop!”

  As the others jeeps slid to a stop, Reno and Hammer vaulted out of the lead one and jogged back to meet them.

  “What’s going on, Harley?” Ben asked.

  “I saw light reflecting off a glass up ahead,” Reno said as he checked the loads in his SPAS shotgun. “It was either binocs or a telescopic sight.”

  Gato started to speak, “But, Señor Reno, there is no—”

  Ben interrupted, “Believe him, Gato. If Harley thinks there’s an ambush ahead, there is. He and Hammer are the best in the world at what they do.”

  Gato shrugged, but he clearly still did not believe there was any danger.

  “Give us ten minutes, Chief,” Reno said. “Then you can come up the trail.”

  Ben nodded and Reno and Hammer split up, each disappearing into the jungle on opposite sides of the road.

  “Gato,” Ben said, “have one of your men open the hood of that jeep and act like he’s having trouble with the engine so if anyone is watching, they’ll know why we stopped.”

  Gato shook his head as if all this was unnecessary, but he gave the order.

  Harley Reno, in spite of his size, moved through the jungle like a big jungle cat, making no sound whatever as he slipped through the dense undergrowth.

  Within minutes he could smell the acrid scent of cheap tobacco ahead. He shook his head in disgust. If men under his command dared to smoke while on patrol, they’d have their heads handed to them on a platter.

  He silently pushed the leaves of a banana tree aside and saw the trap. There were four men waiting just off the road, hidden in the bushes. Three were armed with AK-47’s, while the fourth manned an old Browning Automatic Rifle on a tripod. Even though the weapon dated from World War II, it would have made short work of the jeeps had they continued down the trail.

  Reno glanced at his watch. Five minutes. Hammer should be ready on the other side, he thought as he laid his SPAS on the ground. He pulled his K-Bar assault knife from its scabbard and eased forward.

  He grabbed the man in the rear, placing his left hand over his mouth as he pulled his chin up and back, exposing his throat. There was no sound as the razor-sharp blade of the knife sliced through his carotid arteries and trachea. The soldier died without ever knowing what hit him.

  Reno slowly laid his body to the ground, his eyes on the other three in front of him. As he moved toward them, one must have sensed something for he turned and looked back over his shoulder. Reno moved quickly, swinging his left fist and crashing it into the soldier’s face, smashing his nose flat and sending teeth and blood spraying into the air as his head snapped back and he fell to the ground.

  The other two whirled around, the barrel of the AK-47 swinging toward Reno. He blocked it with his left arm and slashed backhanded with the K-Bar while simultaneously lashing out his right leg in a swinging side-kick. As the K-Bar severed one man’s neck, almost decapitating him, Reno’s size-twelve combat boot took the other soldier in the chin, fracturing and dislocating his jaw. In one continuous motion, Reno whirled and slipped the K-Bar under his ribcage at a forty-five-degree angle upward. The soldier grunted once as the knife point penetrated his heart, stopping it in midbeat. He hung there a moment, impaled on Reno’s fist, his eyes wide and surprised, until Reno jerked the knife out and let him collapse to the ground.

  Reno crouched, letting the adrenaline wash out of his system for a few minutes, watching to see if there were any more men hiding in the jungle. When he found none, he leaned his head back and whistled, the sound of a sparrow hawk coming from his lips. It was the signal the scouts of the SUSA used to signify a successful attack.

  Moments later, the sound was repeated from across the road, and Reno and Hammer stepped out of the jungle to greet each other.

  Hammer glanced at the blood splatters on the front of Reno’s shirt and pants, shaking his head. “Sloppy, podna, awful sloppy,” he growled, a grin on his lips.

  Reno shook his head. “I know. I must be gettin’ slow in my old age,” he answered as they walked back up the trail toward Ben and the others.

  Gato’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open when he saw the two men walking up the trail, Reno’s clothes covered with fresh blood.

  “Dios . . .” he muttered.

  Ben smiled. “How many were there?”

  Reno held up four fingers, Hammer three.

  “Weapons?”

  “Three AK’s and a BAR,” Reno said.

  “Two AK’s and an M-16,” Hammer added.

  “Any survivors?”

  Hammer shook his head. Reno said, “I left one alive. I figured Gato might want to ask him a few questions.”

  Gato looked puzzled. “Questions?”

  Reno shrugged. “Sure. Like how they knew where we were gonna be. It might just be you got a mole in your outfit, Gato.”

  “A mole?”

  Ben explained. “A spy, Gato. Someone who’s reporting your plans to Perro Loco.”

  Gato’s face turned dark. “Pedro, Jose,” he said to two soldiers standing nearby. “Go and find out what the bastardo knows.”

  In a few minutes, harsh screams of terror and pain could be heard from the site of the ambush as Gato’s men questioned the survivor about the possibility of a spy in Gato’s group of rebels.

  Trying to ignore the yelling and begging for mercy coming from the nearby bushes, Ben asked Gato, “How much farther is it to the site of the ambush of the fuel caravan?”

  Gato shrugged. “Only about five kilometers, but it is through a winding trail so it will take us a couple of hours to get there.”

  Ben nodded. “Good. I know my people and they’ll probably stay within radio range of their original firefight. The sooner we get there, the sooner I can have my people home.”

  Minutes later, there were two closely spaced gunshots and the screaming abruptly stopped. The two soldiers appeared on the road, their BDUs covered with splatters of blood and mucus.

  “Did you find out who the traitor is?” Gato asked, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

  The taller of the two men shook his head. “No, mi comandante. They were merely soldados who did not know who gave their leader the information about our position.”

  “Well, no matter,” Gato said, disappointment showing on his face. “Now that I know there is a leak, it will not be long before I find out who is responsible.”

  He waved his arm in a circle, and the men all piled into their jeeps to continue the journey through the jungle toward the ambush site.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Private Porfirio Negra rode his Yamaha motorcycle for all it was worth toward San Ignacio, squeezing the twist-grip throttle on the handlebar until it hurt his hand. The noise made by the two-stroke motor filled the jungle around him, louder when he shifted to a lower gear.

  What he had seen while traveling through the jungle only added to his haste.

  “Madre,” he said to himself, crossing a vine-clogged ridge south of the hacienda.

  The slaughter in the jungle near the Guatemala border was still fresh in his mind, the ambush by soldiers no one could identify. They wore black paint on their faces and camouflage uniforms. It was as if they had come from nowhere. The rest of the squad lay dead in the vines and undergrowth. Porfirio was the only survivor of the surprise attack.
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br />   Sergeant Felipe Garza and Corporal Beto had been among the first to die. Five truckloads of airplane fuel and ammunition had fallen into enemy hands . . . only Porfirio did not know who the enemy was. The ambush had come so suddenly. There had been no warning.

  When he knelt beside Sergeant Garza, with bullets flying around him, Porfirio found the pair of gold coins in the sergeant’s front pocket. He was searching for orders rather than wealth.

  “I must tell the comandante about the ambush,” he said above the throb of the Yamaha engine. “But I will say nothing about the gold.” His wife and infant son would be able to live for many years with so much money.

  Porfirio had always liked Corporal Beto . . . He’d wanted his job as gunner for the sergeant. But after what he saw today, he felt much better about his low rank. Tipping his motorcycle over in jungle vines when the shooting started had certainly saved his life.

  As he’d sped away from the attack on his motorcycle, he’d glanced back over his shoulder, surprised to see only two soldiers appear out of the jungle—one of them a woman!

  He considered putting the gold money in his boot, just in case Comandante Perro Loco knew about it. Porfirio understood that if he was searched he would lose the gold, and perhaps even be executed as a traitor. How could he explain having so much wealth on a private’s pay?

  “I should stop near the hacienda and bury it,” he said, changing to a higher gear where the road was level. Two gold coins would be enough to make him a rich man, although he didn’t know how much they were actually worth in Belizian dollars with the world in so much turmoil.

  The attack near Guatemala against the villagers friendly to the Salvadoran rebels led by El Gato had been a short-lived success. Whoever the soldiers were who came at them in the jungle, they must have known about the bullets and aircraft fuel. Maybe, he thought, they knew about the gold in Sergeant Garza’s possession.