Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  She gave a short, harsh laugh. “In that case, I’d sue the bastard for malpractice!”

  After some hours in the plane, a green light lit on the forward wall, signaling the team the pilot was descending for a landing.

  The Osprey didn’t actually land, but hovered a couple of feet off the ground, and the cargo door was opened by the loadmaster, who gave the team a thumbs-up as they jumped to the ground one by one.

  Twenty-five

  Ben had ordered the pilot of the Osprey to let the team off near the Boise Fair Grounds, which were a couple of miles to the northeast of downtown and also several miles directly north of the Boise airport, which was to the south of the main business district.

  After the Osprey took off into the night sky, Harley Reno gathered the team around him near the wooden seats of the main Fair Ground arena.

  He turned on a small flashlight and played it over a map of the city and its environs that he’d spread out on the ground in front of them.

  “Here we are at the Fair Grounds,” he said, pointing to the area on the map. “As you can see, if we take Cole Road directly south and then take a left on Victory Road, it’ll lead us onto the airport grounds.”

  He folded the map of the city and opened a more detailed one of the airport itself. “The airfield has only one main runway running north and south and three that intersect running east and west. The control tower is at the main intersection of all of the runways, giving it an excellent overlook of the entire area.”

  Coop leaned closer. “I don’t suppose there’s any cover to speak of around the control tower.”

  Harley grinned and shook his head. “Nope, ’cause that’d make our job entirely too easy.”

  Jersey leaned over. “From the scale of the map, it looks like we’re gonna have to crawl on our bellies for several hundred yards if we want to get to the control tower unobserved.”

  Coop grunted. “Before I go crawling across several hundred yards of heavy grass fields, does anyone know if there are any poisonous snake species indigenous to the Boise area?” he asked, a shudder passing through his body. Coop’s aversion to snakes of any kind was well known to the group.

  “Probably none other than rattlesnakes, coral snakes, and pit vipers,” Jersey said with an evil grin.

  “Don’t worry, Coop,” Harley said. “We’re not going to crawl anywhere.”

  “Then how are we going to take out the control tower?” Anna asked, placing her hand on Harley’s shoulder.

  Harley pointed to the map again. “See, the main terminal of the airport is less than a quarter mile from the tower. I figure, as small as the tower is, there won’t be more than five or six guards among the air traffic controllers in the tower itself. Most of the terrorists and FFA types will be in the main terminal, guarding the roads into the airport.”

  “So, how does that help us?” Coop asked. “If we try to take out the main terminal first, the guards in the control tower will be alerted, and we don’t have any idea of how many men might be holding the main terminal.”

  “Exactly,” Harley said, “so here is my plan. . . .”

  After Achmed Sharif’s men finished looting the highway patrol offices and had taken everything they could use, Sharif had them disperse throughout the town in small groups of five or six men. They had orders to kill anyone in a uniform they came upon, especially cops or highway patrol officers. Sharif wanted to make sure all of the officers that hadn’t been caught in the raids on the headquarters were taken out so they couldn’t cause any trouble later.

  As the groups took off, some actually riding in highway patrol vehicles so they could monitor any radio traffic from the escaped officers, Sharif stood on the front steps of the smoldering building and dialed in his code on his cell phone, followed by the number assigned to Mohamed Omar.

  “Yes,” the voice answered shortly after only two rings.

  “Mohamed, this is Achmed,” Sharif said. “Have you accomplished your mission?”

  “Certainly, Achmed,” Omar said a trifle smugly. “However, resistance was a bit stronger than we anticipated and I lost some men.”

  “They will be rewarded in the afterlife for their sacrifice,” Sharif said without the slightest trace of compassion in his voice.

  “How about you?” Omar asked.

  “The highway patrol offices have been destroyed,” Sharif said.

  “What do you want me to do now?” Omar asked.

  “I’ve sent my men out to search out and kill any remaining policemen or patrol officers,” Sharif said. “I want you to take your men directly to the airport and make sure that fool Wesson has been able to carry out his orders.”

  “And shall my men take over command when we get there?” Omar asked, not liking the idea that he might have to take orders from the infidel FFA men, even though they were allies for the moment.

  “Yes. Tell Mr. Wesson that you will be in charge. You may use his men for guard duty, but make sure to have one of our people assigned to each of his groups. I don’t trust these traitors and I want to know what they talk about at all times, do you understand?”

  “Yes, esteemed one,” Omar answered. “When will you be joining us at the airport?”

  “I will make sure all of our men are there by the time the flights are due to arrive. These are very important arrivals and we need to make sure there are no problems.”

  “Certainly, I will go there immediately,” Omar said, and clicked his phone off.

  Achmed Sharif dialed another number, one that he hadn’t used since the invasion.

  Abdullah El Farrar answered and said, “Yes?”

  “Abdullah, this is Achmed,” Sharif said, his voice more deferential than it had been while talking with Omar.

  “Ah, Achmed,” Farrar said, evident pleasure in his tone. “How are things going on our western front?”

  “Very well, your excellency,” Sharif said, and he filled him in on the latest happenings.

  “Then all is in readiness for the arrival of our airplanes?” Farrar asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sharif answered.

  “That is good. The reinforcements and heavy equipment will allow us to proceed to the next stage of the invasion, and we will be able to mount an attack on the very seat of President Osterman’s government.”

  “How many men are you sending?” Sharif asked.

  “That is not something to be discussed, even on these secure phones,” Farrar said, “but it will be a substantial amount, along with some light tanks equipped with TOW missiles and other heavy armament.”

  “Excellent!” Sharif said enthusiastically.

  “I am counting on you to make sure there are not going to be any problems, Achmed,” Farrar said, his voice growing harder with the warning.

  Sharif swallowed hard, for he knew what the price of failure would be. “Yes, I understand and all precautions have been taken, Abdullah.”

  “Good, then I will see you in a few days,” Farrar said.

  “I eagerly await your arrival,” Sharif said, and he clicked off the phone.

  Twenty-six

  As the team moved silently through the darkness, they found the area between the Fair Grounds and the airport to be practically deserted.

  As they moved through empty streets, Coop wondered out loud, “Where the hell are all the people? According to our information, Boise has a population of over half a million.”

  Jersey looked over at him. “What do you expect, Coop?” she asked. “You’ve got to remember, the economy of the States is in the tank. People don’t have enough money for food, much less gasoline to go gallivanting around at night.”

  “Yeah,” Hammer said, “they’re all probably sitting around their television sets watching sitcoms about how perfect their world is and how good they’ve got it under the benevolent Administration of Babe Osterman.”

  Anna laughed. “And they’re probably sponsored by cat and dog food companies, the only food most of them can afford to eat under her le
adership.”

  Beth, by far the quietest and most compassionate of the group, objected. “I don’t think it’s fair to make fun of the citizens because of Osterman,” she said heatedly. “It’s not their fault she’s dragged them into war after war.”

  “That’s just it, Beth dear,” Jersey said gently. “It is their fault. Last time I looked, the U.S. was still a democracy and its citizens have the right to vote anyone they choose into or out of office.”

  “But that’s just it, Jerse,” Beth said fervently. “Osterman controls all the media and information outlets. With her propaganda machine, the people are fooled into thinking the wars were all our fault.”

  “Then double shame on them for being so stupid and allowing the government to gain control of the press and media,” Coop said, his voice totally unsympathetic to Beth’s arguments for the citizens of the U.S.

  “If you believe that way, you should be fighting for the FFA guys instead of against them,” Jersey said. “After all, from what I can see, they’re trying to get rid of Osterman by joining up with these Arab terrorists.”

  Beth shook her head. “No, the FFA is not the answer. That’s like changing from a socialist form of government to a fascist one. Neither truly represents the will of the people or looks out for their welfare.”

  “Far as I’m concerned,” Coop said, “any people that depend on the government to look out for them instead of doing it themselves deserve whatever kind of shitty leaders they get, until they grow the balls to take control of their own destinies and lives.”

  “All right, people,” Harley said from the front of the group, “we’re getting close to the airport road so hold it down. We could come upon sentries at most any time now.”

  As they came to the outskirts of the airport property, they found it surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence with triple-stranded barbed wire running along the top.

  Coop stepped up to the fence. “You want me to make a door?” he asked Harley.

  Harley shook his head. “No. Then we’d just have to cross all those fields out in the open. Let’s move along the fence until we come to the road leading up to the main terminal. That’s where we’ll probably find the sentries.”

  Twenty minutes later, they came to a concrete road with a sign reading GOWEN ROAD. It seemed to lead straight toward the airport terminal visible a mile or so distant.

  A hundred yards up the road, they could see large sawhorses stretched across the street, with a pair of HumVees parked nearby and five or six men milling around with AK-47’s slung over their shoulders.

  Coop sidled up next to where Harley squatted in the ditch next to the road, observing the guards through night-vision goggles.

  “They don’t seem to be too concerned about showing themselves,” Coop observed. “You’d think they’d be worried about local cops or authorities.”

  Harley shook his head without looking around. “Naw. If they’ve acted as usual, the first thing they did was take out the local cops. That way, they can pretty much do whatever they want in the town until they’re ready to move on.”

  “Too bad the government up here outlawed private ownership of guns,” Coop whispered. “If they hadn’t, the citizens could’ve taken care of these guys themselves.”

  Harley snorted through his nose. “Not the citizens of the U.S.,” he said. “These bleeding-heart liberals would be too afraid of depriving the poor terrorists of their right to commit murder to do anything about them.”

  “Those guys look like Arabs?” Coop asked.

  “Uh-uh, they’re good ol’ Americans,” Harley replied.

  He moved back to the group. “Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. . . .”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Harley Reno stepped out onto the street and began to walk nonchalantly up to the group of guards stationed ahead.

  “Hey,” one of the men called, unslinging his AK-47 when he saw Harley approaching, and aiming it at him. “Who goes there?” the man called as the rest of the guards gathered around him, also aiming their guns at Harley.

  “It’s Harley Reno,” Harley called, holding his hands out in plain sight so the men could see he was unarmed.

  The guard who’d called out turned to the man next to him. “Who the hell is Harley Reno?” he asked.

  The other man shrugged. “Damned if I know,” he answered, “but it looks like he’s dressed the same as us, all in black cammies.”

  When Harley got to within fifteen feet of the blockade, the head guard said, “All right, that’s far enough, mister. What the hell do you want?”

  Harley stood there, grinning at the men. “Hell, the boss sent me to check up on you guys and to make sure you’re not sleeping on the job.”

  The men looked at each other, then back at Harley. “I don’t recognize you, mister, and I’m damned sure I never heard the name Harley Reno before.”

  Harley shrugged. “I’m not accountable for your memory, or lack thereof,” he said evenly.

  “Okay, Reno,” the guard said belligerently, “if the boss sent you, what’s the password?”

  Harley smiled slowly. “The password is, drop your weapons and put your hands up, or . . .”

  The man laughed. “Or what?”

  Coop and the other members of the team appeared from the darkness alongside both sides of the road, surrounding the men, their Uzis held at waist level and ready to fire.

  “Or we’ll blow the shit outta you,” Coop said in a low hard voice.

  “Holy shit!” one of the guards exclaimed as they all dropped their weapons. “Where did you come from?”

  “Get down on the ground and put your hands behind you!” Harley commanded in a loud voice as Anna handed him his Uzi, which she’d carried for him.

  The guards all scrambled to lie on their faces and put their hands behind them.

  While the rest of the team kept them covered, Beth went along and fastened their hands together and feet together with plastic tie-wraps like cops used to secure prisoners.

  Harley stood over the men. “I’m not going to gag you guys, ’cause it’d be a waste of time.” He glanced around at the vast open spaces around them. “You can yell your heads off out here and no one will hear you.”

  “But what’s gonna happen to us?” one of the guards whined.

  “Depends on who finds you first,” Coop said nastily. “If it’s one of your men, you’ll probably just get a tongue-lashing. However, if it’s one of the Arabs, they’ll probably cut your balls off for being captured.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” one of the men cried softly.

  “Uh-uh, wrong god,” Jersey said. “Better pray to Allah, he’s the boss of your new friends.”

  Minutes later, the team had divided up and were driving the two HumVees toward the main terminal of the airport.

  Just before arriving at the terminal, the lead vehicle veered off toward the control tower a few hundred yards in the distance.

  The second vehicle kept moving straight toward the terminal, with the team keeping their heads bent down so their faces wouldn’t show through the windows.

  Harley Reno, Anna, Beth, and Corrie were in the car heading to the control tower. As it pulled up next to the entrance, a man walked out of the door, his AK-47 still slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey, guys,” he called, a grin splitting his face, “what’re you doin’ here? It’s not time for relief yet.”

  Harley opened the door and aimed his Uzi at the man’s midsection. In a quiet voice, he called, “Come on over here and act natural, or I’ll cut you in half.”

  The man’s face fell and he moved slowly toward the HumVee, his eyes darting back and forth and sweat appearing on his forehead.

  Harley noticed the signs of nervousness and stress. “I sure hope you’re not thinking of trying to warn your friends, mister,” he said. “ ’Cause I’d surely hate to kill you.”

  The guard’s eyes fixed on Harley’s and he knew he meant what he said. “All right,” he croaked through a dry
throat.

  When he got up next to the car, Harley asked, “Can your friends inside see us out here?”

  “No, this is the blind side of the building. That’s why I was stationed at the door.”

  “How many men in there with you?” Anna asked.

  “Four guards, two air traffic controllers,” the man answered shortly.

  “What’s your name?” Beth asked as she stepped out of the car and put plastic ties on the man’s hands behind his back.

  “Jim Short,” he answered.

  Beth bent and hooked his ankles together, and then stood and put a gag in his mouth. “Well, Jim,” she said as she laid him in the back seat of the HumVee, “you be a good little boy, and you’ll come out of this alive and well. Otherwise, I’ll have to slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  They could all hear Jim swallow as he nodded his head vigorously up and down.

  “Follow me,” Harley said as he opened the back door to the tower and started up the steps, his Uzi cradled in his hands.

  Just before they got to the top, a voice called, “Hey, what’s goin’ on down there?”

  “It’s me. Jim,” Harley said. “They sent some grub over from the terminal.”

  “What’s wrong with your voice?” the man above called, and stepped to the head of the stairs.

  When he saw Harley and the women, he shouted and grabbed at the AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

  Harley let go with a short burst from the Uzi and blew the man back out of sight.

  Anna brushed past Harley, running full speed up the stairs and dove headfirst through the doorway.

  A burst of AK-47 fire splintered the wall over her head as she rolled and let go with her Uzi.

  She emptied her thirty-round clip in a matter of seconds, filling the small control tower room with the smell of gunpowder and cordite and blood and excrement.

  By the time Harley and the others got up the stairs, Anna was on her feet, telling the air traffic controllers not to worry, they were in no danger.