Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Harley stepped into the room and looked around. Four men, dressed all in black, were scattered around the room, all as dead as they could be.

  “Jesus,” he whispered softly, looking at Anna. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  She grinned at him. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to do that, Harley.”

  Hammer and Coop and Jersey, in the second HumVee, pulled up to the front door of the terminal.

  Two men walked out of the door, holding their automatic rifles in their hands but not pointed at the car.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” the lead man asked. “Is there any trouble?”

  “Yeah,” Hammer growled as he stuck his Uzi out the window. “And it’s all yours.”

  As the second man started to raise his weapon, Jersey stepped out of the HumVee and moved her right arm in a lightning-quick movement.

  The man gasped, dropping his rifle and grabbing at the hilt of Jersey’s K-Bar assault knife, which was sticking out of his throat.

  He dropped to his knees, gurgled a couple of times, and then fell forward onto his face.

  The other guard, his eyes wide with fright, quickly dropped his rifle and held up his hands.

  “How many of you inside?” Hammer asked while Coop covered the door with his Uzi.

  Suddenly, a man appeared behind the huge plate-glass window of the terminal. When he saw what was going on, he aimed his AK-47 and fired right through the window.

  At the distinctive sound of the Kalashnikov firing, Coop whirled and let go with his Uzi on full automatic.

  The plate-glass window shattered and Hammer was spun around, hit by one of the slugs from inside the terminal.

  The man behind the window was flung backward with his arms outstretched by the blast from Coop’s Uzi.

  Jersey unlimbered her Uzi and ran and jumped through the shattered window, yelling and firing as she went.

  Two men went down in front of her, their machine guns not even fired.

  Coop was scant yards behind her, flicking out his empty magazine and replacing it with another as he ran.

  Inside, three men were behind a concession stand counter, firing over it at Coop and Jersey, driving them to the floor as slugs pinged off the tile floors all around them.

  As they squatted behind a row of chairs, Coop glanced at Jersey. “What now?” he asked. “They’ve got us pinned down here.”

  They ducked as they heard a loud thumping sound behind them. When they glanced back, they saw Hammer standing in the doorway. His left arm hung useless at his side and he was holding the M-79 grenade launcher in his right arm, firing one-handed.

  “Hit the deck!” he yelled at Coop and Jersey, and they did so forthwith.

  A tremendous explosion rocked the terminal’s main room, and the concession stand disappeared in a brilliant flash of light and flame and smoke.

  Candy bars, gum packages, and parts of bodies rained down on Jersey and Coop for several seconds.

  A figure emerged, walking toward them from a cloud of black smoke. It was Hammer, still holding the M-79 Big Thumper in his right hand.

  “That should be all of them,” he said in a shaky voice, and then he collapsed onto the floor, a scarlet stain spreading out from his left shoulder.

  “Jesus,” Jersey said, running to his side. “He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  Coop knelt next to the big man and jerked a compression bandage from the pack on his back, slapping it into place over the hole in Hammer’s deltoid muscle.

  Twenty-seven

  Mustafa Kareem entered the office the FFA man John Waters had provided for Abdullah El Farrar and Osama bin Araman to use to coordinate the eastern phase of the attack against the United States.

  El Farrar and Araman were leaning over a table with a large-scale map of the U.S. spread out upon it. Farrar looked up and nodded his head in greeting to his second in command.

  “Come join us, Mustafa,” Farrar said. “We are busily puzzling over the response of the United States to our invasion, or more accurately, the lack of a response.”

  Araman frowned. “I’ve told you, Abdullah,” he said, “the infidels are decadent and have no stomach for war when it is pressed on their home shores. That is why they have not counterattacked in force.”

  Farrar shook his head, his face puzzled. “No, Osama, I do not agree. I am a student of history and I well remember the Japanese general’s strong warnings against the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. He said, do not attack the Americans, for you will awaken a sleeping giant.”

  “Bah,” Araman scoffed. “That was many years ago, when the United States was a strong nation. Now they are divided into the U.S. and this SUSA on their southern borders.”

  He leaned over, picked up a tiny cup of Turkish coffee, and took a sip, wincing a little at the bitterness. “It is my feeling that all of the citizens with balls moved south and left only sheep in the north, waiting to be sheared,” Araman said, his voice dripping with scorn.

  Farrar stared at him, his eyes doubtful. “You may be right about the leaders of the country, my friend,” he said slowly and evenly, “but I still wonder at the total lack of response to our provocations.”

  Mustafa Kareem joined in. “I agree, Abdullah. This lack of response goes against all of our projections. Here we have moved across almost a third of the country without any real opposition to our destruction of their infrastructure.” He shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Araman laughed. “I think you two are borrowing trouble. At this rate, my troops will be in the capital by next week, and with the reinforcements and heavy equipment landing at Boise tomorrow, we’ll own the country within two weeks.”

  Farrar dipped his head to study the map, which had small pins in all the locations where the various teams had been. The trail of pins lead steadily toward the center of the country, where President Osterman had her seat of government at Indianapolis.

  “We’ll see, Osama, but I fear this is just the quiet before the storm.”

  As Farrar was speaking, and Harley Reno and his team were taking control of the airport at Boise, hundreds of five-and six-man-and-woman teams of Scouts were being airdropped across the country to intercept the Arab teams in their movements toward Indianapolis.

  Each team had, in addition to the personal armament they carried, crates of weapons and ammunition to pass out to citizens who were willing to fight against the invaders. They would try to undo years of liberal thinking on gun control and put weapons back into the hands of ordinary citizens once again.

  Major Jackson Bean hit the ground, rolled, and came up into a crouch, his Uzi at the ready in case they’d been spotted on their HALO drop just outside the city limits of Allentown, Pennsylvania. They’d been dropped there after reports had come in that the town was under siege by over fifty invaders—a mixed bag of Arabs and FFA traitors who were wiping out the police and other authorities in the town.

  Bean, upon seeing no one was anywhere near the field they’d landed in, gathered up his black parachute and buried it in a shallow depression in the ground.

  Once that was done, he whistled softly through his lips, and within moments his team was gathered around him: Willie Running Bear, descendent of the Sioux people; Mary Blackburn; Samuel Clemens; and Sue Waters.

  As they gathered in the gloom of the early evening darkness, they could hear gunshots and explosions from the downtown area several miles away.

  “Bear,” Bean said, referring to Willie Running Bear, “you and Sam grab those crates of weapons and let’s get moving toward town.”

  The crates were fitted with handles and wheels so they could be easily moved by one man, though they each weighed a couple of hundred pounds. The crates were filled with Uzi machine guns, M-16 rifles, Colt .45-caliber and Beretta 9mm pistols, ammunition, fragmentation grenades, and even some antipersonnel mines called Bouncing Bettys.

  As they moved out of the field and into the suburban neighborhood nearby, Bean took the lead and kno
cked on a door.

  A worried voice behind the door called out, “Who is it?”

  “Major Jackson Bean,” Bean answered.

  “What do you want?” the person inside said, without opening the door.

  Fed up with the whining he was hearing, Bean growled, “If there is a man in the house, I’d like to talk to him.”

  After a short hesitation, during which Bean could hear muted voices behind the door, a man opened the door and stood there, a large kitchen knife in his hand.

  Bean grinned. At least the man wasn’t afraid to protect his house and family. Now they’d see if he was up to protecting his country.

  “I’m Major Jackson Bean, with a Scout unit sent in to help stop the invaders from sacking your town,” Bean said shortly. “I need to know if there are any citizens around here with the balls to help us.”

  He raised his eyebrows at the man and waited for his response.

  The man glanced around at the rest of Bean’s team, then stepped back from the door. “Come on in,” he said. “My name is Jim Watson, and this is my wife, Peg, and our two sons, Jeremy and Brit.”

  Bean entered the house and nodded at a small, sallow-faced woman and two boys who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen years old.

  Once Bean and his team were seated in the Watsons’ living room, he outlined the situation.

  “I don’t know just how much you people know, but an Army of Arab terrorists, mixed with some local traitors who call themselves Freedom Fighters of America, is sweeping across the country, looting, pillaging, and killing everyone in their path,” Bean said.

  Watson nodded. “There have been some reports on the television. The government is calling for all citizens to resist the invasion, but they don’t say how since it’s against the law to own a gun in the United States.”

  “We have weapons we can give you,” Bean said, glancing around at the man’s two sons, who were sitting on the edge of their chairs eagerly watching the exchange. “The important question is, are you ready to fight for your country?”

  Watson glanced once at his wife, and then back at Bean. “Of course I am.”

  Jeremy and Brit chimed in simultaneously, “Me too!”

  Bean nodded. “Good. How about your neighbors? Anyone around here with military or police experience who might be willing to join us?”

  Watson thought for a moment, until Jeremy said, “How about Joey Pissaro’s dad? He used to be a cop until he retired a couple of years ago.”

  Watson nodded. “He lives four houses down.”

  “Would he be willing to fight?” Bean asked.

  Watson grinned. “Hell, yes. Retirement is driving him crazy with no heads to bust.”

  Bean pointed to the crate they’d brought into the house. “Jim, I’m gonna leave that box of weapons with you and depend on you to hand them out to people you think will be an asset to us. Meanwhile, we’re gonna head on into town and see if we can’t raise a little hell with the terrorists until you can get there with the reinforcements.”

  “Yes, sir!” Watson said, sitting a little straighter on the couch.

  “Now, I want to warn you, there’s some pretty sophisticated equipment in there . . . mines, grenades, things like that. If you don’t know how to use them, and can’t find anyone who does know, don’t mess with them. They’ll kill you if they’re handled wrong.”

  “Okay,” Watson said, “but there are plenty of older military types around here. We should be able to find someone to tell us what to do with them.”

  Bean got to his feet. “Good. Now remember, most of the terrorists are wearing all black, just like we are. I don’t know about the FFA men, but you should be able to tell who they are, ’cause they’ll be the only citizens around who have guns other than your group.”

  Watson nodded, and Bean and his team filed out of the door.

  The Scouts followed their ears toward the sound of gunfire, and within an hour were crouched down the street from the police headquarters building, where a fierce battle was raging.

  Parts of the building were on fire, and there were no lights on inside. There were men arrayed all around the building, peppering it with gunfire and moving slowly inward, closer and closer to the building.

  Occasional shots would ring out from windows, but it was plain to see the cops who were still alive were badly outnumbered and wouldn’t be able to hold off the invaders for long.

  “Affix your silencers to your Uzis,” Bean said in a low voice. He took his backpack off and opened it up on the ground in front of them. He handed each of the others a few fragmentation grenades to attach to their belts.

  “Spread out around the building,” he said, glancing at his watch. “In exactly five minutes, start picking men off. Remember to stick and move, stick and move. Don’t get cornered or get in a firefight.”

  Willie Running Bear grinned, his teeth white in the scant moonlight. “Don’t tell your grandmother how to knit a quilt, white eyes,” he said with a chuckle.

  Bean returned the smile. “Just be careful. Remember, we’re outnumbered ten to one.”

  “That barely makes it a fair fight,” Sue Waters said in a low, hard voice as she jerked back the loading lever on her Uzi with a metallic click.

  Seconds later the team had melted away into the night.

  Sue Waters made her way around the building until she was behind a group of seven men who were standing behind a large parked car and firing into the building across the street.

  As Sue watched, she saw they seemed to be concentrating their fire on one particular window on the third story. A dark shape would pop his head up and return fire, but didn’t seem to be coming too close to the men behind the car with his shots.

  Sue grinned to herself and squatted behind a large trash can twenty yards to the rear of the men. “Let’s see if I can’t improve his aim,” she said softly.

  She took aim at one of the men behind the car and waited until she heard the man in the building fire.

  She squeezed her trigger, and the Uzi made a soft coughing sound inaudible from more than a few feet away.

  The man she’d aimed at grabbed his chest and flopped onto the hood of the car with a loud grunt.

  The men standing next to him quickly ducked down. Two of them were Arabs and the other four appeared to be Anglos.

  Sue figured to take out the Arabs first since they were probably the best-trained shooters and the most dangerous to her and her team.

  After a few moments, the men stuck their heads back up and began to fire into the building again.

  When the policeman again pointed his rifle out of the window and returned fire, Sue joined him, taking out one of the Arabs, who died a noisy death screaming something about Allah.

  “Jesus!” one of the Anglos shouted to his friends. “That son of a bitch is getting better.”

  “Naw,” another one said. “Just a couple of lucky shots.”

  “Hell, I’m not waiting around to see,” a third said, and he began to inch away from the car.

  “Time to quit fucking around,” Sue mumbled, and she stood up.

  She flicked the switch on the side of her Uzi to full automatic and held the gun on its side, so its natural tendency to rise would instead cause it to sweep from right to left.

  She pointed the gun at the man standing most to her right and pulled the trigger. As the Uzi rattled quietly and moved sideways in her grasp, the line of bullets stitched across the men behind the car and they danced and jumped and screamed in a hail of silent bullets.

  When the clip was empty, Sue calmly ejected it and jammed another in its place.

  She looked around, saw some action off to her left, and moved slowly toward it, whistling softly to herself.

  Running Bear operated a little differently. He liked to kill up close and personal, so he moved around until he found men who were firing at the building but were alone.

  He’d then pull out his K-Bar and move silently up until he was standing behind
the man. A quick motion with his left arm around the man’s forehead, pulling his chin up and back, and then a lightning-fast slash with the razor-sharp edge of his blade, and Running Bear would be off to the next victim while the first was still gurgling and writhing and drowning in his own blood.

  Mary Blackburn wasn’t quite so elegant. She just walked around the building, pausing and shooting, and then moving on before anyone could see where the silent shots had come from. She killed or wounded over fifteen men before she was spotted.

  A sharp-eyed Arab saw her as she aimed and took out one of the attackers, and he screamed something in Arabic and let go at her with his AK-47.

  The first bullet took Mary in the right arm and spun her around so that the next three hit her square in the back, throwing her forward to land facedown in the gutter next to the street.

  The Arab screamed in triumph and called to a couple of his comrades, and they ran over to her body.

  “See,” the Arab said, “even the infidel women die as easily as their men do.”

  His friend laughed and used the toe of his boot to roll Mary’s body over onto her back.

  She grinned up at them through bloodstained teeth and let go of the pin on the fragmentation grenade she was holding against her chest.

  “Fuck you, rag-head!” she said.

  “Aiyeeee,” screamed one of the Arabs, and he had time to turn his back before the grenade went off, shredding all three of the men along with Mary.

  Sam Clemens, who’d seen Mary go down and how she’d taken three Arabs with her, gritted his teeth until his jaw ached as he ran from tree to tree and car to car, firing and running and firing and running, taking out man after man. They rarely knew what hit them.

  When his Uzi finally jammed because the barrel was too hot, he slung it back over his shoulder and took out his Beretta pistol. He had no silencer for it, and he had to get quite a bit closer to be sure of a lethal hit.