They watched the recon leader lift a walkie-talkie. Seconds later, the recon team began walking back toward the edge of town. All could tell by the way they walked that all tension had left them. They believed the town to be deserted. The Rebels had pulled off phase one.
“They have to come right through town,” Ben whispered. “Unless they decide to backtrack.”
Suddenly one of the NAL recon team stopped, holding up his hand. The others dropped to the street. The suspicious member walked to the sidewalk and peered into the gloom of what had once been a cafe. He stepped closer and looked hard. Finally he shook his head and stepped off the sidewalk. “Nothing but a damned hatrack,” he said to the others. They laughed and stood up from the street.
“You’re getting jumpy, Melendez,” the words came softly through the rain, which was getting heavier.
“Screw you, Barnes,” was Melendez’s reply. “You better stay jumpy when dealing with the Rebels.”
“They’re just flesh and blood like anybody else,” a third voice was added. “They’re not supermen.”
“Or superwomen,” a female said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Hilda,” another recon member said. “Must not forget the weaker sex.”
The men of the team laughed.
Hilda said something in reply that Ben could not catch. He assumed it was not at all complimentary.
“I’m whipped out,” the words drifted to the Rebels. “I hope we hole up here for the night. I could use some sleep.”
I hope you do, too, Ben thought. Then I can assure you that you will all sleep forever.
The recon members pulled on raingear and sat down on the sidewalk, under an awning. They smoked and talked as they waited for the convoy to pull in.
They’re all speaking English, Ben noted with some surprise. Some of it heavily accented, but English is obviously the language of choice.
Trucks began pulling in, filling the street, and soon the line of vehicles stretched from one end of the town to the other, parked side by side on the wide street. The vehicles pulled in tight, nearly touching bumpers, which Ben thought was strange, since it hampered the troops’ exit from the carriers, but he was glad for it. Stay bunched up, people, he thought. The closeness will be a comfort to you as you die.
The rain intensified as the storm moved closer. Lightning began dancing across the skies.
Corrie had moved close to Ben. She whispered, “That’s all of them. Our people on both ends have moved into position.”
“Give the orders to fire,” Ben said.
“Hey!” an NAL soldier shouted. “That’s a goddamn Hummer in that building over there.”
The stormy night suddenly turned deadly.
TEN
The littered street was a roaring battleground as the Rebels opened fire, giving the New Army of Liberation every ounce of grief they could hand out. And that was more than sufficient. The gas tanks on the vehicles of the NAL caught on fire, some of them exploding, sending shrapnel howling into flesh. Boxes filled with small-arms ammo started popping and mortar rounds heated up and blew. The men and women of the NAL never had a chance to do anything but die, and they did that in droves. Those who made the sidewalks were chopped down by automatic-weapons fire. Those who ran into alleys found them sealed off by rusting old hulks of vehicles that had been dragged into place by Rebels during the daylight hours, and they quickly and painfully discovered the hulks had been booby-trapped. They had nowhere to run except back into the battle and nothing to do when they got there except die.
For several moments the small town in Oklahoma resembled hell as the night was set on fire by the blazing vehicles and the screaming of the mortally wounded.
The gunsmoke and the smoke from the fires that stretched from one end of the town to the other caused Rebel throats to burn and eyes to water. Still Ben did not give the orders to cease fire. The Rebels continued to pour their lethal fire into the packed streets. After five minutes of hell had passed, Ben shouted to Corrie to cease fire.
The Rebel guns fell silent as the rain picked up in tempo, the storm gradually putting out the fires in the street. The stench of death was heavy and sickening, the fires having consumed many bodies. Rebels began gathering up all usable NAL weapons. An occasional shot cut the night as Rebels put the horribly wounded out of their misery and sent them into the arms of whatever God they worshipped. Rebels began blowing passageways in the rear of buildings to get their Hummers out, since the main street was impassable due to the torched and scorched hulks of burned vehicles.
The Rebels left the still-burning main street and pulled back to the edge of town, seeking shelter in old homes to wait out the stormy night. When dawn came, they would more thoroughly investigate the death site.
The Rebels caught a few hours’ rest and were prowling through the still-hot rubble in the grayness of dawn. Anything that anybody might be able to use was salvaged.
“Put the bodies into that stretch of buildings,” Ben said, pointing. “Then we’ll saturate it with gasoline and burn it to the ground. We don’t have the equipment to scoop out a mass grave. I want a body count.”
When the distasteful business was finally concluded, and the buildings were blazing, the Rebels pulled back to escape the intense heat. The collaborator had finally come out of his drug-induced sleep and was clearly in shock at the battle site. He was so badly frightened he could not stand. Ben looked down at him.
“There is what remains of the troops who were to be your salvation, Mister CROTCH,” he told the man. “Now what do you have to say?”
“My name is Wilbur Harris,” the man replied, his voice no more than a whisper. “I feel terrible. What have you done to me?”
“I think what is more important is what I’m going to do to you.”
“Hoffman’s advance people promised the homeless and the destitute jobs and food and medical care,” Harris said. “You can’t blame us for taking them at their word.”
“Oh, really?” was Ben’s reply. He turned his back to the man. “Corrie, give the word to mount up.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Wilbur asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” Ben said. “You’re on your own now.”
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m hungry.”
“We piled the field rations of the NAL on the sidewalk in front of the old drugstore in town,” Ben told him. “Help yourself. There should be enough to last you for weeks. I hope I never see you again, Wilbur. Because if I do, I just might decide to shoot you on the spot. Let’s go, people.”
The Rebels pulled out, leaving Wilbur Harris still sitting on a log in a wooded glen on the edge of what remained of the town.
***
“Wiped out?” Hoffman asked, his voice clearly mirroring his shock. “Seven hundred and twenty of my troops wiped out?”
“To the last person, General. One of the North American groups sympathetic to us reported not ten minutes ago. The four companies were ambushed and their bodies burned.” He pointed to a map of the United States. “Right here in this small town in Oklahoma.”
It was difficult to shock Jesus Hoffman. But this news paled his face and silenced him for a moment. Finally he rose from his chair and walked to a window. “The First Expeditionary Force was one of our finest units. Skilled combat veterans all. They must have faced several battalions of Rebels for something like this to have happened.”
“About a hundred and fifty Rebels, sir,” the aide spoke the words softly.
Hoffman turned slowly. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times. “What . . . did . . . . . you . . . say?” He finally found his voice.
“About a hundred and fifty Rebels, sir.”
“Impossible!” Hoffman shouted. “One hundred and fifty Rebels could not defeat even fifty of our people.”
“No, sir. It is not impossible. The American who reported this saw the units leave the town. He was wa
tching from a wooded knoll outside of town. He then personally interviewed a man named Wilbur Harris. Harris was the man the Expeditionary commander enlisted to stall General Raines while they were setting up an ambush site on the interstate. Harris said the Rebels injected him with some sort of truth serum and questioned him. The American then inspected what remained of the town and concluded that Harris was telling the truth. Tire tracks confirmed the Rebels’ small force.”
“Do we have any force left in that area?”
“Yes. But they are broken up into small units and scattered. They are over near the Arkansas/Missouri line. We do have numerous small units of Americans who believe as we do.”
“Texas?”
“So far as we have been able to tell, only a handful of our people remain in that area. A group of Texas Rangers smashed the last major outpost of ours over near the New Mexico line.”
“Texas Rangers? You mean, like in the old cowboy movies?”
“Something like that, sir. From all that we can gather, the, ah, Rangers approached the outpost on horseback. They appeared friendly . . . at first.”
“Horses?” Hoffman said weakly.
“Yes, sir. It appears these men planned this out very carefully. They showed up very bedraggled looking, requesting food and medical assistance. Once inside the compound they pulled their, ah, six-guns and opened fire.”
“Six-guns!” Hoffman roared. “You mean like in John Wayne movies?”
“Ah . . . well, yes, sir, I suppose so. But their companions were waiting about a mile outside the compound. They then attacked using very modern equipment. It was a, ah, trick.”
“I have the finest attack helicopters in all the world,” Hoffman said, sitting down behind his desk. “I have the most modern of equipment. My people are the most highly trained of any army known to exist anywhere. And you are now telling me that a bunch of Texas good ol’ boys came loping up on ponies and started a shootout like the O.K. Corral and defeated my men? Ramon, do you take me for an idiot?”
“I am only repeating what came over the radio, General. Nothing more, nothing less. The main Texas force came in with .50 caliber machine guns and mounted grenade launchers.”
“All right, all right, Ramon,” Hoffman said wearily. “I am not blaming you for this report. Sometimes the messenger must endure a verbal onslaught for being the bearer of bad news. I apologize for my behavior. You may go, Ramon.”
Hoffman sat at his desk, alone in the room. “Six-guns and horses? Good God!”
Ben and his teams rolled through southeast Oklahoma and encountered no hostile forces. They saw people, but no one raised a hand against them. Ben correctly guessed that the news of the ambush had preceded them and that anyone who had aligned themselves with Hoffman was making themselves scarce. All Rebel outposts in this part of the state had either been overrun and wiped out or the people had packed up and fled north, or some other direction, when the enemy troops approached.
At the Arkansas line, just south of Fort Smith, Ben ordered the column to cut south and head for the Texas line. Just above the junction of 59 and 259, the column shut it down for the night, bivouacking along the main street of what appeared to be a deserted town.
Sitting on the curb drinking a cup of coffee, Ben said to his son, “Those people who have been following us all day should be making an appearance soon.”
“Yes. Probably right at supper. You think this is one of those ultra-right-wing survivalist groups, Father?”
“Probably. This area had a lot of them just before the balloon went up.”
“These groups, they hated blacks and Jews and all minorities, did they not?”
“Some of them did. Some of them were just made up of men who never got over being a boy and playing children’s games, only this time with real guns. Most of them were harmless. Meet every other weekend or so and shoot off a lot of ammunition and then go back to their nine-to-five jobs on Monday.”
Buddy smiled. “Did you ever belong to one of those groups, Father?”
“Hell, no! For a lot of reasons. I got shot at enough in the army and doing spook and merc work later. But the main reason was that writers don’t have time for anything except writing.”
“It’s a full-time job?”
“If you want to make any money at it.”
“How much money did you have in the bank when the Great War struck?”
“Oh . . . about forty thousand dollars.”
“That’s a fortune, Father!”
“Not really. Inflation was killing the nation. Really, the money was worthless. There wasn’t anything to back up the paper money, as far as I was concerned. Except faith.”
“I do remember money, of course. But all I knew was Mother gave it to me and I spent it. About this survivalist group, Father? . . .”
“The main bunch will lay back. We should be hearing from the scouts we dropped off along the way any time, now. A small bunch will come in to size us up. Then, if they think they can take us, they’ll hit us full strength when we’re all asleep. I have a hunch they were watching us when we ambushed the NAL. Or came up on us while we were gathering up the dead. Wilbur told us that a lot of groups had gone over to Hoffman’s side.”
“It doesn’t make any sense, Father.”
“I know. Hoffman’s army is made up of people of all nationalities. Ultra-right-wing groups are traditionally made up of people who dislike minorities. Buddy, nothing about this thing makes any sense.”
Ben was silent for a moment as he opened his field ration pack. Dinner was usually edible and sometimes even tasty. Lunch was tolerable . . . at least you could look at it without barfing. Breakfast was always one big yukk. Ben ate what his troops ate. All Rebel commanders did, from squad leaders to battalion commanders. That was a hard and fast rule.
“What is this stuff?” Buddy asked, looking at the contents of his dinner pack.
“It says it’s hash.”
Both Father and son reached for the hot-sauce bottle. That was something all Rebels carried. Put enough on and it kills the taste.
“The lookout on the water tower reports a small force of men heading our way,” Corrie said, sitting down and opening her dinner pack. Jersey had thrown hers away and was gnawing on a day-old peanut-butter sandwich.
“I’ll trade you a dessert pack for that sandwich, Jersey,” Cooper offered.
Jersey stopped eating. “What is the dessert today?”
Cooper shook his head. “I don’t know, Jersey. I’ve looked and looked at it. But I can’t figure it out. It’s dark.”
“Forget it.”
“How large a force, Corrie?” Ben asked.
“Ten people.”
“I wonder how large a force they really are?” Beth questioned, sitting down on the curb and opening her dinner pack. She looked at it and groaned. Everybody was striking out on dinner this afternoon.
“What do you have?” Jersey asked.
“Pork and noodles.”
“See if you can find a hungry dog.”
Beth looked at her. “I thought you liked animals.”
“Probably a couple of hundred,” Ben answered Beth’s original question. “Enough to cause us problems.”
The rattle of vehicles reached the group. Three old Broncos rolled up the main street.
“Real professionals,” Jersey remarked. “All their vehicles are painted green cammie. Wonder what they do in the wintertime when it snows?” Without waiting for a reply, she said, “First one of these jokers that call me little darlin’ or honey is gonna get a boot in the nuts.”
Victoria said, “These people coming, they don’ like Mexican people?”
“Not much, Vicki,” Jersey told her. “At least, not the ones we’ve ever come in contact with.”
“What is their problem?” Maria asked.
“Mainly they’re just stupid,” Corrie said.
“Come on, ladies,” Ben said. “You all know we’ve got a lot of ex-survivalists in this army. They’r
e fine soldiers and don’t have a bigoted bone in their body.”
“You mean you think this bunch coming in is doing so to join up?” Jersey asked.
Ben laughed, and placed his M-16 within easy reach.
“Yeah,” Jersey said with a grin. “That’s what I thought.”
ELEVEN
“Howdy there, folks!” the cammie-clad man called with a wide grin, stepping out of his pickup. “Y’all got to be the famous Rebels, right?”
“A very small part of them,” Buddy replied, sitting beside his father on the high curb.
“Well, I sure am glad to make your acquaintance. I’m Peter Banning. Me and the boys here sort of keep things under control in this part of the country. Been keeping the riffraff out of here for years.”
Ben finished the last of his dinner and carefully folded the wrappings, putting them in a container. When all the Rebels had eaten and placed the wrappers in the container, it would be buried. The Rebels used very little that was not biodegradable.
Only then did Ben start sizing up Peter Banning. He was not impressed. Banning was a bully. Ben had made a study of bullies over the years and could peg one at a distance. At first glance, Banning would come across as a very affable sort, with an easy grin. But his eyes and body language gave him away. Ben cut his eyes to Jersey. The woman was tense, and Ben knew that she had taken an immediate dislike for the man. He could feel the tension among the Rebels.
Peter lifted his gaze to the water tower and his expression tightened when he saw the Rebel on the catwalk around the tank. The man began to pick up on the subtle shifting of Rebels. He began to realize that while he had played at war for years, and even won a few pitched battles, here he was dealing with solid professional soldiers. Nothing was left to chance. Banning and his men had placed themselves in a box, and one wrong move would mean their being shot to ribbons in seconds. He doubted his people could even get off a round. He feverishly hoped that none of his boys got hinky. He cut his eyes back to Ben and looked at the man with grudging admiration.
“You’d be General Ben Raines.”
Vengeance in the Ashes Page 17