Vengeance in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Encoded burst transmissions, Corrie,” Ben said. “Just give HQ our location for the time being. I’ve got to think about this situation.”

  Scouts came in about half an hour later. “We weren’t followed, General. We pulled it off.”

  Ben smiled. “Won’t they be surprised in the morning. I want constant scanning of the frequencies we know they’re using. Give them to Therm so the decoding boys and girls down there can go to work. I want to know what these people are up to.”

  The Rebels ate and went to bed, got a good night’s sleep, then ate and rested until noon of the next day. Corrie received word from HQ that the code had been broken.

  “There was a large force of NAL people up in the northwestern part of Arkansas,” she said. “They were only about ten miles away from our location when we pulled out last night.”

  “We just made it,” Ben said. “And you can bet they’re looking for us right now. This little town is so far off the beaten path it isn’t even on some maps. On the other hand, we could very easily be trapped in here . . .”

  “Sentries report a dozen vehicles coming our way, General,” Corrie said. “From the east. Mixed bag of light and heavy trucks. Three miles out and coming in fast. Approximately one hundred troops. It’s the black-shirts.” She held up a hand. “Vehicles coming at us from the west. Just about the same number. We’re boxed.”

  Ben picked up his M-16. “As they say in the navy, battle stations, folks.”

  The Rebels moved quickly, but without panic. They had done this so many times it was very nearly automatic. They all knew they could not hope to pull off another deserted-town ambush trick, for the NAL knew they were here. How they knew was unimportant at the moment. They probably had been spotted by locals who had been recruited into Hoffman’s movement.

  The two sentries posted three miles out east and west of the town would know to keep their heads down and out of sight. Four people against a large force would make very little difference and would, in all probability, only get the Rebels killed if they exposed themselves.

  Ben did a little fast headwork. His people were probably outnumbered, but not by many. Hoffman’s troops were coming in fast, so that meant they could not be pulling artillery. In terms of firepower, both the Rebels and the black-shirts were pretty well evenly matched up. But this battle had to be over and finished as quickly as possible. If it dragged on, that group of turncoat Americans camped in the Ouachita would soon join the black-shirts, and then the Rebels could be in real trouble.

  “Corrie, nobody fires until I give the orders. We’ve got to let them come in and face them nose to nose. We can’t let this turn into a prolonged affair. You can bet reinforcements are on the way right now. Pass the word to prepare for hand-to-hand combat.”

  Victoria and Maria checked their long-bladed knives for sharpness. Both of them had been stropped to a razor edge. Rebels checked pistols, for this was going to be very in-close work. All made sure the helmet-strap cup under the chin was tight and in place. This could very likely turn into a clubbing type of warfare, and a helmet could prevent a cracked skull.

  Ben could see the black-shirts entering the edge of town, from the east, and he assumed also from the west. “Corrie, get the drivers in the Hummers and the gunners in place. Everybody else on their feet. Make the first rounds count,” Ben said. “Then we’re going to do the only thing we can to save our asses.”

  Those in the room with Ben looked at him.

  Ben smiled. “Charge.” He lifted his M-16 and sighted in a black-shirt. “Fire at will,” he said, and shot the Nazi right between the eyes. “Charge!” he shouted, and was out the door.

  As Ben had been counting on, the move caught the black-shirts totally by surprise. Whatever they had been expecting, this was not it. The Rebels rushed them, screaming and shouting and cursing at the black-shirts.

  “They’re mad!” a black-shirt platoon leader yelled. The words had just left his mouth when a Rebel shot him in the face with a 9mm subsonic round at nearly point-blank range.

  Ben slammed into an officer and rode the man to the ground. He jammed the muzzle of his pistol into the man’s neck and pulled the trigger. The slug tore a huge hole as it went through, then bounced off the pavement and reentered the man’s skull just above the eye.

  Ben rolled and kicked out, his boot catching a black-shirt on the knee and felling the man. A Rebel shot the man as he was falling. Ben rolled away and came up on his boots.

  Ben smashed his pistol into a man’s face and felt the bones crunch under the impact. Jersey jammed the muzzle of a short-barreled CAR into the man’s ribs and gave him lead. The slugs knocked the black-shirt backward, down and dying.

  Vicki and Maria were using their knives, the blades shiny and red with blood as they slashed their way through the milling and sweating melee.

  The black-shirts went into a panic. They were seasoned soldiers and had been ready for combat, but they were not mentally prepared for this type of nearly insane fury they were meeting from the Rebels.

  Buddy faced two men who had either dropped their rifles or had them smashed from their hands. One clawed for a pistol, and Buddy shot him in the face with a .45, then turned the pistol on the other man, the slug taking the black-shirt just above the nose and nearly taking off the top of the man’s head. Buddy was clubbed on the helmet by a black-shirt swinging an empty rifle, and the blow knocked him to his knees. Buddy grabbed the man by one leg and brought him down to the street. Using his enormous strength, Buddy savagely twisted the leg and the bone popped, tearing out through flesh and cloth. The black-shirt screamed once and then passed out.

  Buddy picked up the man’s rifle and set about busting necks and heads of black-shirts. It was so close that firing would put Rebel lives in danger. It was down to knives, clubs, entrenching tools, and hand axes.

  “Spare me!” one black-shirt screamed at Jersey.

  “Not likely, prick,” the little bodyguard said, and smashed the man’s face to blood and pulp with an entrenching tool. She turned and split another skull with a shovel. Beth rolled out from under the broken body and jumped to her feet after grabbing the small camp hatchet from the Nazi. The women shoved through the crowd, looking for Ben.

  Tomas jumped on the back of a black-shirt and rode him to the ground, then jerked his head back and cut his throat. He caught a glancing blow from a rifle butt that knocked him to one side just as one of his men stuck a pistol to the Nazi’s head and blew his brains out.

  “Gracias,” Tomas panted, then watched in horror as his friend was decapitated by a machete-swinging black-shirt. The head bounced on the street. Ben stepped up and buried an axe he’d taken from a downed Nazi into the man’s back. The black-shirt shrieked and fell to the bloody pavement.

  A black-shirt, screaming his hate and rage and frustration, ran up to Ben, a tire tool in his hands, held high over his head. Tomas kicked the man in the balls, and as he went down to the old pavement, doubled over and puking, Ben kicked him in the face with a boot.

  A burly Rebel finished it by shooting the man in the head.

  It was over as suddenly as it had begun. The single street of the tiny town was littered with dead, dying, and badly wounded, not all of them black-shirts.

  An Oriental man, both legs broken and twisted after having been run over by an almost-five-thousand-pound Hummer, lay on the street crying. “Devils,” he sobbed. “Devils and madmen. You do the impossible.”

  “What kind of shape are their vehicles in?” Ben called.

  “Fine shape. Like new,” Buddy returned the shout.

  “Load up all their gear and weapons and assign drivers. We’re getting the hell gone from this place. Pick up our dead for later burial.”

  A black-shirt lay on the pavement, badly wounded by a knife blade in the belly. He watched as Ben leaned against a Hummer and started to roll a cigarette. “That won’t be necessary, General Raines. I have a full package . . . in my pocket,” he groaned out the words. “An
d a carton in a Jeep at the end of town. Take them. I will have no further use for them.”

  Ben knelt down beside the man and fished out the cigarettes, enclosed in a metal protective case. The silver case had a swastika embossed upon it. Ben started to throw cigarettes and case away.

  “The container does not diminish the quality of the product within, General,” the black-shirt said.

  Ben thought about that for a moment, and took out the pack of smokes and put the container in his pocket to keep as a souvenir. He lit two cigarettes and placed one between the dying man’s lips.

  “Obrigado, sir.”

  Ben stared at the man. “You’re Portuguese?”

  “Sim. I mean, yes.”

  Ben waved a medic over. “Give this man a shot for the pain.”

  “Yes, sir.” He knelt down and inspected the wound. “You’re not going to make it, soldier.”

  “I know. The blade tore through . . .” He groaned in pain. “. . . my stomach and into my guts.”

  The shot given, the black-shirt inhaled deeply of the smoke and said, “You and your people are truly unbelievable, General. You fight like demons.”

  Ben noticed the man’s wedding band. “You’re married?”

  “I was. She is dead.”

  “Sir,” a Rebel called. “Can we keep these hand-rolled cigarettes we’re finding?”

  There were a lot of smokers among the Rebels, even though Doctor Chase bitched and growled and howled about it.

  “Sure,” Ben called. “Just leave that carton in the Jeep down the road. Those are mine!”

  “Yes, sir!” the Rebel called.

  The dying black-shirt managed a chuckle. “Soldiers are soldiers the world over, are they not, sir?”

  “In many respects, yes. Although some of our objectives and philosophies certainly differ.”

  “Confusing times, General.”

  “Not for me, soldier.”

  “Nor for General Hoffman, sir. I assure you of that. You both have very firm beliefs and will both go to the grave believing you are right.”

  “How is your pain?”

  “Gone. I thank you for that. How many of my group survived the attack?”

  “Not many.”

  “You will shoot them?”

  “No. We’ll take them back for interrogation.”

  “Then you will shoot them?”

  “No. They’ll be kept alive and treated well.”

  The soldier frowned. “Then we have been lied to about how you treat prisoners. We were told that you did not take prisoners.”

  “We don’t take many. Or we try not to. But we’re not savages all the time.”

  “Is the sky becoming dark, General?”

  The sky was bright and blue and clear. “Yes,” Ben lied.

  The black-shirt did not reply. Ben looked back at him and the man was dead. Ben took the cigarette from his lips and ground it out under a bootheel. He stood up.

  “Everybody ready to roll?”

  “All set, Father,” Buddy said. “Where to?”

  “To a secure airport so we can get planes in for our wounded.”

  “What about us, General?” a wounded black-shirt called.

  Ben looked at him. “We’re not going to shoot you, soldier. Be thankful for that. So don’t press your luck.”

  The black-shirt cussed him in a language that Ben was not familiar with, but could tell the words were not complimentary. “Mount up,” Ben said. “Before I change my mind.”

  THIRTEEN

  The Rebels pulled out and took a southwesterly route, heading toward a small town near the border that reportedly had a landing strip large enough to handle twin-engine cargo planes. In addition to the Rebel wounded, the Rebels brought along two officers and four sergeants of the NAL. They brought no NAL wounded with them.

  They made the one-hundred-mile run in good time and encountered no hostiles. But scouts kept a wary eye on their backtrail, knowing the force of American turncoats was more than likely following them, waiting for a chance to strike.

  Intercepting the radio messages, Striganov sent teams from his command racing up across the border, and the small airport was clean and the planes waiting by the time Ben and his unit arrived. The Rebel wounded and black-shirt prisoners were airlifted over to Base Camp One in Louisiana.

  “That force just behind us has got to be dealt with,” Ben told the Russian’s men. “Sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner. As soon as we are resupplied, we’re heading back.”

  Soldiers will gossip among themselves, and it wasn’t long before all of Ben’s batt comms were on the horn, raising hell with Ben for leading the reckless charge into the streets of the tiny town on the edge of the national forest.

  “And you got the nerve to jump on my ass for being aggressive,” Ike fussed at him from his position in New Mexico.

  “Very foolhardy, General,” Colonel Gray radioed. “Your place is back at HQ, not racing willy-nilly about the countryside endangering yourself.”

  “You know better, Ben,” Colonel West admonished him. “Too many people are depending upon you for you to place yourself in that much danger.”

  And so on and so forth from all his senior batt comms.

  Ben listened, acknowledged the transmissions, then promptly forgot all about them. The only way he was ever going to leave the field was in a body bag. His batt comms knew that; they just wanted to press home the point occasionally.

  Before dawn the next morning, Ben and his teams were on the road, freshly supplied, rested, and well-fed, chasing after the turncoat force of Americans north of them.

  South of the no-man’s-land in extreme southern Mexico, Hoffman listened in dismay and disgust as Ramon read him the latest reports from North America.

  Hoffman finally lifted a hand and said, “Enough! I’ve heard enough. Thank you, Ramon. That will be all. Keep me informed, please.” When the aide had left the room and closed the door, Hoffman turned to several of his field commanders and said, “We will radio our people in the midwest to stay low and not to engage the Rebels unless forced to do so. My God, people, think of it. We had six battalions in Texas and Oklahoma. We now have approximately two thousand personnel left in those areas.”

  “That is not taking into account the American groups who had come over to us,” a field commander pointed out.

  “Well, so far, they haven’t shown themselves to be any better against the Rebels than our own highly trained and motivated troops,” Hoffman replied. “The commanding general of the Rebel army, charging out into the streets with his troops and all of them fighting like a pack of common hooligans. I’ve never heard of such a thing. The man must be losing his mind.”

  “If he is,” a field commander said dryly, “I, personally, would like to be infected with the same disease.”

  “What manner of man is this?” another asked. “To kneel in the bloody streets and chat with one of our dying soldiers; lighting a cigarette for him. Ben Raines is a complex man.”

  “I wonder if we are not like the dog, chasing its tail,” Hoffman mused aloud.

  “What do you mean, Field Marshal Hoffman?”

  Some of the older officers insisted on calling Herr Hoffman by that title.

  Hoffman shook his head. “It’s just a germ of an idea, General Cortez. But it may be a good one.”

  “If you thought of it,” another field commander verbally stroked the field marshal, “of course it will be a good one.”

  That pleased Hoffman and he sat down, smoothing his hair with one hand. Hoffman was very vain about his looks. “I will think about it and let you all know when I reach my decision. If we could pull it off . . .” He let that trail into silence. “It could mean instant victory for us. Yes. It certainly could.”

  “Thermopolis says Hoffman is up to something,” Corrie said, after receiving a message from HQ. “Everything is too quiet south of the zone.”

  “Is that the opinion of our intelligence people or Therm’s own
opinion?”

  “Therm’s opinion.”

  “Then there might be something to it,” Ben said with a smile. Sometimes G2 got a little weird in their thinking.

  “Therm thinks the NAL may try to make a grab for you, General.”

  Ben was silent for a mile or so. “I wonder where, why, and how he came up with that?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. He did say he was going to share those thoughts with the other batt comms.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Ben said. “Ike will probably insist upon me being surrounded by several battalions. In a castle with a moat.”

  Ben and his Rebels had inspected the now-deserted camp of those turncoats in the national forest. They were long gone, but there was no question about it, the men were professional soldiers and woodsmen. They left no trace of themselves behind.

  “Nothing, General,” a scout reported to him. “It rained here last night and wiped out any tracks that might have given us a clue.”

  Ben leaned against his Hummer for a moment. There was no point in going off in a blind search. That was a good way to get killed. He needed to talk to Therm and find out more about Thermopolis’s theory, or hunch, that a snatch attempt might be made.

  “All right,” Ben said to the scout. “We’ll head over toward McAlester. The route will be 1 and 63. Take off.”

  “Right, sir. Give us a thirty-minute head start.”

  “Will do.”

  At a tiny hamlet about fifteen miles outside McAlester, they saw an elderly man mowing his lawn with an old push mower, and Ben halted the short convoy and walked over to the picket fence. The man stopped his mowing and walked to the fence. Ben noticed the man was wearing a pistol. And by the way he walked, he definitely wasn’t afraid of them.

  “We’re friendly,” Ben assured him.

  “That bunch that come through here the other day damn sure wasn’t, soldier boy.”

  It had been about four decades since Ben could accurately be called a boy, and he had to smile at the old man’s words. “Oh. Did they do you any harm?”