Vengeance in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, no. They were just rude and sort of arrogant acting. Very demanding bunch of assholes.”

  Ben laughed. “I don’t think they intimidated you one bit.”

  “Damn sure didn’t. Me and wife been here for over fifty years. And we plan on dying right here. No bunch of so-called survivalists will make me take water. You’re General Ben Raines, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Francis!” the old man bellered. “Come on out here, old girl. You can get out from behind that machine gun now. It’s Ben Raines and the Rebels.”

  “Machine gun?” Ben questioned.

  “Yep. Got five of them. Three M-60’s and two .50 caliber babies. When I saw what was happening to this nation, I bought them on the sly, I did. Not all at once, mind you, but one at a time. Back when money was worth about something. I was with a special unit in Korea that later came to be called the Green Berets. Special Forces. I stayed in the National Guard for thirty years after I got out of the regular Army. I do know something about weapons,” he added with a smile.

  “I imagine you do.”

  Ben met Francis and noticed that she was wearing a pistol. That produced no feeling of sadness or sorrow for the elderly couple. The old couple was probably safer now than back when the world was whole and governments were still mucking about screwing up everybody’s lives. They could at least defend themselves now without fear of going to jail for protecting themselves or being sued by a criminal.

  “This bunch that came through here, did they say where they might be heading?”

  “Not really. But I heard them say something about Lake Eufaula. But that’s one hell of a big lake.”

  Ben nodded his head. He’d been there, years back. Had a firefight there, as he recalled. “That bunch is in league with a South American Nazi general who has plans on taking over all of North America.”

  “I heard on our shortwave radio about that jackass. You going to stop him, General?”

  “We’re going to try. But I’m very much afraid that the fight will eventually be all over North America.”

  “Well, me and Francis here are in our eighties. We’re in good health, and plan to live on a few more years. If any Nazi son of a bitch comes knocking on our door, he’s going to get a whole hell of a lot more than he bargained for. I’ll tell you that.”

  “You want my medical people to look you both over while we’re here?”

  Francis shook her head. “I was a registered nurse and a surgical nurse, General. So far, for a couple of old poots, we’re creeping around feeling pretty darned good.”

  “God bless you and your troops, Ben Raines,” the old man said. “I just wish that someone like you had come along before the whole damn world blew up. We’ll include you in our prayers.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man cut his eyes to Jersey, standing with the stock of her CAR on one hip. “You a little-bitty thing, but you look like you know how to use that M-16.”

  Jersey smiled at him.

  “She’s my bodyguard,” Ben said.

  “You got good taste in women.”

  Jersey was blushing down to her toenails as they pulled out.

  Ben directed the forward scouts to head toward Lake Eufaula while the column would pull up and wait just a few miles south of McAlester.

  “If that bunch is holed up somewhere around the lake,” Ben said, “we could spend days looking for them and never find them. But we can’t let them slip away. We don’t want that bunch at our backs when Hoffman tries for the border.”

  The scouts reported back that they could find no trace of the elusive bunch. “They’ve got to be making cold camps, General. We checked out every smoke, and found only locals, trying to make it.”

  “The outpost at the head of the lake?”

  “Wiped out. A local told us this bunch we’re after did them in.”

  “All the more reason to find them,” Buddy said.

  “We’ll find them,” his father said. “Or they’ll find us, if Therm is correct in his thinking.”

  “You think they’re a major part in this kidnapping theory?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know what part they play. Corrie, get some choppers up here and let’s do an air search. Buddy, clear off an LZ over in that meadow.”

  “You be careful, Ben,” Therm told him in coded messages. “All regular traffic from Hoffman’s area has ceased. We think the plans have been sent and received and everything is now in motion. It all adds up to a kidnapping attempt.”

  “I can’t see it, Therm,” was Ben’s reply. “This may be only the lull before the storm.”

  “Negative, Ben. But it’s too risky for you to try to make a run for home base. Too many miles separate us. G2 and all batt comms say for you to dig in and sit tight. We have solid info that Hoffman’s people have SAMS, so we don’t want you in the air. The batt comms don’t want to have to override you, Ben. But they will in this case.”

  “All right, Therm. I’ll sit tight.”

  “It would take a hell of a force to overrun us, Father,” Buddy said. “This little crossroads village is ideal for defense. What do Therm and G2 base their worries on?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something they picked up and don’t want to go on the air with. I’ve got a hunch that Payon has people placed deep in Hoffman’s organization. I’d make a bet they got word out to him and he sent Therm the message by courier. That’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.”

  The tiny hamlet was made up of three buildings—an old service station and bait shop, a small grocery store, and a bar—and about a dozen homes. It was not on any map that Ben had looked at. The Rebels surrounding him were well-equipped and well-supplied. Ben figured they could withstand a light to moderate attack. Any heavy force could overrun them easily, simply by sheer numbers. But he didn’t think Hoffman had that large a force in this area.

  Teams of Rebels were racing toward his location at this moment, so if a kidnapping attempt was to be made, it would be within the next twenty-four hours. After that, the place would be crawling with Rebels.

  “Heavy rain and high winds to the south of us,” Corrie reported. “The choppers have been grounded and this storm is expected to last at least twelve hours. It’s slowing up everybody.”

  “What do you think, Father?” Buddy asked.

  “They’ll hit us tonight,” Ben said. “Bet the farm on it.”

  Dark and savage-looking storm clouds were gathering to the south and the west. This part of Oklahoma was going to get a real weather pasting in a few hours.

  The storage tanks of the old service station had long been drained of fuel—no danger of anything blowing up—and the building was solid, constructed of concrete block. Ben was using it as his CP and living quarters.

  The Rebels were tense as the storm approached them. Lightning danced in the skies, and several times funnel clouds appeared, but did not touch down.

  “Steady, folks,” Ben told his people. “Just settle down. If a funnel cloud touches down, we’ll jump in those old bays in the service area.”

  “The storm isn’t what’s making them jumpy, General,” Jersey told him.

  “I know, Jersey. I know.”

  Just before dark the rains came, the sheets of water so intense they limited vision to only a few yards.

  “Here they come!” The shout was faint above the roaring of the storm. “They . . .” The wind blew his words away into the darkness.

  The attack was well-planned, and it was fast.

  We’re not going to hold them, Ben thought, lifting his M-16. We finally ran out of luck.

  “General!” Jersey screamed.

  Ben turned and took the butt of a rifle on the chin. The last thing he remembered was falling into a black pit.

  BOOK THREE

  They were going to look at war, the red animal—war, the blood-swollen god.

  –Stephen Crane

  ONE

  When Ben finally regained consci
ousness, he did not move or open his eyes. He lay as still as possible in the covered bed of the moving truck and tried to ascertain whether he was alone in the rear compartment. He couldn’t tell. If he was being guarded, the guards weren’t very talkative or they were asleep. His hands were bound behind his back, with rope it felt like, but his feet were free.

  Bad mistake, people, Ben thought.

  The truck slowed, then pulled off the road and onto the shoulder. Ben lay with his eyes closed and heard the canvas flap being jerked open and the tailgate lowered.

  “I guess Sternholder got it all in him,” a voice said. “He said to check him in about six hours. If he was still out, he’d be out well after we hit the Arkansas line.”

  The Arkansas line? Ben thought. The Arkansas line was no more than seventy miles from where the Rebels had been holed up. Must be a slow-assed truck.

  “We’ll check him again when we get to Siloam Springs. That’s about an hour off.”

  Extreme northwest Arkansas, Ben thought.

  Ben felt the man crawl up into the bed of the truck and then a sharp tug on his hands. “The tether rope is strong. He’s not going anywhere. Let’s take a piss and get gone. Mountain Home is a long ways from here.”

  “It’s only about a hundred and sixty miles from Siloam Springs to the base camp. And these roads are pretty good.”

  “Come on, you guys!” another voice added. “Let’s move!”

  “Keep your pants on, Cord. You just stay behind us and keep your eyes open.”

  So a vehicle was following them. That made it even worse, Ben thought.

  The tailgate was slammed closed and the canvas flap tied in place. Seconds later, the truck lurched forward.

  Ben opened his eyes and let them adjust to the dim light coming from the cab. His hands were numb from the tight ropes that bound his wrists. He pulled his legs up and felt for the sheath knife that he wore buckled to his right boot. Naturally, it was gone. He expected that. That’s why he wore it there. So they would take that and not look any further.

  He pulled his trouser leg out of his boot and felt for the top of the thin stiletto blade he carried in a pocket sewn inside all his boots. No handle, just a very thin, razor-sharp blade about three inches long. It was there. He worked his fingers to get some feeling back in them just as he felt he might pass out again. Whoever Sternholder was, he had gotten enough of the juice in him to screw up Ben’s thinking. He fought the feeling of falling into blackness, and after a moment, it passed. He deliberately put all thoughts of his team from his mind. This was no time to think about them.

  He pulled the blade from its pocket, being careful not to cut himself, and tucked it under one leg, laying on it. He was so damn weak. Then the knockout shot began working on him again and he faded.

  Voices woke him. “Goddammit, I said to check him at the line, you asshole!”

  “I forgot and you were asleep. Hell, man, look at him. He hasn’t even moved.” Ben heard something click; probably a flashlight. “See, the ropes are still tight and the tether rope is secure.”

  “All right, all right. We’re about seventy-five miles from home. You sleep and I’ll drive. Two hours from now, we’ll have hot food and a warm bed.”

  Ben did a slow three hundred and sixty count after they were once more rolling. Time enough for the passenger to fall asleep and for Ben to make sure he was thinking clearly and wasn’t going to pass out again.

  Then he couldn’t find the goddamn blade.

  He carefully searched all around him, then shifted and searched that area. Nothing. He heard something click and in the dim light saw the blade. It had bounced off the side of the bed as they rounded a curve.

  Ben went to work on his ropes, cutting his outer wrists and hands half a dozen times in the process. It took him about half an hour to cut through his bonds. His fingers were so numb the blade kept falling from his grasp. A half hour had passed. Ben knew this country, had once seriously considered buying property in this neck of the woods. They should be close to Harrison by now; maybe even past it. He didn’t have to open the canvas to see if the truck behind them was still there. The lights were bright enough for Ben to tell it was. He looked at his watch. Two o’clock in the morning. He put his blade back in its pocket and stretched out on the bed floor to think about his situation.

  Then he noticed that the lights of the truck behind him were gone. You idiot! he thought. Of course. The damn road is a winding one. There are many spots where you’ll have ten or fifteen seconds to jump without being seen.

  He rubbed his sore wrists and numb fingers until the feeling returned.

  He parted the rear curtains just a fraction of an inch and saw that the truck following them had backed off. It appeared to be heavily loaded as it labored up the steep grade. The truck in which he was riding was slowing down too as it made its way up the grade. Then Ben felt them entering a curve. The truck following them was out of sight. He jerked open the curtains, held on as he fastened the rope back in place, and jumped, hitting the ground hard and rolling off the shoulder. He was in brush immediately, for the area was grown up all around him.

  The fall knocked the wind from him, bruised his leg, and cut his hand. He lay still as the last truck rolled past him, then painfully stood up and limped to the edge of the road. He almost ran into a road sign, now all rusted and almost impossible to read. YELLVILLE, 1 MILE.

  As close as he could remember, he was about twenty-five miles from Mountain Home. And one mile from Yellville. He started walking, staying close to the edge of the brush. He still wasn’t thinking as clearly as he would like to, but he knew his mind was slowly returning to normal.

  There were things he could not understand about his capture. Why hadn’t they flown him up here? Why had he been so loosely guarded? And what the hell was he going to find when he got to Mountain Home?

  He heard a vehicle coming toward him from the east and slipped into the brush. The old truck rattled past and Ben began looking around, feeling around, for a staff. He found a wrist-thick limb about four feet long and once more stepped out onto the shoulder of the road. Soon the dark shapes of buildings came up on him as he approached the small town. The cool mountain air and the walk had helped to clear his head and Ben felt he was very close to one hundred percent.

  Voices stopped him, froze him, and then sent him stepping into the shadows of an old building. He waited.

  “I wonder what the big news is?” the voice drifted to Ben.

  “I reckon we’ll know in a few hours,” the second man said. “Rumor is they grabbed Ben Raines.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it. You gonna get some rest ’fore we pull out?”

  “Naw. I got a few hours’ sleep. I think I’ll have me a smoke and wait til the mess opens for coffee.”

  “Be fun watchin’ Jackman torture Raines, won’t it?”

  “It will be for me. I hate that son of a bitch. He run me out of Louisiana few years back. Killed my en-tar family.”

  “Wake me up at dawn and we’ll ride over together.”

  “I’ll do ’er.”

  The man walked away and disappeared into the darkness. Ben could see that both men were armed.

  Step over here, you half-wit, Ben thought. I’ll bend this pole around your red neck.

  The man who hated Ben Raines walked toward the building. He squatted down and rolled him a smoke. A match flared and Ben moved, knowing the man’s night vision had just been destroyed. He brought the staff down on the man’s head, and redneck #2 hit the pea gravel without making a sound. Ben dragged him to the side of the building, jerked out the man’s sheath knife, and cut his throat. He took the man’s weapon, an Uzi, and stripped off the web belt, which held a Beretta 9mm pistol and clip pouch. The man carried five full clips for the Uzi in a canvas pouch. Ben slung that.

  He dragged the body around to the rear of the building and dumped it in a ditch, then returned to the side of the building and kicked dirt and gravel over the dark bloods
tains. Then Ben got the hell out of there.

  Ike’s face was tight with grief and anger as he inspected the battle site south of McAlester. They hadn’t lost this many Rebels in the taking of the Hawaiian chain. Over fifty dead. Corrie, Jersey, Beth, and Cooper, all wounded. Buddy had taken a slug through the shoulder.

  And Ben had been captured.

  To further complicate matters, the heavy rains had prevented any of the survivors from knowing which direction the kidnappers had gone, and there had been no radio messages from Hoffman’s America-based allies. It was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  But the news of Ben’s capture did not have the effect upon the Rebels that Herr Hoffman had planned. It didn’t demoralize them. It just pissed them off to the core.

  “Goddamn you, Hoffman,” Ike swore. “I swear if there is a God in Heaven, I’m going to stick the muzzle of my CAR up your Nazi ass and empty a clip.”

  “Thermopolis on the horn, General,” Ike’s radio-operator called. “He wants a damage report.”

  “Tell him it’s bad,” Ike replied. “Real bad.” Hang on, Ben, Ike thought. Hang on, man.

  At first light, Ben found a small cave, and after checking it carefully for bears or snakes or panthers, he crawled inside and lay down. He was exhausted and hungry. He had found a small spring and satisfied his thirst with the cold water, but he was very hungry. He closed his eyes and let his tense and sore muscles relax.

  When he opened his eyes, he was startled to find he had slept more than eight hours. His strength had returned, but he was hungry enough to eat just about anything. He crawled to the mouth of the small cave and lay still, listening for any alien sound. Birds were singing and squirrels were chattering.

  Ben crawled out into the middle of the afternoon and checked his bearings.

  He had been following a meandering creek (Crooked Creek) as it wound eastward, and assumed the creek would eventually empty into the White River. He would follow it as long as he could, or until it made no sense to continue the twisting and turning.