Betrayal in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Everyone in the room applauded as an embarrassed Lee Flanders stood up.

  Ben picked up a pointer and moved to a large wall map behind him. “General Randazzo, your forces will take the northern half of Italy. General Flanders’ men will be working with you. The rest of us will stretch out from Hamburg in the north down to the Italian border and start working east. This is the way we’ll do it . . .”

  The Rebels would stretch out from the border of Denmark all the way through Austria down to the Italian border. Ben’s One Batt would be the furthest north, then the battalions would be in numerical order all the way down to the Italian border, with Buddy’s 8 Batt held in reserve for the dirty jobs and Billy’s men positioned just north of the Italian border. Due to the reshuffling of troops and the reorganization after the attempted coup against Ben and Billy, Nick Stafford’s battalion had been designated 18 Batt. He would be just north of Billy’s troops. General Matthies’ men would be driving through the center of their homeland, and Colonel Wajda and his Polish fighters would be just south of the German Resistance Forces.

  Just before all the Batt Coms returned to their units, Ben called one last meeting of his own people. “Bruno may or may not be dead. If he is alive, I don’t know how he pulled it off. But something is definitely wrong. Bruno had thousands of troops under his command, and hundreds surrendered. The arithmetic just doesn’t add up.”

  “But, dad,” Tina said, “General Matthies positively I.D.’d him.”

  “I know he did. But my gut hunch is still that something is wrong. Mike’s got his people working on it, but so far they’ve turned up nothing. The troops of the Dutch, French, Belgians, Luxembourgs, and Swiss report that all is quiet behind us. They’re doing a census as I speak and being very careful about it. We’re clear behind us. Bottger’s hard-line followers are cut off in three directions. They’ve got only one way to go, and that way is east.” Ben smiled. “It just so happens that’s the way we’re heading. So let’s head east, people.”

  When the batt coms had shaken hands with each other and filed out heading for their sectors, Mike Richards walked in through the back door and up to Ben.

  “So what do you have for me, Mike?”

  “As the saying goes, we’re a day late and a dollar short, Ben. Bruno’s men had dozens of ships ready to sail out of Wilhelmshaven, Bremerhaven, Cuxhaven—all along the coast. They sailed about a week or ten days ago. Destination unknown.”

  “Shit!”

  “There’s more. For about two years now, Bruno has been shipping out men and equipment. Thousands of tons of equipment. Tanks, howitzers, trucks, field rations, small arms, ammunition. Everything he’d need to start a war . . . somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t get a fix on that. I’ve run up against a stone wall. People saw the ships being loaded and sail, then return weeks later to repeat the process. Over and over for the past two years. Then, about a week or ten days ago, a mass day-and-night loading and exodus.”

  “Somebody knows something, Mike.”

  “Oh, yes. And my people will find them. It’s just a matter of time, that’s all.”

  “What kind of resistance are we facing east, Mike?”

  “Punks, warlords, the same kind of street crap we hit in France.” He held up a hand. “But with one difference: Bottger’s men armed them to the teeth.”

  “Sure they did,” Ben said drily. “To buy them time. To hold us up for as long as possible. Those ships will not be returning to any German port.”

  “Nope. They sure won’t. That’s my feeling, too. Bottger’s men have sailed for a new home.”

  “Mike, get in touch with General Bodison. See if the satellites have picked up anything on their passes over the North Sea . . . or anywhere else for that matter.”

  “Will do.” The chief of intelligence turned and was gone.

  Ben might see the man in two or three hours; he might not see him for two or three weeks or longer. With Mike Richards, you just never knew.

  Ben returned to his desk and spread out a map of the world. “Now where in the hell did they go?” he muttered. “And who the hell is running the show now that Bruno is dead?” He shook his head. “God only knows,” he finally concluded and folded the map, returning it to its case.

  Ben sat down and thought about it for a time. Bruno’s factory in Poland was reported to have been shut down and blown up. So that operation had been moved to another location. Had the scientists and their equipment sailed on the ships? Probably. But where?

  Ben didn’t have a clue.

  Not yet.

  But sooner or later, those men and women of the MEF would show their hand.

  Did that damnable serum or vaccine or whatever the hell it was that Bruno’s scientists were working on really exist? If so, how close were they to perfecting it?

  Ben suddenly sat up in the chair. “Of course,” he muttered. “What better place to test it.” Now he felt sure he knew where the MEF had gone.

  He quickly re-opened his map case and took out a world map. He began tracing a route and adding up the miles. If they had been gone for ten days . . .

  “They could have made it by now,” he murmured. And those scientists could well have been sent out weeks ago. “Corrie!” he called. “Find Mike and get him back here, pronto.”

  “Right, Boss.”

  Mike had not yet left the area and was tracked down. He smiled when he saw the maps on Ben’s desk. “Think you’re got it all figured out, huh?”

  “You knew, Mike. You knew.”

  Mike shook his head. “Wrong. I didn’t know. I suspected. But I don’t have one shred of proof to back it up.” He sat down and stared at Ben across the desk. “Ben, don’t you see what Bruno’s done? Can’t you see it?”

  Ben stared at the man for a moment. “I’m not following you, Mike. But what I know, what I feel in my gut, is that the MEF is setting up in Africa!”

  “Sure they are. That’s the only logical place. But Bruno knows, or rather, knew, that the majority of the world doesn’t give a damn what happens over there. And even if the people did care—which they don’t, and that’s firm, Ben, firm—no nation has rebuilt itself enough to send any significant number of troops to do any good. So that leaves . . . whom, Ben?”

  “The United States and the SUSA. Us. The Rebels.”

  “That’s right. I don’t think Bruno ever planned on staying here in Europe. I think: one, he realized very quickly he couldn’t defeat us; or, two, he knew all along where he was going and was just throwing up a holding action here to allow his people time to get the hell gone. Bruno knew the people of Europe would never stand for a Hitler clone. Not for long. And he was betting that when America did get involved in reestablishing a world order, they’d send people here first. To Europe, then to South America. Australia. Africa would be low on the priority list. China will take care of itself. So will Southeast Asia. And don’t you think for one instant that Son Moon didn’t know that. He’s a tricky bastard, that one. He’s locked you into a deal that you can’t get out of.”

  Ben slowly nodded his head in the affirmative. “All right, Mike, I’ll buy that. But give me all of it. Share your hypothesis.”

  “Bruno tested the waters, so to speak, months ago. Maybe years ago. We know he’s got people in America reporting to him. Or he had, that is. If he’s dead.”

  That got Mike a sharp look. “You don’t think he’s dead?” Ben seized on that immediately.

  “No. Just like you, I do not think he’s dead. I don’t know how he pulled it off, but I believe he did. Anyway, he’s betting that when the time comes, you’ll call for volunteers to go to Africa, knowing that your African blacks don’t really trust whites. With good reason. The best black troops you and Bodison have will step forward, so will hundreds, perhaps thousands of educated and qualified blacks in America. And once they land in Africa, they will never be heard from again.”

  Ben fell silent. Mike got up and poured a cup of co
ffee, then sat back down and waited. Ben sighed. “The bastard outfoxed me, didn’t he?”

  “He outfoxed the whole world, Ben. If what I just laid out has any truth to it.”

  “By now, the radical white Africans will have been long organized with the MEF.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Bottger knows, or knew, or hoped that Billy Smithson’s men would take no part in any invasion of Africa.”

  Mike shrugged. “I personally don’t think Billy Smithson will take any part in it. Ben, you were in Africa while working for the Company. You know how big that country is. You could put the United States in the southern half of it. It would take a million plus men to successfully launch an invasion against it. Where are they going to come from? It will take Europe a full decade to just start on the road to recovery. It’ll take America at least that long. Or longer. You and I, Ben, we’ll be in the grave before the world reaches a point of stabilization and productivity anywhere close to where it was before the Great War.”

  “The bottom line, Mike?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Probably not.”

  “The only sensible thing to do with Africa is to write it off.”

  “Something tells me that is not your opinion alone.”

  “That’s right, Ben. It isn’t mine alone.”

  “Our satellites have never stopped working, have they, Mike?”

  “No, Ben. They haven’t.”

  “This is more than just guesswork on your part, isn’t it, Mike?”

  Mike frowned. “Not really, Ben. I’m not as unfeeling as you think I am. The intelligence communities—and I’m talking about those of the free world, and we are pitifully small at this juncture—simply and truthfully does not know what is going on in Africa. We know that the Jews launched missile strikes at selected Arab targets when the Great War erupted. They seized valuable oil fields. We know they’ve enlarged their territory quite a bit, but we believe that not all of it was done without some Arab countries’ approval and cooperation. From the southern border of Turkey all the way down to Yemen—hell, we don’t know what’s going on in there. We do know that Iran is in total, utter chaos. The Jews kicked the shit of Iraq and Iran with missiles and air strikes. Casualties on both sides had to have been terribly high. Russia is a blank. We have no idea what’s going on in that country. But you are under United Nations orders to find out, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your agreement was to stabilize Europe, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And was Africa even mentioned?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t think for an instant Bottger didn’t know that. And the islands, from the Bahamas all the way down to Grenada, they weren’t mentioned either, were they?”

  “Not to speak of, no.”

  “The powers that be, Ben, have decided to write off those countries whose citizens can’t pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. We’ve propped up too many countries too many times, Ben. The world’s industrialized nations have gone in too many times on too many so-called humanitarian missions only to see those countries fall right back into chaos and savagery and barbarism. They’ve been written off, Ben. I can’t prove that, but I’ll bet you it’s true.”

  “The drug that Bottger had his people working on?”

  “Hell, Ben, I’ll bet you a year’s pay there is no drug. There never was. Oh, they were working on something. But not what we were led to believe. Whatever they were working on, it didn’t materialize. My guess would be some sort of synthetic fuel. Who the hell knows? Who the hell cares? Not the world, Ben. Not the world.”

  Mike pushed back his chair and walked out.

  Ben remained behind his desk. His team had heard every word of the exchange and remained silent. Mike was right: Ben was locked into an agreement with the U.N. He had affixed his signature to the document, and so had Cecil Jefferys and Homer Blanton and Son Moon. They had all been neatly sandbagged. All but one, and he suspected that was Son Moon.

  Ben looked at the world’s map and took his pen and drew a big X over the continent of Africa.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  He threw the pen on the desk.

  “Shit!” Ben said.

  THIRTEEN

  Ben and his One Batt had driven up to Wilhelmshaven, then over to Bremerhaven, then up to Cuxhaven. In three days, they had not fired a single round nor had they drawn any fire.

  Jersey stifled a yawn. “Boring,” she said. “Where are all these punks and hotshot street gangs that were supposed to be around?”

  “Bremen and Hamburg,” Beth said. “Georgi’s got Bremen; we’ve got Hamburg. Population before the Great War, almost two million. It’s Germany’s second largest city.”

  “The intel we have says that as soon as Bruno’s men pulled out, the punks came right back in,” Ben said “And the creepies.”

  “I wonder what ever happened to Tony Green and Tuba Salami and La Bamba and Richardo,” Cooper mused.

  “They have teamed up with some character who calls himself Boogie Woogie Bagwamb,” Corrie said.

  Ben was trying to roll a cigarette and spilled all the tobacco down his shirt at that. “Boogie Woogie Bagwamb?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “I thought Tuba and Tony and La Bamba and all that bunch of crap were dead,” Jersey said.

  “So did I,” Corrie said. “But they’ve surfaced now that Bruno is dead and most of his men gone. They’re in Hamburg, linked up with some gangs there.”

  “We’ll deal with them,” Ben said, rolling another cigarette.

  The troops of the MEF had been in such a big hurry to get the hell gone, they had not destroyed any of the port facilities. As the Rebels passed through the towns, the people cheered them and waved both American and German flags.

  Just as Bottger had said, he had not abused any of the German people, and their economy was good, and growing. The people looked healthy.

  “But now we are happy,” one middle-aged man told Ben in a small town between Cuxhaven and Hamburg on route 73. “A hog is fat and healthy, but I’ve never heard one laugh.”

  As the column approached Hamburg, after turning onto E22, they began to see signs that the punks were ranging out. Homes were deserted, and fresh graves were in evidence. Stores had been recently looted, and even graves had been dug up and the bodies searched for valuables.

  The bodies were lying on the ground, many of them stripped naked and in the most grotesque of positions.

  Ben halted the column at each desecrated grave site, and Rebels reburied the bodies.

  “Hopefully, we’re putting them back under the correct headstone,” Ben said.

  A roadblock stopped the Rebels just outside the city limits of Hamburg. Scouts had radioed back that the men were friendly, citizens of the city. When Ben pulled up and got out, several men wearing white armbands stepped from behind the barricade and walked toward him.

  “General Raines?” one inquired.

  “That’s me.” He noted that the men were all carrying shotguns and knew then why the punks had been able to take over much of the city. The punks were armed and the citizens were not. Same old story: Disarm the law-abiding; and in any type of emergency or civil disorder, the lawless will take over.

  “It is embarrassing to have to ask for your help, General,” the spokesman said. “But . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I know,” Ben told him. “I know only too well. You don’t have to explain the situation to me. The same tiling happened in America. We’ll clean up your city. Are the punks and street crap holding civilian hostages?”

  “A few, yes, sir.”

  “We don’t make deals with punks. Some of those hostages are going to get hurt and some are going to be killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Understand something else. When we disarm the street crap, we’ll give their guns to you people. Don’t ever let yourselves
be disarmed again.”

  “It will not happen again, General.”

  Ben nodded his head but curbed his tongue. He knew only too well that unless citizens were willing to stand their ground and perhaps kill any authority figure who attempted to disarm them, it would happen again. Unless they were careful whom they put into positions of power in government, it would happen again.

  “Night People?” Ben asked.

  The man looked embarrassed and then said, “They are here. They are everywhere. Bruno Bottger thought he killed or drove them all out. But he did not.”

  “And in the short time since the MEF pulled out, the Night People have aligned with the punks?”

  “Yes, sir. Unfortunately, that is quite true.”

  “Here we go again,” Jersey muttered.

  Ben heard the under-the-breath comment and allowed a small smile to crease his lips. He could well understand the disgust in Jersey’s words; every Rebel thought the same way: If you have lawless and Night People, why in the hell didn’t you just dispose of them? Why in the hell does it always have to fall on us to do the dirty work?

  Ben looked around and spotted what appeared to be an abandoned home. “I’ll make my CP there. Check it out.”

  He swung his gaze back to the civilian. “As soon as I’m set up, we’ll talk. Get your community leaders and meet me over there in one hour. I want a briefing.”

  “Yes, sir. As you wish, General.”

  Ben walked away. Jersey, keeping pace with him, said, “Our One Batt is going to clear out a city of this size, Boss? How?”

  “Those truck-loads of weapons we took from the surrendering MEF people,” Cooper said.

  “That’s good, Coop,” Ben said. “Very good. That’s right. We are going to arm the citizens and they are going to bear most, or at least much, of the brunt of the fighting. Their reaction to that should be interesting.”

  “What?” a woman blurted when Ben told the gathering of civic leaders what their part was going to be.

  It was a warm, quite pleasant, summer’s day and the meeting was being held in the side yard.