Terror in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m pullin’ my people back to Dublin,” Butch said abruptly, standing up.

  Jack turned on him. “What?”

  “You heard me. Somethin’ is a-fixin’ to pop in this country. Somethin’ nasty and mean and bloody. Raines is outfoxin’ you, Jack. And I ain’t gonna be caught asleep inside the henhouse when he slips in.”

  “Butch, stay with me. I’m sure we can contain him here!” Jack pounded a table.

  “Contain him?” Butch said. “Hell, you can’t even find him, man. Come on, Jack. Pull your people out and come back to England. Raines don’t stand a chance against us over there. You stay here, and you’re done.”

  “You said you were going to Dublin, not England.”

  “That’s right. But I want my back to those ships we come over on when Raines starts raisin’ bloody hell. And he’s just a heartbeat away from doin’ that, Jack. I can feel it; I can sense it.”

  “You liked my plan originally,” Jack said sullenly.

  “Yeah, I did. But now I think Raines has come up with one better, that’s all. Come on, Jack. Let him have the damn island. We’ve used it up and wore it out. There ain’t a decent-lookin’ woman left around here.”

  “They’re all in hiding. We find them now and then.”

  “Well, Jack, you feel like lookin’ for some now? No? I thought not. And with Raines out there — and he’s out there, brother, bet on that – it ain’t gonna do nothin’ except get worse. I’m headin’ back to the city. Bein’ around them stinkin’ damn Believers is better than sittin’ here waitin’ for Ben Raines to show up.”

  After he had gone, Jack looked at the other warlords who had come from England to join him. “How about you people?”

  “We’ll stick around,” a warlord called Poole said. “I don’t believe half of what people say about Ben Raines. Personally, I think he’s a pussy. Don’t you think so, Raft?”

  “Yeah,” the warlord said. “I do. I think the bloke is a lot of hot air and not much else. That’s what I think. I’ll stick around, Jack.”

  Another warlord called Mack nodded his head. “Yeah. Me, too. Me and my boys ain’t had a good fight in a long time. Not since we took over Blackpool from Scotty and run his ass back up to Glasgow. Ben Raines ain’t shit. Ain’t that right, Johnnie?”

  “You got it,” Johnnie said. “Me and my boys’ll stay.”

  “I’m in,” a punk from Liverpool said. He went by the name of Morelund.

  “Yeah, I’m game for the show,” a London punk tossed in his bravado-filled words.

  “Good for you, Eakes,” a leather-clad outlaw called Acey said. He fancied himself quite a biker, as did all those who followed him, and they numbered about five hundred.

  “Yeah,” a cammie-clad and beret-wearing warlord called Duane said. He wore two pearl-handed six-shooters. “We’ll show the Yanks a thing or two. How ’bout it, King?”

  The remaining warlord nodded his head. “Right-O, me boy. We’ll run them bloody bastards back into the ocean, I’m thinkin’ we will.”

  “Damn right!” Jack Hunt said. An aide came in and handed him a note, then turned to leave. “Wait a minute. What is this?” Jack demanded. “Maybe them at 23 stepped out to take a piss. This doesn’t mean anything is wrong.”

  “Dick says he’s been trying to reach them for an hour. There is no response.”

  Jack moved to the big map and put a finger on position 23. That was the cathedral at Ballyhaise, just south of the Annalee River. And that was a damned important post.

  “Tell him to keep trying. Maybe their radio is out. Yeah. That’s probably it.”

  The radio at post 23 worked just fine. It was the personnel that were out of commission. Permanently. Rebet’s people had taken a slight detour and did a little throat cutting. Now the were sitting around drinking coffee and listening to the calls from Hunt’s CP at Nass, in County Kildare.

  “Fellow is getting a bit testy, isn’t he?” a Scout asked.

  “Oh, quite,” a Rebel said, slicing off a piece of cheese and chewing contentedly.

  The Rebels grinned at each other. They enjoyed this brand of fighting.

  “You have our objective cased out, boy?” Ben asked Buddy.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a real old home about two miles from here. Kind of a mansion, I guess you’d call it. And it’s filled with Hunt’s men. They seem to be doing a lot of partying with ladies.”

  “Ladies?” Beth asked. “Ladies?”

  “Women,” Buddy said.

  “Thank you,” Jersey told him.

  “How many?” Ben asked.

  “Women?” Buddy replied with a straight face, but with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Linda had to struggle to stifle a laugh at the expression on Ben’s face.

  “No, boy,” Ben told his son. “Rats in the keep. How many of Hunt’s men?”

  “Approximately twenty. We will be outnumbered probably two to one.”

  Ben checked the sky. About an hour of daylight left. “Let’s get into position.”

  Leaving two behind to guard their meager supplies and to radio in for help should something go wrong, the team of ten Rebels moved to within a few hundred meters of the eighteenth-century home. Since little work had been done on the grounds in more than a decade, the grass was tall and a lot of brush had grown up. That made the advance of the Rebels almost easy.

  “They should have cleared away all this brush,” a Rebel remarked.

  “That would have been a dead giveaway,” Ben told the young man. “You’ll learn.”

  The young man silently cursed himself for being so stupid, and vowed not to open his mouth again unless he knew for sure he wouldn’t stick his boot in it.

  “Don’t be afraid to ask questions or offer opinions,” Ben then told him, softening that with a smile and not taking his eyes off the mansion. “It’s the only way you’ll learn. Believe me, I speak from experience. Wind down just a little, people. We’ll hit them at dusk.”

  Music from a tape player drifted out the open windows of the mansion. A woman’s shrill laughter came faintly to the Rebs hidden in the thick brush of the old garden in the rear of the once elegant home.

  With all the technology we once had, Ben thought, lying on his belly in the brush, it’s all returned now to the stealthy game of cowboys and Indians. He wondered why cowboys always came first in the phrase.

  Shadows began lengthening around the land and the pools and pockets of darkness grew larger. A very gentle rain, not much more than a heavy mist, began falling. “Go,” Ben said, and Buddy and two Rebels moved out, Ben and his team right behind them.

  When they reached the two-story house, the Rebels flattened themselves against the stones of the back wall and listened.

  “Post four,” the words spewed metallically out of a speaker. “Come in, post four.”

  “Post four,” the radio operator responded.

  “How’s it looking?”

  “Quiet as a church. No sign of the Rebels.”

  “That’s ten-four. Stay alert.”

  “Ten-four, base.”

  Ben peeked through the dirty window. A man was sitting with his back to the rear of the house, radio equipment on a table in front of him. Ben pointed a finger at Buddy, held a finger to his lips, and then pointed to the radio operator. Buddy nodded his understanding of the silent kill. He pulled a knife from his belt and slipped into the house.

  Seconds later, the radio operator’s throat was cut wide and the body lowered to the floor. Ben and the others moved silently and swiftly into the house. Ben switched the radio to Off and then stepped into the hall, moving toward the sounds of music and laughter. Jersey was right behind him, followed by Buddy and the others.

  At the foot of the stairs, Ben pointed to Buddy and then to the ceiling. His son nodded. Taking two with him, he moved up the stairs, staying close to the wall to avoid any squeaking. When Buddy reached the top of the stairs, Ben stepped into the living room of the old mansion, the others quickly following
. Lanterns sputtered out light and showed a very relaxed group of Hunt’s soldiers and a few women, all in various stages of undress.

  “Can we join the party?” Ben asked, then pulled the trigger on his CAR-15.

  Hunt’s men yelled and leaped for their weapons. They didn’t make it.

  Ten seconds later, the mansion fell silent, both levels of the old home thick with gunsmoke and the smell of death.

  “Take their weapons and hide them outside,” Ben ordered. “The Free Irish will pick them up later.”

  “What about us?” one of the surviving women squalled. “Sweet Baby Jesus, are you goin’ to kill us, too?”

  “That is a problem,” Ben told her. “You probably deserve a bullet, but I won’t do that. We’ll just tie you up and notify the Free Irish of your location.”

  “But they’ll hang us!” another women yelled. “They’ve branded us as collaborators.”

  “And you’re not?” Beth asked, no pity in her voice.

  The woman cursed her and then fell silent.

  The dead were dragged outside and piled unceremoniously in a ramshackle old hut behind the mansion. The three women left alive were tied securely, and Corrie got the CP on the horn and told them to inform the local resistance about the weapons, the bodies, and the women.

  “O’Rourke’s right here with me now,” the operator said. “He says to shoot the whores.”

  Ben took the mic. “Tell O’Rourke he can do his own shooting. Eagle out.” He looked at his group. “Let’s get this pigpen cleaned up and have some dinner.”

  The Rebels were just finishing their meal when O’Rourke and a dozen resistance members showed up, appearing silently and deadly out of the fog and mist. The women started sobbing at the sight of the Irish guerrillas.

  “Mickey,” one of the women sobbed, “don’t do this to me. I’m beggin’ you, don’t do it.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” Mickey told her. “I don’t want to hear nothin’ from your whorin’ mouth. Too many good decent men has gone to the grave because of you and them like you.”

  “But it’s near over now, Mickey,” she pleaded. “The general here and his troops will soon set us free. He ain’t holdin’ no rancor in his heart for me. Time’ll heal it all, Mickey. You’ll see.”

  “Time’ll do nothin’ for you ’ceptin’ rot your bones in the cold grave,” Mickey’s words were as hard as the time. “Get her on her feet and take her down to the forest.”

  “No!” the woman screamed.

  The words of Dylan Thomas came to Ben: “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

  “For God’s sake, Mickey,” the woman screamed at him. “Let me see a priest.”

  Mickey stared at her. “Which one, me fair beauty? Father O‘Florry? Oh! But you’ll not be seein’ that one, now, will you? ‘Cause you torned him in for helpin’ us in the resistance, and Jack Hunt and them rabble of his tortured and hanged the poor blessed man. Father Sheehan, perhaps you’d be wontin’ to see? But you can’t see him, neither, colleen, ’cause you led him into an ambush, now, didn’t you?” He stepped forward and spat in the woman’s face. He looked at his people, both men and women all heavily armed. “I’ll be down in the forest, fixin’ a rope. Drag her along.”

  The woman turned panicked eyes to Ben. “For the love of God, General, help me. It’s said that you’re Irish on your mommy’s side. A McHugh, folks is sayin’. I can’t stand pain, General. Jack and his men tortured me something awful. They whipped me with horsewhips and beat me near unconscious many times until they broke me down. You can’t blame me for what I done. You just can’t.”

  “Every person has their limit. But I’m not here to make the law. I’m just here to help liberate your country. You say the soldiers beat you?”

  “Something fierce, General. It was horrible.”

  “Back and buttocks, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. I just couldn’t stand no more of the pain.”

  Ben walked to her, taking long strides, and ripped the dress from her, tossing it to one side, leaving her clad only in bra and panties. He stood for a few seconds, looking at her nearly naked body. There was not a single mark or scar on her body. Finally, he nodded his head and sighed audibly. “Yes,” Ben said dryly. “I can see where you’ve endured many a savage beating.”

  The woman slumped to the floor, sprawling out on her belly and weeping. “God damn you to hell, Ben Raines. God damn all of you to the hellfire!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. She beat her fists raw on the old floor. “I had to eat. I had to survive. I’m sorry people died because of me. But they threatened to beat me and torture me. They threatened to give me to them damn Believers in the cities for breeding. I had to do it. I didn’t have no choice in the matter.”

  Jersey found her rag of a dress and threw it over the woman. “Cover yourself, bitch. You ain’t no turn-on for nobody here.”

  “What about me?” the other woman screamed.

  “We got a rope for you, too, Tessie O’Baire,” one of the resistance women said.

  Tessie cursed them all until she ran out of breath.

  The women’s hands were retied behind their backs and they were hauled to their feet, biting and kicking and shrieking obscenities at the men and women. They fought the resistance members all the way to the door and out into the backyard of the old mansion. They were still screaming as they were led down to the dark forests at the property’s edge.

  At the door, one of the men turned to look at Ben. “Don’t think this ain’t a hard thing for Mickey, General. ’Cause I can tell you it is.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, that fair beauty he was givin’ what-for to? ... That’s his sister.”

  Seven

  Five more of Jack Hunt’s outposts fell before midnight, and by dawn he had lost ten more before he finally figured out what was happening. He had lost all his personnel at Tullynally, Annaghmore, Carrowmore, Ballymote, Clonalis, and Durrow Abbey, and nearly half a dozen more sites had fallen to the Rebels.

  Jack was livid with rage when he finally pieced together all the puzzle. He screamed out the same words that outlaws and scum had been shrieking to the heavens for years. “God damn Ben Raines.”

  “Let’s attack the bastards, Jack,” Duane suggested, fingering the pearl-handled butts of his pistols.

  “Sure,” Jack said sarcastically. “Then Ben Raines would swing half of his people north and south and box us in. You got any more brilliant ideas?”

  Duane shut up. He was not much of a tactician and had sense enough to know it.

  “Jack, they’re jamming our transmissions.”

  Jack looked up at the man. “That’s impossible!”

  “No, it isn’t. Raines has got the finest electronic gear in the known world, and the best engineers. They’re doin’ it.”

  “You can’t jam hundreds of frequencies, God damn it!”

  “That’s right. But they’ve got scanners. As soon as we start on another, they block it. Low or high band, it don’t make no difference. They must have two, three hundred people, just doin’ nothin’ but monitorin’ us.”

  Jack cursed savagely and looked to the west. “I hate you, Ben Raines.”

  The radio operator at Abbey Leix was alternately twisting the dial of his transmitter and cussing when he heard a slight sound from behind him. He turned to look into the smiling face of Ike. He would die with that face the last thing he ever saw.

  “Hi, there, partner,” Ike whispered, then shot the man between the eyes with a silenced .22 caliber Colt Woodsman.

  Ike shoved the body out of the chair while the other members of his personal team went about neutralizing the rest of the enemy. Silently and effectively.

  Ike grinned and set the frequency, knowing that his voice would not be jammed. The radio operator back at Nass almost fell out of his chair when Ike said, “Hi, there, buckaroos! This here is Ol’ Ike McGowan talkin’ to you from ... well,” he gave his best Mississippi drawl, “we don’t have
to get into that, now, do we? I just wanted to let you misguided scumbags and dick-heads that serve Jack Hunt know that us good ol’ boys that work for General Ben Raines is a-comin’ to kick your asses righteous-like, y’all hear me?”

  “Where is he?” Jack demanded, his face flushed with anger.

  “I don’t know. But I’d say he’s no more than forty miles away.”

  “Forty miles!”

  “Yes, sir. The signal is very strong and he’s broadcasting open. That means ...”

  “Jesus Christ, man, I know what it means. He’s not transmitting on one of our preset frequencies.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why I can’t pinpoint his location.”

  “... Yes, sirrie,” Ike was saying. “I just wrote me a name on a grenade. Jack Hunt, was what I wrote. If you’re listenin’, Jack, you better get you some lard and go to work, ’cause I’m gonna jam this pineapple up your ass and pull the pin just to see how far shit splatters.”

  Jack, tight-lipped and red-faced, listened to Ike drawl out his words. His men began backing away from the man called The Beast, knowing too well his explosive temper.

  “Are you listenin’, Jack?” Ike asked. “If so, just back your butt up to the mic and fart. ’Cause whether it comes out of your mouth or your ass, it’s all the same.”

  That did it. Jack grabbed up the mic and began calling Ike every obscenity he could think of, in half a dozen languages. He spewed out invectives like a nest of spitting cobras. He cussed until he was breathless.

  Jack waited for a reply. None came. Ike and his team had left the Abbey as silently as the dead that littered the old grounds.

  Jack Hunt’s troops manning the old historical spots in Ireland were now, as Ben had planned, so jumpy they were shooting at anything that moved and a lot times at things that didn’t move – such as trees and bushes and very stationary stone fences — and firing at things that were there only in their jangled imaginations. One man was walking back from taking a dump in the woods and his own men shot him stone dead.