Triumph in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben laughed. “If you do, it’ll be the first time you’ve kept your mouth shut about anything since I’ve known you, Anny.”

  With that, the team lay down and grabbed some much needed shut-eye for the remainder of the two hour rest period.

  Later on, when they were about halfway from Brand-berg to Windhoek, Corrie’s radio squawked.

  “Corrie here, go ahead.”

  “Michaels here, Corrie, put Ben on and hurry.”

  “Ben here, John. Go ahead.”

  “I just heard from Captain Dominguez and the team of Scouts we parachuted into Tshane in Botswana.”

  “What did he say, John?”

  “Several squadrons of planes took off less than an hour ago, heading out of Pretoria. A group of fighter planes is headed this way, followed thirty minutes later by some medium range bombers.”

  “Bombers?”

  “Yes, sir. And the troubling thing is, the bombers were carrying canister bombs under their wings instead of the high explosive types we would expect.”

  Ben thought for a moment. “Then it sounds like Bottger is going to try to drop either biological or chemical agents on us, while the fighter planes keep our air support busy.”

  “Yes, sir, those were my thoughts. But since they must know their biological weapons have failed against us in the past, my bet is on chemical agents—nerve gas, tear gas, mustard gas, those kind of things.”

  Ben sighed. “The man is truly crazy. Okay, alert our air cover to their plan, and let’s halt the column and get the troops in anti-gas gear.”

  “You want the full Racal suits? That’s going to be brutal in this heat.”

  “There’s no help for it, John, it’ll be a lot less brutal that dying in convulsions or having the boys’ skin peel off from the mustard gas.”

  “Oh, there was one other message.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Scouts said another contingent of planes flew off more to the east, probably headed toward Colonel Marsh and the 12 Bat.”

  “I’ll have Corrie bump Marsh and let him know what’s headed his way. Were those planes also carrying chemical bombs?”

  “No, sir. The scouts said it was mainly HINDs and some older MIG fighter-bombers, and it looked more like napalm and HE type bombs on the MIGs.”

  “And Marsh has very little air support to counter the attack. He’s down to just a few Apache choppers. Can we lend him any of ours?”

  “No, sir. Not if we’re going to have to fight both fighters and bombers. We wouldn’t stand a chance of stopping the bombers if we divided our forces.”

  “Damn! Well, Marsh will just have to make do with what he has. At least he’s got the jungle for cover. Maybe he can spread his troops out and hide, to minimize the effectiveness of the napalm.”

  Michaels chuckled. “Did you ever see Marsh hide, from anything?”

  Ben laughed, too, trying to visualize the tough commander being afraid of anything or anybody. “No, John. I can’t say as I have.”

  “I’ll alert our air cover and troops while you try to get hold of Marsh and warn him of what’s coming. OK?”

  “That’s affirmative. Raines out.”

  “Michaels out.”

  Ben looked over at Corrie, who was bent over her radio, talking hurriedly, a frown on her face.

  “You get hold of Marsh yet, Corrie?”

  “No, sir. I’m having trouble getting through to him. I can’t tell if his radio’s down or if we’re being jammed by Bottger’s forces.”

  Ben stared at her. “Corrie, if we don’t warn Marsh, they’ll hit him with napalm, and turn that entire area into a raging inferno. We’ve got to get through.”

  “I’m doing the best I can, Boss. Believe me, if there’s any way to get a message to Marsh, I’ll find it.”

  “Good. Now, Coop, break out the Racal suits and anti-gas masks. We’ve got trouble headed our way, too. I want our troops spread out in a defensive line, not all bunched up along the road. That way if some of the bombers do make it past our air support, they won’t have a concentrated target to aim for.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Corrie, see if you can bump Colonel Holland, head of our air support team.”

  A few minutes later, Ben was talking to Colonel Jerry Holland, leader of the small squadron of jet fighters and overall commander of air support for the 501.

  “Jerry, have you been informed of what’s coming?”

  “Yes, sir. I just got off the horn with John Michaels.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think they’ll come in low and fast. Since they don’t know we’re aware of their approach, they’ll probably fly on the deck, about five hundred feet or so to avoid our radar, and come straight at us, hoping to hit us by surprise.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m gonna take my squadron up high and try to keep the sun at our backs, so they won’t see us up there. The MIGs they’re flying have terrible air-to-air radar, so when we dive on them from twelve o’clock high it’ll scare the hell out of ’em.”

  “What about the Apaches and Huey gunships?”

  “I’m gonna spread them out wide, keeping them about five miles off, out of sight. Once the fighters pass, the choppers will deploy in a defensive line between us and the old prop-driven bombers. Since the bombers are much slower than the MIGs, the choppers should be able to handle them before they get close enough to drop their loads.”

  “Sounds like a good battle plan, Colonel.”

  Holland chuckled over the mike. “As you know, sir, they all sound good. It’s the execution that’s a bitch.”

  “Right on, Jerry. Good luck up there. Raines out.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good luck to you. Holland out.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Jesus, Boss,” Beth said, “these Racal suits are hot. I feel like I’m in a sauna.”

  “It can’t be helped, Beth,” Ben answered, his voice muffled by the plastic-faced hood of the orange protective suit. “I figure the MIGs are less than ten minutes away, and they’ll be followed close behind by the bombers with their cargos of nerve, mustard, and other noxious chemical bombs. If Holland and his air support team doesn’t manage to stop them, these suits will be the only things keeping us alive.”

  Cooper spoke up. “Yeah, Beth. I don’t mind a little sweat if it’ll keep us from being all curled up in the desert, with expressions of horrible agony on our dead faces.”

  “OK, OK, you two. Can’t a girl complain a little without getting a lecture around here?”

  Ben nodded, though the helmet of his suit prevented her from seeing the gesture. “Sure, Beth, complain all you want. Just don’t break the seals on your Racal until the last plane has been downed.”

  Ben had his men spread out in a horizontal line, weaving back and forth across the dry veld grasses so as not to give the hostile air force any groupings to aim for. Some of the vehicles were parked in shallow depressions on the desert-like plain, but most were out in the open.

  The troops, all of whom were wearing either Racals or the older, less effective rubber suits and gas masks, were spread out behind the vehicles, lying on their bellies with weapons trained on the skies. The lucky ones were able to hide underneath the troop carriers, out of the brutal African sun in this driest of all places on earth.

  Soon, even the thickness of the Racal helmets couldn’t hide the muted roar of the MIGs’ jet engines as they raced toward Ben’s troops at seven hundred miles an hour.

  “Get ready, Coop,” Ben said.

  Cooper squatted down behind the M60 fifty caliber machine gun mounted on a special pivot on the fender of the big SUV Ben’s team was behind.

  The other team members jacked back the levers on their M16s, shoving shells into the chambers and aiming over the vehicle’s roof at the oncoming sounds.

  As the line of black dots appeared over the horizon, rushing at them at just over five hundred feet of altitude, a number of s
lightly larger dots dived out of the sky above them.

  “Corrie,” Ben said, “tune into Holland’s tactical frequency on the radio and put it on a speaker. I want to hear this.”

  “Right, Boss.”

  After a moment of her tweaking her dials, Holland’s voice could be heard above the roar of his engines. . . .

  “Bandits at six o’clock low, men. Dive, dive!”

  The jet engines’ whine became a scream over the speaker as the fighters dove on the unsuspecting MIGs below.

  “Johnny,” Holland said, his voice as calm as if he were directing his men in a routine training mission, “take the end MIG on the left. Bill, you target the end MIG on the right. I and the rest of the squadron will hit the middle of the pack.”

  Two of the planes could be seen to dip their wings as they dived, turning to flank the oncoming MIG squadron.

  The rest of the Rebel jets headed straight for the center of the group of fighters below. The chatter of Holland’s cannons and the explosion of rockets began to roar over the radio, and the two groups of planes merged in the distance.

  Holland’s planes dove into the squadron of MIGs, scattering them like quail, sending two to the veld in tumbling, rolling balls of fire in the initial attack.

  The other MIGs turned wings over and climbed straight up, afterburners blazing as they tried to escape the chattering ruin of the jets’ guns and rockets.

  “Sammy, Sammy,” Holland shouted, “watch out on your six—you’ve got a bogey on your tail!”

  Another voice could be heard. “Not to worry, Sammy. This is Joe Bob, and I’ve got your bogey.”

  A line of two Rebel jets with a MIG between them could be seen spiraling off to the side, the lead jet jogging and jerking side-to-side to escape the MIG’s machine gun fire.

  Seconds later, the rear plane opened up and blew the MIG out of the air.

  As the MIG crashed to the ground in flaming wreckage, Sammy’s jet dipped its wings in thanks and took off to find another target.

  Two more MIGs went down, trailing smoke, and one of the Rebel fighters exploded, brought down by a MIG ATA missile.

  “Goddamn!” a voice shouted. “The bastards got Marcus!”

  The tac-frequency chattered for a few minutes as the pilots warned each other of danger and Holland gave instructions to others about where to attack, occasionally calling out “Good shot,” to one or another of his men as they downed more of the MIGs.

  “If those MIGs keep using their afterburner jets like that,” Cooper said as he peered over the sights of his M60, “they aren’t going to have enough fuel to get back to their base.”

  Ben chuckled, thrilled at the sight of the air-to-air combat. “That’s the last thing on the pilots’ minds right now, Coop. All they’re thinking about right now is how to get away from us.”

  As larger dots appeared over the horizon, flying low as the MIGs had been, Anna pointed her finger. “Uh-oh, looks like the bombers are making their appearance.”

  Just as she spoke the bombers started to climb, trying to get to an altitude where they could safely drop their “ bombs without being caught in the explosions.

  As they climbed, the bombers were joined by darker, smaller shapes arching in from either side and slightly higher altitudes, flames visible from them—side-mounted Gatling guns on the choppers.

  “All right!” Ben shouted. “There come Holland’s Apache and Huey gunship choppers. They’re pouring the lead into the bombers, making them scatter as they climb.”

  Holland’s chopper pilots could be heard communicating over the radio as they picked their targets and sighted the bombers in with their Gatling guns and M60 machine guns, manned by men strapped in the open cargo doors of the Hueys.

  “Without the air support of the MIGs, those old, slow bombers are sitting ducks for the Apaches,” Cooper said.

  Ben’s team, and his troops scattered out behind him, watched in awe as Holland’s air force destroyed the MIGs, one by one, and as the Apaches and Hueys blew the bombers out of the sky.

  Of the ten bombers in the assault, only one managed to get past the choppers, and it was coming straight over Ben’s area.

  As the bomber passed overhead, Cooper pulled the trigger on his M60, leading the plane and watching as his tracer bullets curved toward the bomber’s belly.

  Two large canisters separated from the airplane just before Cooper’s tracers locked on and blew one of the plane’s engines into scrap metal. The plane went into a slow roll until it was upside down, diving, wings waving as the pilot tried to regain control, until it crashed in a giant fireball several miles beyond Ben’s troops.

  The canisters exploded when they hit the ground, sending waves of yellowish mustard gas billowing up into the desert winds, to be blown directly toward Ben and his troops.

  As the cloud approached them, several of the choppers swooped down and used the prop wash from their rotor blades to disperse the cloud, blowing it to where the twenty knot desert winds could whisk it away.

  Ben stood and saluted as the choppers roared past overhead. “I’ve never seen a braver thing,” he said. “Those pilots aren’t wearing any protective gear. If that gas had gotten into their cockpits, they would all have been killed.”

  “One thing you can say for the air force—they’re not short on cojones,” Cooper said, as he, too, waved at the pilots as they passed.

  Ben motioned Corrie over to him. “Did you ever manage to get hold of Marsh and warn him of the aircraft headed his way?”

  Corrie frowned. “No, sir. I assume something must be wrong with his radio equipment, or they’re so deep in the jungle they can’t pick up my transmissions. I got no answer at all.”

  “God help them, then. If Bottger’s airplanes catch them by surprise, they could wipe out the entire command. O.K., people.”

  “We’re burning daylight, and I can’t wait to stand face-to-face with Bottger in Pretoria.”

  “I wish I could be there when he finds out his air attack failed miserably,” Anna said.

  Ben smiled. “So do I, Anna, so do I.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Colonel Marsh had been careful to avoid the city of Bulawayo, the capital of Zimbabwe, staying to the north and east in the denser jungle areas. Since he was short on air support and his troops were exhausted following the battle with General Schultz, he wanted to keep them well hidden until they had time to rest and regroup.

  As he led his troops through the jungles, he mulled over the history of Zimbabwe. There had been both tragedy and drama in the struggle between Europeans and Africans for this land that later came to be known as Zimbabwe.

  In the early days, the San-bushmen traveled the country, leaving behind a rich legacy of rock paintings on outcrops all over the land. These hunter gatherers were overwhelmed and defeated by the arrival of the agricultural Bantu peoples, one group of which built the medieval town the rebel forces were approaching, known as Great Zimbabwe. The stone ruins of Great Zimbabwe were at first considered a place of great mystery because European discoverers refused to attribute their creation to Africans.

  Marsh thought that was typical European smugness—to think only whites could build great cities—and part of the reason people like Bottger could still survive and find followers in this more enlightened age.

  The Shona people who built Great Zimbabwe and several other great cities such as Khami, whose ruins lie near Bulawayo, were overcome and defeated by the Matebele tribes, who used the Shona peoples as their slaves.

  The Matebele, in turn, were defeated and conquered by the early white settlers who came in search of gold and diamonds—such as Cecil Rhodes from Britain, who later named the country after himself, calling it Rhodesia.

  Marsh shook his head as he walked with his men through the dense jungle undergrowth. Such is the vanity of all men, to think they can conquer and not fear being conquered themselves.

  Finally, on the outskirts of Great Zimbabwe, with its surrounding granite hills an
d massive stone monolith sculptures and stone dwelling places, he decided to give his troops a break and camp early, a few hours before dusk.

  Captain Bob Warren found the C.O. in his tent before dawn of the next day, as more ammunition and arms were being unloaded to the troops from the trucks accompanying their march.

  “Our radar is clear,” Warren said.

  Marsh sat up, pushing his mosquito netting away from his bunk. “Keep the trucks under heavy guard,” he said sleepily. “I don’t want the local natives to get their hands on any of our materiel. The bastards would probably use it against us.”

  He hesitated as he rubbed his face, trying to come fully awake. “I haven’t heard from General Raines. Some sort of radio problem, I hope.”

  “Should we wait?”

  “No. We proceed according to plan until we are notified of a change. Ben will get word to us, even if he is maintaining radio silence. Bottger may have broken the code on our scramblers by now.”

  “I’m emptying several trucks and plan to leave them behind. We’re running short of all manner of supplies, including gasoline.”

  “I know. This keeping to the denser jungle trails has its tactical advantages, but it plays hell on keeping our line of supplies open.”

  “If we don’t get in touch with Raines soon and arrange a rendezvous with the supply planes, we’re gonna be in deep shit. And, let’s hope they have parts for our Apache gunships and can get them to us soon.”

  “We almost don’t have a chopper left without some sort of problem.”

  “I’m well aware of the problem, Captain. Just empty the damn trucks and leave the worrying to me. I’m good at it.”

  “We haven’t seen any sign of mercenaries or any New World soldiers. The skies are clear. So maybe you shouldn’t worry, Commander.”

  “Worrying about my soldiers is my job. Get the trucks going and stop trying to make me feel better. No one will rest easy until we are re-supplied and moving again.”

  Captain Warren wheeled and left the tent. Rows of transport trucks, many of them dented or otherwise damaged by the battles they had fought crossing central and southern Africa, sat near the campsite with drivers waiting.