“Good idea, Cece,” Ben injected cheerily. “I was hoping you’d have a little something to add.”
“Like my taking command of one of those theaters,” came the Rebel general’s growl.
“I’m afraid that’s a forlorn hope,” Lamar Chase snapped sharply. “You should still be in bed, if you want my opinion.”
The sound of a big black hand slapping a hard, flat cammo-covered belly came through the airwaves. “I am as fit as the proverbial fiddle.”
“Even a Stradivarius can have a crack in it,” Chase complained.
“But it would still sound as sweet,” Cecil Jefferys countered. “I’m tired of being babied. Your people down here are–”
“My people down there, as you put it, are doing exactly what I told them to do. Two more months. At least. And then only if I find not a trace of myocarditis. Just because we’ve rerouted the freeway doesn’t mean you’re safe from any other infarction.”
“Spare me the fancy medical words, Dr. Chase. My ticker is doing a Big Ben act all the time now. Your chief pill roller down here says so.”
“I’m going to side with Lamar on this, Cecil,” Ben Raines said, putting an end to the pointless banter. He needed Cecil Jefferys badly.
Always determined to have the last word, Cecil Jeffery pushed that aside. “Well, shoot, Ben. What chance does a guy have when you gang up on him like that? I’ve got cabin fever bad, son. You hear that? I’ve worn out two decks of cards playin’ solitaire. All I have to do is boogie over to the office each morning, sign a few papers, then go waste my afternoon on that treadmill and the Nautilus equipment at the hospital.”
Dr. Chase gave an impatient snort. “You’d better be reporting for your therapy sessions, General Jefferys. It’s that or I have you checked back into the hospital.”
“You and what ten military police types, Doctor? I’m all right now, I tell you. I’ve even rediscovered my lovely lady and we’re working real hard on making a baby.”
“Conjugal activities can put a strain on your heart,” Chase snapped.
“That’s enough. Both of you,” Ben spoke sharply. “You sound like a pair of five-year-olds in the sandpile. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.”
“So, okay, I can use ex-Nazis to replace Rebel medical personnel,” Cecil said at once. “You’ll have your four MASH units, Doctor. The people will be on their way to you tomorrow morning. Now, what about supplies?”
Ben outlined what he had in mind. “Everything that we have that can roll will be moved up to near the front. The two theaters, code-named Asgard for the north, which will consist of Four, Five, Six, Seven, and Fourteen Batts. Sultan for the south, will have Two, Three, Eight, Nine and Thirteen Batts. They will be established starting at once. The R Batt will remain with me, of course, and be on the float. Each theater commander will take advantage of the latest intelligence summaries, the terrain, personnel, and supplies at hand, and give me a workable estimate of the situation and operations order within forty-eight hours.
“You will include in those a two-pronged mass assault on the enemy,” Ben continued. “Time is of the essence; we don’t want them to get too well dug in.” He paused, drew a breath. “I would suggest that Asgard’s main task will be to smash through at what used to be Cheyenne, Wyoming, advance westward, seize, and hold the passes. Sultan will determine the greatest concentration of enemy in the Southwest and attack accordingly. Georgi, you will command Asgard; vice, Colonel West. Ike, you will command Sultan, with Dan as deputy commander. Therm, coordinate logistics, intel, supply, and troop movements with the appropriate members of each TC’s staff. That’s it, gentlemen, short and sweet. You know your jobs, done them a thousand times. Meanwhile, I will be formulating my own strategic overview and tactical operations. We’ll compare notes exactly forty-eight hours from now. That’s all. Oh, no. One more thing. Buddy?”
The younger Ben Raines rose to his feet, puzzled. “I’d been wondering why you had me in on this, Pop.”
Ben smiled warmly. “Promotion time, son. Effective now, you are promoted to lieutenant colonel and assigned as XO for Dan Gray during this operation. Your battalion will go to your exec.”
Buddy actually blanched. “My — good — God, I don’t . . .”
“Yes, you do deserve it and you can do the job,” Ben said firmly as he ushered his commanders to the door.
From the air, the Rebel outpost three miles outside the ruins of Billings, Montana, looked a little like an old collective farm in Russia, or maybe an Israeli kibbutz. The high walls that connected the buildings into a stockade were not of frozen manure; rather, like those built by the Israelis, they were of stone and mortar, with razor-wire concertinas on the top. Also, the roofs bristled with antennas and the comm shack was always manned.
“Something’s up,” the corporal on watch announced to the duty officer. “Or this set is on the fritz.”
“How’s that, Higgins?” the young lieutenant asked.
“Well, sir, the black-shirts were running a whole lot of traffic. All of a sudden it dried up. There’s nothin’ on the air.”
“I suppose even they have to eat,” the officer observed. “Which reminds me, it is that time. I’ll spell you while you go get a tray.”
“Thanks, sir. My belly thinks my mouth went on strike.” Corporal Higgins left the radio console and walked to the door.
He swung it open as the first incoming rounds detonated. A hailstorm of shrapnel shredded Higgins’s chest and abdomen. He fell where he stood. Ears ringing from the explosions, the lieutenant recovered from his abrupt trip to the floor and scrambled to the radio table. He hit the transmit pad and shouted into the microphone as the second salvo thundered into the compound.
“Eagle, Eagle, this is Billings. We’re taking incoming. I say again, incoming. Heavy mortars and one-five-twos from the effect. Eagle — ”
Eagle was the last thing the twenty-year-old officer said as a direct hit turned the comm shack into a cloud of flying masonry. Heavy tanks rolled out of a coulee to the west and fired point-blank into the main gate to the Billings outpost. Troops in feldgrau uniforms advanced behind the behemoths. Behind the walls, the Rebels recovered quickly and fought with a special ferocity.
They knew they had nothing that would stand up to such a determined onslaught. Their small supply of TOW, wire-guided AT missiles soon ran out. They left a dozen burning tanks behind on the field, huge columns of black smoke pouring from ruptured hatches. Still, the Nazis came on.
Shoulder-fired, laser-guided ERIX missiles, obtained in France, did more damage, as did the big .50 machine guns, M-60s, and small-arms fire. A hundred black-shirt corpses littered the ground between the coulee and the compound within the first two minutes of the unequal battle. Yet the enemy didn’t hesitate.
A roaring surf of shouts rose from the throats of an entire company of Hoffman’s Nazis as they charged the wall and began hurling grenades over the wire fringe. The small hand bombs chipped paint and scoured holes in the stone buildings, breaking what windows the artillery had left whole. Rebels in flak jackets and body armor poured from the barracks to bring deadly fire down on the attackers.
Counterbattery fire began. The sole remaining radar dish had tracked the big 152mm shells from the foreign guns and a reliable computer in an underground bunker had computed the trajectory, projected the location of the weapons. Barely within range of the 4-inch mortars of the outpost, these redoubtable arms opened fire to a ragged cheer from the doomed garrison. Voices in Spanish and German reached the Rebels from the main gate.
It had been blown off its hinges and sagged forlornly into the compound. The huge glacis of a MBT pushed through and troops poured after. They shouted as they came.
“Tod mit aller Rebellen!”
“Matalos!”
“Shit,” a seasoned Rebel sergeant spat. “They say they want to kill us.”
“Damned unfriendly, Serge,” the nervous private beside him declared. He squeezed the trigger of his H&
K assault rifle and killed two black-shirts.
“D’you ever hear of a place called Querétaro?” the sergeant asked.
Blank-faced, the private shook his head. “No. Where’s that?”
“Down in Mexico. A long time ago, the Mexicans, led by Benito Juárez swarmed over the Foreign Legion, the French Foreign Legion, and kicked a lot of ass. Ended up with a phony emperor named Maximilian being captured and executed. I got a feeling this is gonna be another Querétaro.”
Corrie turned away from the radio in the mobile CP, her face drawn. “Billings, Montana, has just fallen, General. Other reports coming in indicate that Field Marshal Hoffman has attacked along a broad front from Billings south to Grand Junction, Colorado. His SS brigade is pushing eastward along nearly every usable artery.”
Ben Raines sensed a sickness welling inside him. They had come so close to gaining the initiative. “So now it begins,” he said softly, his words weighted with sorrow for the lost Rebel lives.
SEVEN
Ben Raines turned from the situations map. “We can always send in air,” he stated flatly to his subordinate commanders. “Hoffman has pushed us into making do with what we have. I don’t like it, but we are going to have to divide the theater commands into company-sized units to deal with this threat. It’s that or concede the western third of the U.S. to that Nazi bastard.”
“I agree in principle, Ben,” Dr. Lamar Chase offered. “My only concern is how we handle the casualties.”
“As it ought to be, Lamar,” Ben assured him. “We’re taking unusually high casualties right now due to the surprise nature of these attacks.” He paused when Corrie pushed back earphones and raised a finger. “What is it, Corrie?”
“Our people outside Cheyenne weren’t caught by so much surprise. They are offering stiff resistance. Hoffman has committed more troops. A lot more. A third of Brodermann’s SS, two companies from Volmer’s American SS, and two companies of tanks.”
Ben smiled for the first time in thirty-eight hours. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “That makes a tempting target. One rich enough for us to act on it. Georgi,” he said to the speaker microphone on the command net, “I want Colonel West to take this one. His three battalions will move out at once for Cheyenne. You continue to push northward toward Billings. Now . . .” He turned to Dan Gray without waiting for Striganov’s reply.
“Dan, I want your people mobilized at once. Ike, get your heavy stuff on the road immediately. Your light infantry and assault guns can pass though them en route. You will push the Nazis south of Cheyenne, at Denver, Colorado Springs, Pueblo. Let’s gear up, folks. Cecil? You copied this, right?”
“Every word, Ben. I assume you want me to put the air on alert status?”
“Correct. Do it yesterday. If we get the right conditions we can give Hoffman a major headache.” He turned to his G-3. “Colonel Shields, I want operations orders drafted ASAP. I’ll review and sign them during lunch, for immediate transmission.” Again he rubbed palms together. “Hoffman may have just overextended himself. Now, get out of here and get cracking people.”
At one-thirty, on the road to Cheyenne, Wyoming, in the Humvee, Ben isolated a stray thought that had been nagging him: Perhaps Hoffman had not overextended. It might be he had learned from past mistakes. The field marshal could be sucking him in.
Oh, wow! Oh, glorious, Gabe Trasher thought fuzzily. They had received their alert plan and taken the indicated positions a day ago. With time on their hands, the Alien Secretions gravitated to what they did best. They got high on marijuana and homemade wine. Incredibly, Gabe had maintained presence of mind enough to monitor the radio.
A sudden burst of increased, scrambled Rebel traffic tipped him off that something was happening. He had no idea of what, until he tuned to NAL frequencies. The kraut was on the move. No doubt of that. Nazi troops attacked all along a front from up in Montana down to the southwestern corner of Colorado. Kickin’ tail and bringin’ scalding pee down on the Rebels. That called for a celebration, so Gabe broke out some of their last remaining good wine: Midnight Special, Ripple, and some MD 20.
Some of the Secretions cut it fifty-fifty with that rotten homemade stuff and smoked hash with it that they had processed themselves. Their hangovers would be totally monumental, Gabe thought. And, yeah, he joined in their fun. So what if his head would feel like a mud-filled lead ball when he came down? It would be worth it.
Because Gabe had a strong impression he and his bikers were about to become the fair-haired boys of Nazi Hoffman’s army. Puffed with confidence, Gabe just knew that the Secretions would be the ones to collect the head of Ben Raines. Any time now.
For once, Ben Raines remained with the main Rebel force. He had listened to the implorings of his staff and subordinate commanders and kept the Hummer within three miles of the mobile CP and the troops of Ike’s rump-regiment.
Severely restricted to 40 mph, compared to earlier standards, they rolled along I-80 toward Cheyenne. Dan would cut south on U.S. 183, a straight shot through Kansas to U.S. 54. Ike would peel off onto I-79 at Julesburg and head for the Denver area. Ben, with his Headquarters Company and R Batt, would continue on to rendezvous with Colonel West and his three battalions. Ben looked to his left where a soft whoof drew his attention.
Smoot occupied the window seat in the rear, fascinated by the hilly scenery that past by the vehicle. Ben scratched a tall, pyramidal ear absently. Smoot shot his head to the right and licked the back of Ben’s hand. A methodical person, Ben Raines did not like being rushed into anything. Hoffman must be a lot stronger than suspected, he reasoned as he examined the intelligence summary for the tenth time. Or he simply wanted to get the jump on the Rebels.
Either way, he had precipitated action on Ben’s part that was decidedly unwelcome. Smoot caught sight of a bounding rabbit and woofed interrogatively. Ben took time to pet him again.
“No, boy, we don’t have time for you to chase after any rabbits. Corrie, what’s coming out of Cheyenne?”
Corrie removed the earplug from one pink ear and wet her full lips. “Not much. Comm-center is keeping on the air while rolling, and they relay to me. Our people are holding, only barely. Heavy casualties.”
“Hoffman’s learned how to fight,” Ben speculated aloud. Then he considered the situation faced by the Rebels on the small preserve outside Cheyenne. No one had ever said Ben Raines had any backdown in him. Tactically, he grudgingly admitted, there was a time for hit and a time for run.
“Have them pull back.” Ben reached for his map case.
They could use Kimball, right inside the Nebraska panhandle from Cheyenne, as a staging area. If the Cheyenne outpost fell back far enough, fast enough, it would leave Brodermann’s SS holding a bag of air. Would he pursue?
Ben thought not. Whatever the case, he would have to gamble that they would not. “Tell the outpost CO to put everyone in everything that moves and haul out of there on I-80 to Kimball, just over the line in Nebraska. First pour on everything they have to force the storm troopers to break off their attack — we’ll re-supply them when we reach Kimball — then use the time the Nazis are reorganizing to skinny out of there.”
“Done, General,” Corrie told him a minute later.
“Then bump Colonel West and tell him to turn his men to take U.S. 385 south to 80, then on to the rendezvous at Kimball.”
“Getting on it, sir,” Corrie sang out cheerily. For all her protestations against violence, she loved combat every bit as much as Ben Raines did.
Ben leaned back in his seat. Damn, he hated fighting an engagement like this. He wanted to be there, out front, with a finger on every aspect of the battle. The line officer, in the field, always saw everything clearer than some REMF. Ben laughed inwardly. Time was he would have had the guts for garters of any man who thought of him as a rear-echelon MF. Now he was fast becoming that, thanks to a kindly conspiracy by Ike McGowan, Lamar Chase, and, before he’d gotten sandbagged with that heart attack, Cecil Jeffe
rys.
Now Cecil wanted to get out, and about every bit as much as Ben. A low growl came from Smoot, who raised his muzzle and sniffed curiously at the air.
“What is it, boy?” Ben bent to ask.
Right then, three Harley-Davidsons came howling up the sloping concrete walls of an old flood-control channel. The one in the lead had a sidecar attached and an M-60 machine gun spitting angry slugs at the Hummer.
Kevlar lining between the panels and the light armor of the Humvee’s skin absorbed the punishment. This time Cooper had time to react. He touched a button on the instrument panel and one 40mm-gre-nade-launcher cluster on the roof blooped out a spread of three projectiles.
They went off directly behind the scruffy bikers and lifted them from their saddles. His back shredded by piano-wire-like shrapnel, one did a full flip over his handlebars, his own machine running over the corpse. Another did a header onto the road that ground down his chin by a quarter-inch. He never felt it; a large piece of grenade casing had penetrated the base of his skull and obliterated what little consciousness he had possessed.
Smoot had hit the floor, and Ben lowered his armor-glass window enough to get his Thompson in service. He didn’t need it; the grenades had washed the sidecar with blood and cleaned the driver off the hog. It careened forward to crash into a bridge abutment. A loud metal-meets-concrete grinding reached into the Hummer a moment before a soft whumpf accompanied an orange ball of exploding gasoline.
“There’s more of them,” Jersey said from Ben’s right. “A whole damn swarm.”
“Well, screw this,” Ben said hotly. “Coop, wait until they get at optimum range and empty those bloopers into them. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“Who are they, General? They aren’t wearing any Nazi regalia,” Corrie asked, anxious to relay the information to the main column.
“I would gather they are the Alien Secretions intel has listed in enemy radio traffic,” Ben advised her.
Flames from the Ashes Page 7