Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  He threw up his hands. His weapon clattered in the rubble. “Sorry,” Jersey said, tight-lipped. “No prisoners.” And shot him.

  Right then one of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles caught up to Ben’s Hummer. It sprayed the remaining Nazi trash on their flank and found itself in a disagreement with a pair of the light tanks Field Marshal Hoffman had assigned to Volmer’s American cruds. One of the 75mm guns flashed and the BFV went bright white inside, rapidly going through blue to yellow, orange, and red.

  “Aw, shit,” Ben murmured, choked up. “They died protecting me.” He sounded for once as though he regretted his hare-brained adventuring.

  “Yeah, and we’d better be hauling ass, boss,” Jersey put in. “Those tanks can cream us in an eyeblink.”

  Ben made a swift study of the hole out of which the American Nazis had appeared. It revealed itself to be the crumbled side of a subterranean vault. At one time a bank had done business here in the mall. He pointed to it with the muzzle of his Thompson.

  “Down there. My bet is it’s a bank vault. If they don’t see us, they can’t hurt us.”

  Secure from the view of the enemy gunners, Ben made a quick appraisal. “Pop a round from time to time from that blooper, Coop,” Ben suggested. “Keep them around and interested, but at a distance. Because if that Bradley came around, the Abramses can’t be far behind.”

  From outside came a frightful roaring as some three hundred screaming Nazi fanatics swarmed onto the parking lot.

  SIXTEEN

  Abruptly, as though cleanly sliced with a knife, the terrain changed. To the west of the line of demarcation, early fall retained its light touch on the land. On the other, winter had arrived with a vengeance. Tina Raines looked on with wonder as big, fat flakes of snow fell all around the column. She had ignored those Nazis who had fled in the direction of Cheyenne. Enough Rebels had gathered there to handle a company or so of demoralized troops. Her pursuit of those black-shirts who sought to rejoin their comrades in the west had been conducted at full speed along State Highway 130. She had them now.

  According to the last transmission from the scouts, speed and nature had conspired to deliver the shattered storm troopers into Rebel hands. Snow had been falling for several hours here in the Medicine Bow Mountains. Tina gauged the accumulation on the level at about eleven inches, with drifts to five and six feet. Up ahead, the scouts reported, drifts had built to an incredible fifteen feet. Progress had slowed due to the wet, heavy blanket of white.

  It had trapped the fugitive black-shirts in the narrow pass between Kennaday Peak to the north, at 10,810 feet and Medicine Bow Peak to the south at 12,013 feet. The highway to the west, already badly deteriorated by years of neglect, had been blocked so solidly that it would take days to clear it. With unscalable heights to both flanks, they could only turn back.

  And behind them came Tina with two-thirds of her effective force. She maintained spotty contact with the Laramie airport. Although enemy troops had been observed streaming by in the direction of Cheyenne, none had engaged the lightened defenses around the terminal. Repairs were proceeding on the Puffs; at last report, nearing completion. They should be back in action in time to kick the living crap out of the reinforcements being sent by the head Nazi. A quick glance ahead showed Tina the long, curving approach to the pass.

  “Let’s halt here and get everyone in their white camo-covers,” she directed.

  Like a lazy snake, the Rebel vehicles pulled to the verge and the troops dismounted. Their breath forming plumes of white vapor, they dug into equipment bags and came up with hooded blouses and baggy trousers of a neutral white color. Pullover covers for their helmets came next. Properly outfitted for the conditions in the Medicine Bow Mountains, the seasoned Rebels took advantage of the break in the long ride to relieve themselves and a few to light up smokes.

  Other preparations went on also. From side compartments of the trucks, the drivers produced large canvas bags, heavy with tire chains, and hydraulic jacks. While the Rebels stamped feet and swung arms to relieve stiffness, the drivers set about affixing the driving aids to the rear wheels. Tina chafed at the delay. Then produced a rueful smile.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” she spoke aloud with cold satisfaction.

  “What’s that, Colonel?” her RT operator asked.

  “Nothing, Vargas. Just an observation on our enemy up ahead.”

  Silvia Vargas eyed her CO with admiration. “You are always so . . . calm. Every time, combat makes my pantalóncitos too small.” She suppressed a giggle.

  Tina Raines rarely shared girly confidences but felt compelled to do so this time. “Me, too. My panties sort of shrink up in the crotch.”

  Big-eyed at this revelation, Silvia blinked. “Really? It never shows . . . that you are scared, I mean.”

  “Silvie, we’re all scared, every time. The trick is that we try like hell to keep anyone else from knowing it. You came up with that last replacement roster from Base Camp One. By then the fighting was all but over, and we enjoyed two months free of engagements. What you’ve seen in this campaign so far is mild, compared to what we’re about to walk into. Even a little house mouse will turn on you when cornered.

  “I want you to stick to me like a second skin,” Tina changed the subject, drafting her plans as she spoke. “In the folds of these mountains, communications are going to be the key. We won’t be able to see our people across the way. The terrain and this snow will cut visibility to about two hundred meters.”

  “That’s bad,” Silvia observed.

  “No, that’s good,” Tina countered, and explained. “The enemy won’t see us, either. If we do this right, it could be a cakewalk.”

  Relieved, Silvia smiled. “You make it sound easy.”

  “This highway is a bottleneck. We’ll use two of the M-1As as a stopper, flank the Nazis, and blast hell out of them before they figure out where we are located. Now, I want to talk with the platoon leaders. Come along with me.”

  Tina and Silvia walked along the line of trucks, APCs, and armor. Tina summoned the subordinate troop leaders and they gathered at the rear of the convoy. Tina addressed Captain Thermopolis first.

  “I’m placing you in command of the armor, Therm. Keep one platoon of headquarters with you to seal the way out. Leadfoot, those scoots of yours won’t be any good in this weather. Take your people up on the slope of Medicine Bow Peak and flank the enemy. When the right time comes, I want you to come down on them with the full effect. You know what I mean. ‘Run, the barbarians have broken through the walls of Rome,’ that sort of thing.”

  Grinning, Leadfoot nodded. “I gotcha, Colonel Lady. We’ll handle it, no sweat.”

  “Scrounge some whites. Those black leather jackets make you stick out like bears hunting a place to hibernate.” To the other platoon leaders, “Lieutenants Strongbow and Harmon, take your people to the north side of the pass and flank the Nazis in the same way. Carry anything not heavy enough to make noise.”

  “I can horse a couple of eighty-one mike-mikes up there,” Strongbow urged. He thought of the long-ago times when his Hunkpapa Sioux ancestors had fought the Blackfoot in these mountains. Now, he believed, he was fighting somewhere significant.

  Tina thought a moment. “Two men on each baseplate. We don’t want any noise. The diesel engines on the M-1As will keep their attention fixed down this direction. We want to keep it that way. Now, when everyone is in place, the Bradleys will scoot forward to a position just short of exposing themselves. The tanks will advance to where they can angle rounds over the rise and into the saddle of the pass. Fire will lift in exactly five minutes. We’ll push forward from your positions, Harmon, and here at once. Fire from the Bradleys’ fifties and chainguns will provide grazing cover.

  “When they start to break and run, that’s when the Goths attack Rome,” Tina pointed out with a nod to Leadfoot.

  Leadfoot’s mustache waggled in amusement. “Well go through them like — what was it that old general said? �
� crap through a goose.”

  “Don’t be too efficient,” Tina warned. “You might overrun and come under fire from Harmon’s platoon.”

  “Okay. No problem. We’ll keep shootin’ an’ shoutin’ and herdin’ them this way.”

  “You got that right, Leadfoot. The idea is to drive them on the armor and the troops held in reserve. We can finish them easily that way. Go back and brief your men.”

  General Field Marshal Hoffman, Führer of the Hemospheric Reich (self-proclaimed), and commander of the New Army of Liberation Expedition (North) sat up with a stricken expression. He had left strict instructions never to interrupt his late-afternoon nap. He fought to wipe the tendrils of sleep from his brain, which spun with the terrible news he had this minute received.

  “What? This cannot be! I will not allow it to be,” he shouted, froth forming at the corners of his twisted mouth. “We cannot, must not, lose Cheyenne.”

  “We haven’t as yet, mein Führer,” Col. Rupert Herd, the G-1, hastened to reassure the leader. “The report is of a full-scale attack, with resistance crumbling. The bulk of reinforcements sent by Col — er — Hauptsturmbannführer Volmer should be arriving at any moment. They will be fresh and will repulse the Rebels easily,” he added confidently.

  “They had better,” Hoffman responded petulantly. “Why hasn’t General Brodermann’s SS struck the Rebels and driven them from the field?”

  “You ordered them to fall back and hold the high passes, mein Führer. And to make ready for the southern probe.”

  Recollection awakened in Hoffman. “Yes, so I did. You did well to awaken me, Hertl. Go along now, I’ll join you in the communications center shortly.”

  “Have you any message for the commander at Cheyenne?”

  Hoffman’s smile had a bleak nature. “Oh, yes. Tell him to hold on, under pain of court-martial and the firing squad.”

  In a matter of seconds, Field Marshal Hoffman would have more bad news to digest.

  “Open fire,” Tina Raines said tightly into the mouthpiece of her radio handset.

  High-velocity 120mm main guns on the M-1As barked with their characteristic ringing blast and sent smoke rings lazily into the snow-clogged air. Jetting gases from the muzzle brakes sent snowflakes to dancing in spirals. Millions of the lacy lamellae winked into steam in the tremendous muzzle bloom. Quickly as new charges could be rammed home, they bellowed again. The 4-inch mortars on the BFVs added their own counterpoint to the big guns. Charged with the tension of the moment, Tina waited out the five minutes of the bombardment.

  In the impact area, terrified Nazis kicked, gagged, and screamed out their lives. Shells burst with shock waves powerful enough to dislodge the heavy layers of snow above the summit of the pass, where they had become bogged down in drifts. It cleared tree limbs in twinkling cascades. Bits of shrapnel buzzed, moaned, and whirred through the underbrush and the huddled soldiers with equal indifference. Detonations echoed off the mountain peaks until they became one blended cataclysm of doom sound.

  “Cease fire,” Tina announced when the second hand of her wristwatch next clicked up on the twelve. “Strongbow, open up with your mortars. Machine-gunners, pick your targets carefully. Bradleys, take your positions.” Tina paused and took a deep breath. “That does it here. I’m going forward.”

  Her executive officer took this in with a disapproving frown. Then he shrugged and cocked a lopsided grin. He’d long ago decided that all the Raines’s were battle-crazy.

  Tina, with a three-man bodyguard, strode purposefully toward the crest of the rise that overlooked the area of the pass where the Nazi troops suffered terrible punishment. Silvia Vargas stuck to her CO closer than a shadow. By the time Tina reached a vantage point, the Bradleys had slewed into position. The big .50 calibers began their deep-throat rumble. Then the ringing clatter of the 30mm chainguns spooling up to operating speed reached her ears. Vibrant with the excitement of battle, Tina Raines looked down on the result of her planning.

  Dark figures lay sprawled grotesquely in the show, which had been stained from light pink to dark red around them. Fully two hundred fighting men remained on their feet. Mortar rounds dropped out of the afternoon sky and cut down more of them. The machine guns scythed through their ranks with awesome finality. Here and there Tina saw isolated centers of disciplined activity.

  From one of those, a man-shape emerged to kneel in the knee-deep snow and level a long tube over his shoulder. Flame spurted backward from his position and Tina instantly saw what to expect.

  “Button up!” she shouted warning to the gunners in the BFVs as she dived for the protection of a snow-filled roadside ditch.

  Two gunners made it in time. Although it did them little good as the rocket-propelled grenade slammed into their vehicle and its shaped charge sent a jet of burning gas through the light armor. Fragments of shrapnel killed the pair on the nearer Bradley an instant before the first exploded in a thunderous crash and ball of flame.

  Chunks of metal moaned by overhead and Tina ducked low in the ditch. Then new fury claimed her. She rose, knees shaking and stalked toward the undamaged BFV.

  “You bastards,” she growled, eyes fixed on the rocket gunner who was being reloaded by a crewman.

  Tina negotiated the three external steps in a smooth, limber economy of motion. Her nimble fingers unhooked the harness of the chaingun operator and let him slide down the hatch. Quickly she took his position and swung the multibarrel weapon toward the Nazi marksman.

  Explosive 30mm shells churned ground across fifty feet as Tina tracked him, then they struck home in flesh. Literally blown asunder, the black-shirt cartwheeled through the air in several directions, his RPG a dented, useless tube of metal on the bloody snow. With telling effect, she hosed down the rest of the crew and exterminated that strong point. Still firing at a new point of resistance, Tina slapped a palm on the inside of the hatchway.

  “Take me down there,” she commanded.

  “Wait,” Silvia yelled from the side of the Bradley. “You said to stick with you and I’m not halfway up this thing.”

  “Hold it a mo’ for my RT,” Tina relented.

  Silvia joined her, and they jolted over the crest and down the road toward the embattled Nazis. “What should I do?” Silvia Vargas asked, bug-eyed.

  “Get that man out of there and take the Fifty,” Tina told her. “You can shoot, can’t you?”

  Pride lighted the young Mexican-American’s face. “Qualified expert on all our machine guns,” she responded.

  “Then let’s go hose down some supermen,” Tina quipped.

  Harmon’s Rebels had gotten into motion by that time. They streamed out of the tree line to the north, firing in short bursts as they ran downhill to the pass. Those black-shirts with enough wits about them threw grenades and took defensive positions behind their stranded vehicles.

  Actually doing something served to rally them. They steadied down and began to inflict casualties. Then the big Rebel MBTs rumbled into view at the high point of the road east. Footsoldiers flowed around them and started down on the unnerved Nazis. A bull-roar came unexpectedly from the slopes to the south.

  “Hot damn, boys!” Leadfoot shouted. “Let’s go scrag Nazi ass!”

  Hooting, yelping, and wailing, the Sons of Satan poured down on the thoroughly demoralized black-shirts. Penned in by snowdrifts and armor, faced on three sides by advancing infantry, the American crud of Volmer’s command deteriorated into panic.

  One less-feverish noncom judged rightly that the smallest unit committed against them came from the south. He assumed command of escape-minded Nazis near his position and led them that way.

  They closed within a few feet before they realized that the howling madmen were not merely swinging their arms around over their heads. Their gloved hands held length of motorcycle drive chain. Studded with razor blades, these improvised weapons brought quick, bloody ruin to the bold sergeant’s plan.

  Blood spurted and Nazis fell, writhing and sh
rieking on the ground. Here and there among them, rifles and pistols cracked a final farewell to the slashed and helpless black-shirts. When the last one had been rendered harmless, Leadfoot rallied his followers.

  “Fun’s over, boys,” he informed them in a stentorian roar. “Now pick your targets and fire slow — ah — ly. Fire slowly,” he repeated, conscious of the hard hours he had put in in secret with Thermopolis to work on his manner of speaking. Hell, it weren’t no crime for someone to try to improve himself, right? Down below he saw the undamaged Bradley advancing into the teeth of the last resistance.

  Tina and Silvia slashed swaths across the desperate and frightened black-shirt troops. The Bradley afforded them fair protection, except for grenades, Tina reminded herself. She lined up on five Nazis who took careful aim and fired with calm control. The 30mm chaingun rattled their death knell and fell silent.

  Gradually the entire pass quieted. The acrid odor of powder smoke and coppery bite of blood scent filled the air. In less than five minutes, only the moaning and screams of the wounded could be heard. Tina’s exec brought her a count.

  “We lost twenty-five KIA, forty WIA. There’s about ninety-five Nazis unharmed, a hundred twenty-one total alive.”

  Silvia’s voice came small and wonder-filled. “What makes them hate us so? What could twist someone to join such a sick, terrible thing?”

  Suddenly, Tina realized that Silvia asked a question she had never had fully answered. Curious, she dismounted from the Bradley and walked to where the prisoners had been corralled behind some barbed wire hastily strung between trees. She motioned to one with officer’s pips on his collar.

  “I’m curious. You appear to be a reasonably intelligent person. You’re clean and careful in your appearance. Why did you throw in your lot with these losers?”