Ben directed Cooper to park in front of the largest pile of rubble. Jersey got out first. She gave the area a quick check and stepped aside, M-16 at the ready, and nodded an okay to Ben to emerge. Beth stepped out on the opposite side, her heart-shaped face turned to survey their backtrail. Corrie lugged her radio along as she exited. Taking the lead, Ben brought the team around one side of the big house at the end and they looked down into the basin. Shells still fluttered overhead to fall into the basin.
Plumes of smoke and debris rose in huge columns as the rounds detonated. Ben swung his extended arm in an arc. “They’ve been driven back on themselves. That should create a nice confusion,” he observed. “Well go down there, where those tanks are slugging it out. By the time we get there, Ike’s lead element should be well into their assault.”
“General,” Jersey protested. “You ask me, I think we’ve got a good place right where we are. We can see everything that’s happening.”
“But not clearly, Jersey,” Ben contradicted. “We might as well be a mile behind the lines as up here.”
“General, there’s a vehicle headed this way,” Beth advised him, a slight edge in her voice.
“Ours or theirs?”
“Theirs, I think.”
“Oh, great,” Cooper complained. “And us with no way to go except through them.”
“A remarkable idea, Cooper,” Ben said lightly. “Yes, I think we’ll do just that.”
“Huh?” Cooper blurted. “We don’t know what they might be carrying.”
“The question is, do we want to stick around and find out?” Ben bantered, exhilarated by the prospect of a fight.
“There’s more of them, on foot, coming up this side of the knob,” Jersey warned. “Looks to be about fifteen of them.”
“Back to the Hummer, folks,” Ben cheerily suggested.
Returned to the light armored vehicle, Ben and his team had only time to take their weapons off safety before the careening truck slewed to a halt some fifty yards away. It spilled men onto the ground who opened fire before they could take aim.
Bullets cracked over Ben’s head and he took a firm grip on the old thunder-banger in his hands. The .45 slugs from the Thompson stitched across the chests of three Nazis at a cost of only eleven rounds. Cooper, kneeling behind the motor compartment, loosed a 40mm grenade from his blooper. It detonated on the stake side of the truck. Thin shreds of shrapnel whizzed through the air and flesh with equal ease.
Men screamed and threw up their arms, to topple facefirst in the dirt. Ben dispatched the remaining pair with two 3-round bursts from his Thompson. One Nazi, only slightly wounded by Cooper’s grenade, crawled forward relentlessly, his eyes fixed on the tall, rangy figure of Ben Raines. Ever so slowly he eased his rifle into position.
Never taking his gaze off Ben’s crouched frame, he worked the butt into the pocket of his shoulder and blinked oily pain sweat from his eyes. The front sight blurred slightly and the black-shirt silently cursed it. Then the picture came into sharp focus. He took a deep breath and began to take up slack on the trigger.
Before the hammer could trip and drive the firing pin forward, Jersey pulped his head with a sustained burst from her M-16. His first dying spasm set off the rifle and sent a round close over the top of Ben’s left shoulder.
“Thanks,” Ben curdy offered to Jersey.
That left them with time to take up new positions and change for fresh magazines. Then the screaming Nazis crested the top of the knob and ran toward Ben and team across the scraggly, unkempt lawn of the big house.
“Welcome to the party, assholes,” Jersey spat as she sent a short burst into the lead three black-shirts.
A small black spheroid flew from the hand of one to bounce on the lawn and roll a couple of feet closer to the Hummer. “Grenade!” Cooper shouted.
Everyone ducked behind the Humvee and the hand bomb exploded a second later. Fragments rattled off the light armor of the general-purpose vehicle and scarred the paint. Ben wet suddenly dry lips and cut his eyes to the Nazis. They had bounded to their feet and rushed dangerously close to the Hummer. He chopped at them with the Thompson until the fifty-round drum ran dry. In a smooth, agile move, Ben rested the hot barrel against the side of the Humvee and drew his .50 Desert Eagle.
His first round splattered a black-shirt thirty feet from them. His next two crippled another hatemonger. He could see the glint of desperation in the eyes of the next Nazi he shot.
Felled as though a switch had been turned off, the dead black-shirt bounced twice when he hit the ground. Ben pumped his next round into a screaming face not ten feet from where he stood. His last round ended the uneven contest by blowing away the back of a Nazi’s head who, had he had a bayonet on his rifle, could have skewered Ben with ease.
Ben looked around at the unmoving bodies. “Well, that’s over,” he panted.
“General, you still want to go down there?” Jersey asked dubiously.
“Of course. What are we waiting for?” Ben told her, enjoying himself.
TWO
Peter Volmer climbed from the cramped rear seat of the two-place, Argentine-made Blanca. Painted silver, it bore the black cross emblem on the fuselage and swastika on the vertical stabilizer. He stepped onto the ramp of a small airfield gouged out by Nazi engineers near the spacious ranch house at Wallowa Lake in Oregon. He was greeted by General Field Marshal Hoffman.
“Heil Hitler!” Volmer saluted his leader.
“Heil,” Hoffman responded idly, then instructed this most-powerful American Nazi. “Oh, by the way, it is Heil Hoffman, now. I have decided to take up the mantle of my true position as Führer of the Western Hemispheric National Socialist Alliance.”
“Uh! Ah — congratulations, mein Führer,” Volmer stammered. “The world is ripe for a strong leader. You have summoned me for some matter of grave importance, mein Führer?”
“Yes, I have. We’ll discuss it over cakes and coffee. Come to my headquarters.”
Ten minutes later, an orderly served strudel and kaffeekuchen to an uncomfortable and impatient Peter Volmer in Jesus Hoffman’s office. They stood to lose a rare and important opportunity, Volmer thought, by frittering away time on these amenities, as though it were 1938 in Berlin. From the way Hoffman rambled on, Volmer knew that the newly made Führer took himself seriously in this matter. Jesus! Cakes and coffee while the Rebels consolidated their victories at Cheyenne and Denver. At last Hoffman got around to the business at hand.
“Tell me, er, Brigadeführer,” Hoffman slipped the promotion in slyly, “what exactly is this plan of yours to rid our Reich of Ben Raines?”
Volmer raised eyebrows. He had not missed the change in rank. Equal now to Brodermann, eh? Well, so be it. He had worked hard, made sacrifices for the Party. And his men had fought well, all things considered. Game-playing and politicking didn’t suit Peter Volmer, but he decided it to be the best course under the circumstances.
“Did I hear you correctly, mein Führer? Brigadeführer? I — I am honored.”
“Your men number enough to qualify as a brigade,” Hoffman said expansively. “At least they did before . . . Denver. But no matter. I had decided to promote you, so I shall. Now, please enlarge on your plan.”
“Thank you, mein Führer. It is my intention to employ my Werwolfen, in fact they are already shadowing the column of Rebels, led by Ben Raines, that is moving south out of Denver.”
“Excellent. Go on.”
“With all due respect, mein Führer,” Volmer shot his gaze around the room, at the staff officers, “I feel that this is so sensitive a plan that it must remain classified Highest Secret. That way we are assured of success.”
Hoffman understood at once. He nodded and addressed the staff. “If you gentlemen will excuse the Brigadeführer and myself?” After the disgruntled staff had filed out of the room, Hoffman leaned forward in anticipation. “Now, tell me, Volmer. Tell me everything.”
Quickly and concisely, Peter Volmer laid out hi
s grand scheme for snaring Ben Raines in an inescapable trap.
Denver had gone well. The Nazi enclave in the Denver Basin had fallen with minimal losses for the Rebels. By the time Cooper had driven Ben Raines to the point of greatest action, it had become a rear area. Ben pushed on, only to find the complete destruction of the black-shirt units a done deal. After a few hours’ rest and a hot meal, Ben organized his tactical commands and pushed on to the south.
Rolling up the Nazis in the southern half of Hoffman’s vaunted “Eastern Wall” proved far easier than Ben anticipated. Before long, he and the R Batt breezed along I-25 south two days ahead of all the other units, except for Buddy’s task force, assigned to Raton Pass and surrounding area.
“The last time through here,” Ben noted irritably as the Hummer struck yet another huge pothole, “we did too damn good of a job wrecking the bridges and roadway.”
“You can say that again, General,” Cooper agreed over his shoulder.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Cooper,” Jersey snapped. Cooper gulped and looked front. Jersey grinned, her face swathed in an aura of innocence.
“General,” Beth began hesitantly, unsure of how to present her information. “Do you realize we are out ahead of the forward scouts by at least an hour and a half?”
Ben Raines pondered that. “Hummm. I suppose we are.” Then he lightened up. “What do you propose we do about that?”
“Maybe we should slow down and let them catch up. If General McGowan learns of this, he’ll be having a fit.”
“If we go any slower, we’ll be standing still,” Ben complained. “We’re doing what, Coop?”
“Twenty-five miles per, General,” Cooper sang out.
“See there? We’re south of Colorado Springs, south of Pueblo, and no sign of resistance. If we move along smartly enough, we can link up with Buddy outside Trinidad.”
Fifteen minutes later, the obstructions in the highway began to take on a more orderly appearance. Half a mile further, they became part of a concrete maze that narrowed to a single lane for the movement of anything either direction. When Cooper came upon a phalanx of railroad rails, slanted and sharpened in such a manner as to prevent escape from the maze, Ben ordered a halt.
“This is interesting,” he remarked dryly.
“Do you think the black-shirts built it, General?” Beth asked from the seat next to Ben.
“I doubt it. They weren’t here long enough. But it is man-made, deliberate. I’d like to take a closer look.” Ben reached for the door to the Humvee.
Immediately, heavily armed men and women rose among the blocks of concrete. They wore flowing white robes, the women with hair to their waists, the men with beards and hair almost as long.
“Step out of that car, strangers. Keep your hands in sight and no fast moves,” said one of them in a sepulchral voice, heavy with menace.
Several of the women among the ambushers clapped their hands, then pressed them together in a prayerful gesture. “Praise the Lord!” they chanted.
Their men proved more prosaic in their actions. They came forward and quickly snatched rifles from the hands of Cooper, Beth, Corrie, and Jersey. When Jersey resisted by not releasing her grip, she received a sharp backhand slap to the face.
“You son of a bitch!” she barked in outrage.
“Easy, Jersey,” Ben Raines cautioned. “I think we’ve found a group of religious wackos.”
“So I gather,” Jersey grumbled. Suddenly scarlet suffused her face. “Dammit, General, I’ve let you down again.”
“Not really. These folks were in control from the time we entered their traps.”
“No talking,” a bulldog-faced man snapped.
One, obviously the leader, looked down at Ben Raines and his team from his astounding height of seven foot one inch. “Identify yourselves,” he demanded.
It took some energetic prodding from rifle barrels to get any response. “My name’s Cooper,” Ben’s driver stated sullenly.
“Beth Simms,” the shapely young woman answered.
“Corrie Granger,” Corrie identified herself.
“They call me Jersey,” came resentfully.
“I am General Ben Raines of the Rebel army.”
Several of the women covered their faces and shrieked in what sounded like genuine terror. A few made the sign to ward off the evil eye. A number muttered prayers. Surprise washed over the gaunt, drawn face of the giant.
“The Great Satan himself,” he roared. “Our Aryan brothers have warned us of you.”
“Y’mean this bunch is in with the Nazis?” Jersey asked Ben sotto voce.
Big, long ears picked up her whispers clearly. The tall, lean specter bent toward her and spoke again in that hollow, vibrant voice. “No, little lady. We are not a part of the Nazis. Although they share with us a belief in the purity of the white race, they refuse to recognize the authority of Gawd,” he actually said it like that, drawing out the word from a mouth that formed a perfect “O”. “They would also be our masters and not partners, so we dealt with them otherwise.”
“How’s that? I’m interested,” Ben said conversationally.
“We ask the questions, Satan Raines,” the huge man thundered. “Your life is forfeit if Gawd so decrees. We are taking you to our settlement, where you will be given a trial and your fate decided.”
“If you are going to give us a trial, the least you can do is tell us who you are and who are these people?” Ben insisted.
“These Brothers and Sisters are the Assembly of the End of the World. I am their pastor, Brother Armageddon.”
“You were right, boss,” Jersey whispered. “A bunch of wackos.”
“Silence!” Brother Armageddon bellowed.
“R Batt knows,” Corrie told Ben in a whisper, accompanied by a wink.
“Who is R Batt?” Brother Armageddon demanded.
“Why, he’s the Rebel god,” Ben lied outrageously.
“Heathens,” several of the Assembly hissed.
“Devil worshipers,” others denounced all Rebels.
“Out of your mouth you have condemned yourselves,” Brother Armageddon thundered in righteous indignation. Then he turned to his followers. “Number One, you and Three and Four, bind the hands of the women.”
A young woman, who out of her stark robe and stringy hair would have been attractive, hesitated, shrank back into the ring of End of the Worlders. Brother Armageddon glowered at her.
“Wives, obey your husband,” he roared.
Ben wondered if he ever spoke in a normal tone. He also noted the implication of polygamy. Armageddon made it clear that a woman’s lot would not be ideal among these fanatics. Then, from the direction of the Hummer, he heard a faint click that interrupted the steady, low-level flow of static, followed by two more. Corrie’s Mayday signal had been heard and acted on by R Batt. The three clicks indicated that whoever had come forward had them in sight.
That didn’t guarantee that they could reach Ben and his team in time. Conscious of this, Ben Raines decided to stall for as long as he could. Fortunately, they had so far neglected to remove his big Desert Eagle .50 pistol from the holster. That could prove useful. Summoning his knowledge of more-orthodox religions, Ben prepared to argue with Brother Armageddon.
“Tell me about this god of yours,” he urged Armageddon. “I would like to know more.”
Unable to resist the desire to obtain yet another convert, Brother Armageddon willingly walked into Ben’s trap. “Why, He is the god of the universe, Lord of all. It is He who brought on us the Great War, as punishment for our wicked ways.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Ben offered with a rueful chuckle.
Brother Armageddon looked surprised. “Why, no one can. Not even the Great Satan Ben Raines. He also visited us with the plague, to purge us of nonbelievers.”
“It appears to me that an awful lot survived,” Ben remarked.
“Why, that was His will, to which we all must bend,” Armageddon explained
in an almost-conversational tone. “Can’t you see it? It was all explained in the Book of Revelation.”
While receiving this lesson in theology, Ben had been watching from the corner of his eye while camo-clad Rebel scouts and snipers had been slithering through the underbrush. Now, three more clicks came from the radio Corrie had left turned on in the Hummer. Ben let himself relax into the familiar calm before action and decided to punch up the pressure somewhat.
“What about the Antichrist? He hasn’t had his thousand-year reign and yet you say this is the end of the world.”
Brother Armageddon looked confused a moment, then swelled his chest and roared at Ben, “It is you! You are the Antichrist, Ben Raines!”
“I don’t think so,” Ben answered as his hand closed over the grip of his Desert Eagle.
He whipped it clear as the two Assemblymen most directly in line to fire on Ben’s team jolted backward and fell to the ground. “Run, girls,” Ben commanded.
Although trussed like turkeys for the chopping block, Corrie, Beth, and Jersey took off to the meaty sound of bullets impacting in flesh. Cooper made a dive for the religious fanatic holding his beloved CAR-15 while Ben sent a round toward Brother Armageddon.
Ben’s bullet cut through the cloth of Armageddon’s robe and did no harm. An angry shout from another of the holy-joes forced him to change targets. Ben found himself looking at the muzzle of a Remington 700 in excellent condition as he triggered another shot. The big .50 slug smashed into the chest of the man with the Remington. It drove him backward, feet windmilling, and he dropped the rifle. Ben put a safety shot in the End of the Worlder’s gut as a fusillade broke out from the hillside to Ben’s right.
With the team and Ben safely out of the line of fire, the Rebels opened up on the religious crazies. Armageddon began at once to bellow orders. His followers responded with alacrity.
“Retreat! Scatter and hide from the imps of Satan,” Armageddon bellowed.
Giving no resistance, the flock ran off over the hilly ground, soon to be lost from sight. The Rebels ceased firing. Cooper came to his feet with his CAR-15 trained on the man who had formerly held it.
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