Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Whoever is commanding this Rebel scum has made a terrible tactical mistake,” he remarked to his executive officer. “They assume that, if attacked, we would move north toward the Führer’s bastion in Oregon. He has closed off access to the east, naturally, to preserve Rebel territory, but placed the rest of his force to our north.

  Should the situation require it, that allows us to withdraw to the south and join our Kameraden in Raton Pass.”

  “Ummm. I should think they would be aware of that,” Major Richard Gross observed.

  “It is said General Raines remains in close touch with Denver and Cheyenne, both in Rebel hands as of now. This might be some young, untried commander,” Klein opined. “No matter. See to it that contingency plans are made for us to take advantage of that omission.”

  “I will at once,” Gross replied.

  Thirty minutes later, at 1640 hours, the Rebel shelling began.

  It caught the American Nazis by surprise. Rounds from 155mm guns dropped in the rear areas of the SS defenses, blasting two field kitchens to steaming ruins. Tents and vehicles suffered mightily. One Six-by hurtled into the clear mountain sky, trailing a stream of fire from its ruptured gas tanks. Casualties began to mount.

  Other rounds fell on the entrenched positions of the line companies. Rebel FOs had the advantage of the heights around the Nazi defenses. They called in pinpoint fire on machine-gun nests, armor, and armored personnel carriers. Whizzing shrapnel kept down the heads of SS troopers. Confusion in the rear echelon escalated into pandemonium. By the time darkness fell and Ben’s R Batt got on the move, the Nazis were in no condition to take note of it. Obersturmbannführer Erik Klein summed up the situation in a mood of white-lipped, impotent fury.

  “This Rebel commander may be lacking in tactical experience, but he is painfully aware of the value of artillery. Damn the man! And damn Ben Raines.”

  FOUR

  Ben Raines turned away from the map on the wall of his mobile CP. “Buddy is putting on pressure to the north and east. The Nazis would have to push through the ruins of the city to head west. I think it’s time to load up in the Hummer. We’re going to have some visitors soon.”

  Concern colored Jersey’s words. “Boss, you haven’t had a full night’s sleep since before we met those holy lunatics.”

  Ben stifled a yawn. “Don’t remind me. We’ll be in Santa Rosa before I get the chance, the way I see it.”

  Ten minutes later, inside the Hummer, pathfinder scouts reported light probing action by the black-shirts. Ben leaned forward and spoke to Cooper. “Take us up with those pathfinders. I want to see what we’re facing.”

  A twelve-man patrol had been allowed to slip through the advance screen of R Batt. Ben observed them from the Humvee while they did a fairly professional job of reconnoitering the old interstate south toward Raton Pass. Ben keyed the mike when the last of them went past the deep shadows where the Hummer sat.

  “Stop them three hundred meters short of our main lines,” he commanded.

  There would be more to follow, he knew. They came twenty minutes later. Three trucks, escorted by armored personnel carriers. Ben let them come up close, then gave the command to fire.

  “Stop them here and then pull back to form a pocket,” he concluded.

  Streams of tracers slashed into the unprotected trucks. Screams came from the occupants, some of whom tumbled dead onto the roadway. The APCs reacted instantly, disgorging ready troops, who spread out and returned fire as well as the darkness allowed. One of the squat, slant-sided vehicles geared up and raced directly for Ben’s Hummer.

  “Bail out, people,” Ben advised as he hit the door latch.

  He hit the ground rolling and came up with his Thompson ready and yammering. Forty-five slugs spanged off the light armor of the rampaging APC. It continued to swell in size as its engine raced. Then Cooper fired a grenade round that dropped behind the armored front into the open-top troop compartment. It went off with a fearsome flash and bang.

  Concussion disabled the driver, who fell across his controls. That caused the armored vehicle to veer to the right and run past the Hummer with engine screaming. It proceeded on to the verge of a ravine and launched out into space, before settling nose-first into the streambed below.

  In the abrupt silence that followed the APC’s end, Ben caught sight of half a dozen black-shirts rushing their direction. They might be intent on a rescue attempt, but Ben hadn’t the luxury of giving them the benefit of a doubt. Vertical tongues of flame spurted from the compensator on the muzzle of Ben’s tommy gun. The lethal hot lead chewed into running men, who tumbled like rag dolls thrown by an angry child.

  “This is getting too personal,” Jersey suggested from her place beside him. “Let’s get back in the Hummer.”

  “It’s just getting exciting,” Ben protested, a fierce grin spreading his lips. He saw movement to his left and turned the Thompson in that direction.

  Bullets sprayed the darkness and a scream came from one unfortunate Nazi. Ben paused to change the drum magazines and put his old faithful back in action. In the interim, more of the Nazi horde came pelting out of their compound outside Trinidad.

  “There’s too many of them, General,” Beth declared. “We’d better draw back while we can.”

  Ben chucked a grenade at a clump of disorganized Nazis and followed it with a trio of five-round bursts. Not so numerous, nor so crazed as the creepies, the black-shirts kept coming in disciplined rushes. Reluctantly, Ben gave council to good advice and climbed into the Hummer. Cooper kicked the utility vehicle to life and they scooted out of there only seconds ahead of the Nazi armor.

  Wire-guided missiles came into play as the rumble of heavy tanks filled the night. Ben and his team strained to watch what happened behind. Night became midday within a second of impact by the Rebel missiles. In the aftermath, the Rebels withdrew according to Ben’s plan.

  “Well, we certainly got their attention,” Ben quipped as he reached for a plastic bottle of Colorado spring water.

  “We’ve been trapped!” Major Gross shouted as he burst into Obersturmbannführer Klein’s operations center.

  “Easy, Richard, what is it now?” Klein asked tiredly.

  “Somehow, the goddamned Rebels positioned troops to the south of us. Reports from the surviving officers of the retrograde force indicate a strength of at least a battalion. They have armor and a madman who single-handedly destroyed an armored personnel carrier and some eleven footsoldiers.”

  “One man?” Klein demanded, incredulous. Then he thought it through. “Ben Raines. By God, we’ve got Ben Raines caught between us and the troops in the pass. Get on the radio and alert Miller to send a reconnaissance in force this direction. We have a chance to destroy the Rebel high command.” Smirking, Klein went to the map table. “Show me exactly where our men came under fire.”

  A messenger rushed inside the operations center, eyes wild, face ashen. “Rebels are inside our eastern lines, Herr Obersturmbannführer. The northern sector is collapsing. Major Pritz fears a general route in the making.”

  “Damn them. Damn the Rebel Schwein! All right,” Klein went on, recovering his temperament. “My orders are for every command to restore order and to realign for immediate movement to the south. We’ll push into the Rebels there and perhaps overrun Ben Raines,” he added, eyes glowing.

  Tightly fitted into the protective platoon of Rebels, the Humvee occupied by Ben Raines sat on a promontory overlooking the fighting below. Corrie, eyes alight with satisfaction, presented the radio handset to Ben.

  “Buddy on the line, General. All resistance in the Trinidad operational area is crumbling. He reports several columns of Nazi vehicles headed south.”

  Ben spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Eagle, go, Rat.”

  “We’re coasting through the Nazi fortifications, Eagle,” Buddy’s voice crackled back, robbed of emotion by the scrambler.

  “Roger that, Rat. Only, don’t you think it is a little too easy?”<
br />
  Buddy paused to consider. “Not when they’re running directly toward you, Eagle. And I do mean running.”

  “Well be waiting,” Ben assured his son. “What say you come in on them from behind?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Buddy handed back. “You know, I’m sure glad I’m not fighting you. You can be as devious as hell’s host at times.”

  “Why, thank you, Rat. I take that as a compliment. Report when you link up with your northern elements and head after the Nazi scum-suckers. Eagle out.”

  Ben sighed as he handed back the instrument. “Buddy’s feeling his nuts. Even with that scrambler unit, I can tell he’s having the time of his life.”

  “Only you hope he don’t stick his neck too far out and get his head chopped off, huh, boss?” Jersey put Ben’s disquiet into words he would never say.

  Rather, he gave her a tight-lipped nod. “I want to get a look at this retreating column of Nazis. Coop, can you find enough side roads to take us up close?”

  “Now, General,” Beth objected. “You are supposed to stay right here with the platoon.”

  Ben made a face. “Ike McGowan’s been chewing again,” he speculated rightly. “People, Ike’s three hundred miles away, and Chase is with him, so I think I can tend the store without their help.”

  Grinning, Cooper turned to eye the general. “I’ve already worked out a route that should do it for us.”

  “You two,” Beth complained with a toss of her long locks. “Men are all alike. Always off on a lark. The only difference between small boys and grown men is the size of their toys.”

  “And how dangerous they are,” Corrie added as an afterthought.

  “The toys or the men?” Ben asked, picking up on their banter.

  “Both,” Beth and Corrie chorused.

  Cooper hadn’t need to take to the roads. Ten minutes later, the advance elements of the Nazi retreat to Raton Pass slammed into the Rebel lines.

  Laughing, Cooper started the Hummer and eased along with the protective screen for Ben Raines. “Looks like they got here before you could go look for them, General.”

  “You got that right, Coop. Let’s see if we can find any of their command elements. I’ve an idea these are mostly American Nazis. Without a head, they’ll be easily scattered.”

  “Why so, General, if I may ask,” Beth queried.

  “Remember the mob in that drive-in back in Nebraska? They fought us rather well when Volmer was there. But they came to pieces when he skinnied out on them and took all the leaders except for one.”

  “You’re right, boss,” Jersey added her bit. “And Tina called them more Nazi than Hoffman’s storm troopers. They’re strong on theory and singing songs, but not had the chance to become good fighters.”

  “Combat troops don’t come from singing the “Horst Wessel Song” and spray-painting swastikas on synagogues — or whatever hate activities they thought up after the Great War,” Ben agreed. “Corrie, bump R Batt commo and have them triangulate the center of most outgoing Nazi radio traffic.”

  Jersey gave Ben a wink. “You’re going ahead with it, aren’t you, boss?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Ben asked with a feigned look of innocence.

  After twenty minutes, during which Ben consumed two hand-rolled cigarettes, Corrie gave him the word. “We have a choice of three places. If I can see that map, Cooper.” She oriented herself quickly and identified the locations, pointing them out to Ben.

  “Here, and here. And right here, directly in front of us.

  Mischief flashed in Ben’s eyes. “Any preferences?”

  Cooper got them to the eastern, or right, flank of the Nazi movement toward Raton in quick order. To the surprise of the team and Ben Raines, they slipped from their lines through the vangard of the approaching black-shirts without being challenged. Ben recklessly made a quick decision.

  “Let’s find that comm van. I think we should pay them a call.”

  “Need we remind you that we’re out here without the platoon?” Beth asked quietly.

  “All the more reason we got away with this so far,” Ben countered. “If we play this right, we can wipe out the entire command center for this column.”

  “Colonel Ike won’t like you taking those kind of chances,” Jersey mentioned.

  “I suppose not. But remember what Napoleon said: ‘L’audasse, l’audasse, toujours l’audasse.’”

  “What?” Jersey asked, nose wrinkled. “My French ain’t so good.”

  “Napoléon advises us to be audacious, always audacious. We’ll just walk in there like we belong and blow up their comm van.”

  Jersey threw her free hand in the air; the other held her M-16. “The man’s lost his marbles.”

  “Hide and watch, Jersey,” Ben suggested.

  Give or take fifty yards, Cooper drove them to the exact spot indicated on the map. Without satellite oversight, Rebel tracking was a little lacking in accuracy. Good enough, though. What looked like a large refrigerated, dual-wheeled truck, painted forest-camo colors, bristled with antennas as it rolled along a state highway that paralleled I-25. Road conditions and shelling harassment from Buddy’s Rebels had reduced their progress to a brisk walking pace.

  At Ben’s direction, Cooper swung the Humvee in beside the thick-walled truck. Ben and Jersey stepped from the halted Hummer and caught up with the rear of the Nazi vehicle. A lift gate served as a stoop outside a low door. Ben plucked a Rebel version of the M-26 fragger from his battle harness and pulled the pin after he had climbed to the platform.

  Jersey, eyes as nervous as the rest of her, kept watch for Ben. He rapped on the door and it opened a moment later. The staccato rattle of radio voices came from the interior. Ben looked the surprised Nazi in the eyes and tossed the grenade beyond him.

  “Adiós, asshole,” the CG of all Rebel forces said before he jumped from the lift gate to the comparative safety of the road.

  A wild scream of terror preceded the explosion of the grenade. In such confined quarters, with its thickened walls, the little strips of wire shrapnel did terrible damage. In a flicker, all communication with this column ceased to exist.

  “On our way, children,” Ben declared as he returned to the Hummer.

  * * *

  Ben had Cooper remain behind the lead elements of the Nazi retreat. Confusion and fear haunted the common troopers. Most naturally assumed that any vehicle that drove about purposefully within their ranks had a reason for being there. What they didn’t know was what that reason happened to be.

  “Well work our way to the other flank and take out that comm center next,” Ben advised his team.

  “General, we’re likely to get our ass in a crack,” Cooper protested.

  “You, too, Coop? I thought you were on my side.”

  “Coop is right, for once,” Jersey added. “Our necks are stuck out far enough. Yours is stuck out way too damn far.”

  Ben helped himself to coffee from the large stainless thermos. He considered rolling another cigarette, but his tobacco supply had dwindled in the past week. “Jersey, we’re simply doing some creative terrorizing. Get these people unhinged and we won’t have near so many to fight in the pass.”

  Jersey grinned, more her old self again. “Now, that’s something worth taking a chance or two, for sure.”

  “And I promise, no one will have his or her neck out far enough to feel the bite of an ax,” Ben put a cap on the topic.

  Captain Thermopolis had his hands full of Nazis that night, too. It had grown bitterly cold in the high country around Casper, Wyoming. The Headquarters Company, reinforced by the bikers of Leadfoot and Wanda, had stalled out against heavy resistance. It called, Thermopolis decided, for some creative thinking.

  “Leadfoot, some of your bikers have old coal-scuttle German helmets, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. A few,” the huge ex-outlaw biker replied.

  “Anyone taken a few souvenirs from the modern Nazi slime?”

  Leadfoot’
s brow wrinkled in concentration. “I could scrounge maybe twenty armbands, some death’s-head cap badges.”

  “These American vermin wear cammies almost like our own. How’d you like to report in for duty with the Nazis in Casper?”

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  “No, only too serious. At least the ruse of you all dolled up in Nazi regalia might hold up to get you past their sentries and pointed in the right direction for the headquarters. The rest will be up to you.”

  A grin replaced Leadfoot’s worry lines. “We’ll kick the shit outta them.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Thermopolis advised. “Oh, and be sure and come back.”

  Leadfoot gave Thermopolis the universal gesture of an extended middle finger. Then, with a wolfish expression, he set out to organize his bikers.

  Twenty minutes later they rolled into the rubble-strewn streets at the outskirts of Casper. “Heil Hitler!” Leadfoot greeted the first Nazi he saw.

  “Where have you been?” an American voice answered him. “It’s Heil Hoffman now.”

  “No shit? What brought that on?”

  “Our South American friend has declared himself Führer of the Americas. It should have been Peter Volmer’s place to do that,” he complained. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Out west, by way of down south,” Leadfoot gave confusingly. “We come to join up. Goddamn, how we hate Ben Raines.”

  “Who don’t? You gotta check in at headquarters.”

  “Where’s that?” The American black-shirt gave Lead-foot directions through the remains of Casper. Leadfoot “Heiled” him again and the bikers took off.

  “Now what do we do?” Beerbelly asked over the rumble of Harley engines.

  “We go to the headquarters like good little boys and blow them off the fucking map,” Leadfoot informed his second-in-command.

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah. Just like that,” Leadfoot echoed. “We got satchel charges, which our good brothers can plant while we’re inside bullshittin’ with the brass, there’s enough plastic explosive to plant in the can and other places, timer fuses, too. They’ll have a real party there about three minutes after we pull out.”