D-Day in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  To his credit Homer Blanton stuck out his hand, and Ben smiled and shook it.

  “Well, that’s a start,” Homer said, returning the smile.

  “A pretty good one, Homer,” Ben replied.

  The secretary-general of the United Nations was present, as was the Speaker of the House and VP Hooter. Neither one of them offered to shake Ben’s hand. Holey was dozing.

  Rita Rivers, Immaculate Crapums, Zipporah Washington, Rufus Dumkowski, and several others had joined the line of ever-present protesters outside the new White House, carrying signs denouncing Ben Raines and the SUSA.

  “I apologize for that,” Homer said, pointing to the group on the street.

  “It doesn’t bother me in the least,” Ben told him. “But it will bother them a great deal if they try to stop my vehicle from leaving.”

  Homer silently prayed that Hooter would not ask what Ben would do should that happen. It was a wasted prayer.

  “I’ll run over them,” Ben told her.

  “Dirty, rotten, filthy, right-wing, Republican bastard!” Hooter hollered. It jarred Holey out of a slight snooze.

  “Can we get on with this?” Ben asked.

  “Tax ’em some more,” Representative I. M. Holey mumbled, slightly addled after his snooze.

  “The first thing a Democrat thinks of upon waking,” Cecil said. “Taxing the public.”

  That got him a dirty look from Hooter.

  Secretary-General Moon said, “I believe you will find that everything is in order, General Raines, President Jefferys. All UN members have signed this document. Once both of you have affixed your signatures, the SUSA will be officially recognized as a sovereign nation, with all the guarantees and rights accorded such by the United Nations.”

  “This is a sad day for democracy,” VP Hooter said.

  “But a great day for those who love liberty,” Cecil said, after scanning the document and signing his name.

  Ben signed the paper and it was done.

  Hooter got up and stalked out of the room without another word.

  “Not one of my biggest supporters,” Ben said with a smile as the door slammed.

  Holey had gone back to sleep.

  “Let’s have some lunch, and then we’ll work out exactly where your troops will go first,” Homer said. He smiled and quickly held up a hand. “Not that I have anything at all to say about it.”

  “What about him?” Cecil said, looking at Representative Holey, who was snoring softly.

  A quick flash of irritation passed through Blanton’s eyes, and it was obvious to all who caught it that the president was not a big fan of I. M. Holey. Ben wondered what had happened to change that.

  “Let him sleep,” Homer said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Let’s get out of here. There is a meeting room over there.”

  After coffee and sandwiches had been served, Secretary-General Moon said, “You restore order in every country you enter, General Raines. That is the bottom line.”

  “My people are not peacekeepers, Mr. Secretary,” Ben said. “You can keep your blue berets.”

  The secretary-general smiled. “We don’t expect you to be peacekeepers, General. Just restore some semblance of order around the world.”

  Ben nodded. “Just as long as everybody concerned is fully aware of what we are and what we are not.”

  “We are that.”

  “Europe is going to be bad enough,” Ben said. “As far as I am concerned, from what little I have been able to read about the situation, Africa is very nearly hopeless.”

  “I concur.”

  “I want it known up front, no matter what country my people go into, we aren’t going to fuck around with two-bit warlords and punks and thugs. If they oppose us, they’re dead. Do all concerned understand that?”

  “We do,” Son Moon replied softly.

  “How many observers am I going to be saddled with?”

  “There will be representatives from the Red Cross,” Blanton answered. “A Miss Julie Petti is heading that group. And of course there will be medical people to assist your own. But you are in full command of the entire operation. Your orders are to be obeyed without question. You have full authority to relieve anyone you choose, anytime you deem it necessary.”

  “Do you have a choice as to your initial landing in Europe, General Raines?” the secretary-general asked.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “France.” He smiled. “Normandy.”

  TEN

  Since the Rebels were used to fighting under the most adverse conditions—summer, winter, spring, or fall, it made no difference to them—Ben started making plans to get under way just as quickly as possible. That would put them in England in early autumn and hitting the coast of France by late fall . . . providing all went well.

  Britain had begun to establish some sort of order in the country, as had Ireland, at least the southern part of it. There was not much left of Northern Ireland except rubble and death, for ever since the Great War, diehard Catholics and Protestants had been at each other’s throats in open warfare. Southern Ireland had sealed off the borders to the north, and no one really knew what was going on in Northern Ireland . . . and no one really gave much of a damn. The overwhelming consensus was if they all killed each other off, the world would be a much better place.

  “They stopped knowing what they were fighting for years ago,” Dan Gray said. “All they know now is hate and they don’t even know why they hate each other. It’s pathetic.”

  Ben and his team, along with his personal company of Rebels, flew to England to meet with the prime minister and with the head of the French Resistance to get some sort of picture of what the Rebels would face when they hit the beaches at Normandy.

  “Chaos,” Rene Seaux told Ben. “Europe is aflame. Slavery abounds. We have reverted to the days of barbarism. It’s the Dark Ages revisited. It is absolutely unbelievable. After the sickness swept through a few years ago—which did not do as much damage as the rest of the world was led to believe—Europe exploded in war. Those horrible goddamn Night People are in control of the cities; warlords and thugs control the countryside. From France to the Ural Mountains in Russia is one huge war zone. Past the Urals,” he shrugged, “who knows? We are getting only a few radio transmissions out of Russia and they are nothing but garble. I have but three hundred men and women fighting with me. We have tiny toeholds here and there.” He slapped the wall map. “But they are constantly changing as my people are overwhelmed.”

  “Can you lay out and hold a DZ for my people?” Ben asked, studying the map.

  “Oui,” Rene said. “To the last person if we must.”

  “The port at Le Havre?” Ben asked, not taking his eyes from the map.

  “Impossible,” Rene said. “The thugs control the outer edges, the cannibals the city. It will be Omaha, or nothing.”

  Ben smiled. “Rene, I want you to ask for volunteers to act as pathfinders.” He paused. “Do any of them know how to lay out a DZ?”

  “Oui. I have several ex-legionnaires with me.”

  “Good. At my signal, they’ll lay out a DZ . . . here.” He pointed to the map. “The first of my people should be arriving in about ten days. But we’re going to be short on armor.”

  Rene shook his head. “It is men we need now, not armor. The thugs are loosely organized and do not have much in the way of tanks. What they have is many miles inland, and they are short on shells. Most of the armor is stretched out on a line from Rennes to Le Mans to Orleans. But the thugs are quickly coming together to fight you. They know that alone they cannot stand. But together, General Raines, they will be a formidable force.”

  Ben nodded his head while he studied the map. “We have to take the towns of Cherbourg, Caen, and Le Havre. Once those are taken, we’ll begin our push inland. Are the citizens armed?”

  Rene shook his head. “Non. The thugs seized all privately owned weapons. All they had to do was go to the official records to find out who owned what and then take
them. It was a simple matter. I do not think the people will ever again stand for government registration of weapons.”

  “They won’t in America either,” Ben said. “At least not in Rebel-controlled territory.”

  Rene smiled. “You and your people are making history daily, General. But of course, you are well aware of that, non?”

  “So I’ve been told,” Ben said dryly. “Sometimes quite profanely.”

  England now was a far cry from England before the Great War. Before, privately owned weapons were rare; now it was the norm, and the people had bluntly told the government if they tried to seize them, there would be blood in the streets. Parliament had wisely voted to allow the private ownership of weapons. Gangs of thugs still roamed the countryside, but with each day, their numbers diminished. The death penalty had been brought back, and killers got quick trials and a hangman’s noose. The days of weeping and blubbering and excusing the behavior of criminals were over, and it was highly unlikely they would ever return.

  Ben and the Rebels had swept through Britain and Ireland a few years back, arming the citizens as they went, making certain that even if the government had wanted to collect all privately owned weapons, it would be very costly in human terms.

  “Get our people over here as fast as possible,” Ben told Corrie. “I want Ike and Dan Gray over here first with their battalions. Every day we delay makes the enemy stronger.”

  Corrie paused, then turned to face him. “Toronto?”

  “We don’t have time to wait them out. Radio them to flood the sewer system with gasoline and flammable tear gas and flush them out.”

  “Explosive mixture, boss,” Jersey commented. “But they’re the ones who wanted to dance. Now it’s time to pay the band.”

  The big transport planes began landing in England and Rebels stepped off, glad to stretch their legs after the long boring flight. Ike and Dan were hustled over to Ben’s temporary CP, located about halfway between Brighton and Portsmouth, on the coast road.

  “Georgi and Rebet are a day behind us, Ben,” Ike said. “Five other battalions are on their way by ship. Tanks and choppers and planes on ships with them. Cecil pulled in the reserves to take over at Toronto. He said they needed to get bloodied.”

  “So everyone is free?”

  “Eighteen battalions on their way,” Dan said. “That leaves five battalions back home, plus the reserves when they get through in Toronto, and the Home Guard.”

  “You think Blanton is going to pull something, Ben?” Ike asked.

  “No, I don’t. Some of those around him would like to. But I think Homer is on the level. For his sake he’d better be,” Ben added grimly.

  Years back, shortly after the Rebels were formed, a sitting president and certain members of Congress tried to pull a fast one and have Ben Raines assassinated. After the Rebels discovered the scheme, none of those involved lived long enough to have second thoughts about the plot. Including the president.

  American politicians had learned over the bloody years that Ben Raines was totally ruthless in dealing with his enemies.

  Ben used a pointer and began laying out the assignment. “Ike, you and West and Pat O’Shea will take Cherbourg and then spread out and start cleaning out the countryside. Dan, you and Rebet will jump in behind Bayeux and hold, awaiting my signal. Georgi, Danjou, and Tina will hit Le Havre.”

  “As if I couldn’t guess, where will you be, Ben?” Ike asked.

  “I’ll take Greenwalt, Jackie Malone, Raul, and my bunch, and go ashore at Omaha Beach.”

  “Goddamnit, Ben!” Dan Gray said. “They’ll be waiting for you. It’ll be a replay of sixty years ago! The only difference is you won’t have divisions left and right of you at Utah and Juno and Sword.”

  “No,” Ben said with a smile. “But I will have a lot of air support, and you and Rebet driving hard to meet me at Bayeux. Rene said the defenders have no artillery and only light mortars. He and his people are going to lay out the DZ’s and then join up with you on the ground.”

  Ike was studying the huge wall map of France. He knew that arguing with Ben was useless, once Ben made up his mind. “The sickness that was reported sweeping the Continent a few years back . . . ?”

  “Vastly overstated. Just like all the nuclear strikes that we believed devastated the world until a short time ago. A grand plan that almost worked.”

  “What a terrible hoax to play on decent people,” Dan said softly. “I wonder how many thousands have died because of that, and how many thousands of others have lived for years in terror and slavery?”

  “I wonder whose idea it was?” Ike asked, sitting down in the comfortable office of the once grand old home on the sprawling English estate.

  “I doubt we’ll ever know,” Ben said. “Perhaps it wasn’t a single person’s plan. More than likely it was a rumor that caught fire. But it worked for a time.” Ben put down his pointer. “Let’s get something to eat and then get down to work. We’ve got a lot of maps to study and hours of debriefing of Rene’s people ahead of us.”

  Supplies began coming in, thousands of tons of them, by plane and by ship. Those on the Continent had spies in England, and they reported to their various commanders throughout Europe that it looked like the whole damn American army was landing on England’s shores. Huge C-130’s were flying in hourly, their cavernous bellies filled with Rebels and equipment. The P-51’s were rolled out, and mechanics went to work reattaching wings. Tanks rumbled and snorted about the tarmac. Millions of rounds of ammunition, ranging from shotgun shells to 223’s to 203-mm artillery shells were off-loaded. Crates of boots and socks and T-shirts and shorts and panties and bras were trucked away. Medical supplies and packets of field rations were flown in to various parts of England.

  It seemed to the spies watching and reporting back to the Continent that the supplies would never stop arriving. A shortwave broadcast from America was taped, the contents chilling the criminals. The last bastion of lawlessness in the North America had fallen. The Rebels had burned the lawless out of Toronto and shot them down as they tried to escape the searing flames and choking and exploding tear gas. Very few prisoners were taken.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Duffy Williams, a two-bit punk from Liverpool, and leader of one of the largest and most vicious gangs in France, said after listening to the message. He opened a map of Europe and studied it for a few moments, while his top henchmen stood around waiting for orders.

  But Duffy was merely stalling for time. He knew the map. Like many lawless, Duffy possessed intelligence far above the average. And like 99 percent of the lawless, he had not been abused as a child—he came from a good, caring home. He had not been born into terrible poverty, had not suffered taunts and derision at the hands of his peers, had not been a stutterer or a bed wetter. He did not have some terrible physical affliction. He was simply a rotten, miserable punk and had been one all his life. Like all the major gang leaders in France—Tom Spivey, Dave Ingle, Robert Fryoux, Ned Veasey, Eddie Stamp, John Monson, Paul Zayon, to name but a few—Duffy came from a solid middle-class home. He was just a punk. First, last, and always. Period.

  Ben closed the file folder on Duffy Williams and tossed it on his desk. It landed on top of a dozen others provided by British authorities. He took off his reading glasses and said, “Just like all the others in that stack. No excuses. He’s just a goddamn worthless piece of shit and has been all his life. But like so many of his ilk, he’s a smart one. I.Q. of 150 but lousy in school. Rebelled against any type of authority. Abused small animals. A smart-ass. Put all those gang leaders in a bag, shake them up and dump them out and you can’t tell one from the other.”

  “We know all the signs,” Jersey said. “How come society can’t see them?”

  “Oh, they can, Jersey,” Ben said, standing up and stretching his tall frame. “They’ve been able to identify potential troublemakers for decades. It’s always been a question of whether society had the right to go into a home.”

  “We d
o,” Beth said. “Occasionally.”

  Ben smiled. “Yes. And usually we can turn a kid around. But those tactics are controversial even among our own people. It’s a matter of educating the parents along with the kid.” Ben walked to the window and looked out at the chilly and overcast day. He stared at the gray waters of the Channel for a moment. “Are we on timetable, Beth?”

  “Ahead of it, boss,” she replied. “But the riggers are having to dry out the chutes because of this weather. Ike is still pissed because you nixed that SEAL operation he dreamed up.”

  “I didn’t nix the operation,” Ben said with a grin. “I just nixed Ike going along. He’s too damn old and much too large. Somebody would mistake him for a whale. But he’s going in with the teams anyway, isn’t he?”

  Ben’s team exchanged glances and smiles. “Yes,” Cooper finally admitted.

  “Old goat,” Ben muttered. “They’ll probably have to tie a submarine to his ass to keep him underwater.”

  “Speaking of old goats,” Corrie said.

  Ben turned around, disbelief in his eyes. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Stepped off the plane this morning,” Jersey said. “Says he’s going ashore with the rest of us.”

  “Lamar is seventy-five years old if he’s a day!” Ben shouted.

  “I’m seventy-six,” the chief of medicine said, walking into the room. “But I’m still going to put my boots on Omaha Beach.”

  “I forbid it!”

  “You can’t forbid me from doing anything. But I can forbid you,” Lamar reminded the commanding general of all Rebel forces. “I just might schedule your annual physical on the morning of D-Day if you aren’t careful.”

  Ben knew when he was licked. As chief of medicine, Lamar could slap anyone in the hospital anytime he so desired . . . including Ben Raines.

  “It’s your ass,” Ben told him.

  “That’s right. And I’m rather fond of it. Now let’s talk about projected casualties.”