Valor in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why hadn’t they used those mortars before?” Beth questioned.

  “They were trying to take my people prisoner,” Ben growled. “To give to the damn night creepies. Now I’m gettin’ mad!” To Beth: “Tell Tina to keep her head down. We’re coming in. And cancel my orders about prisoners. I want to talk to some of those outlaws.”

  Ben lifted his own walkie-talkie. “Get that Big Thumper humping, damn it!”

  The Big Thumper was a 40mm grenade-launching machine gun, a heavy sucker weighing almost a hundred pounds when ground-employed with tripod. But its kill radius was almost one hundred percent in a ten-yard area, and its rate of fire was awesome.

  “Big Thumper in position on the west side of Tina’s location, sir!” Ben was informed.

  “Get it humping, son.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The 40mm began adding its noise to the crash of the 105’s and the heavy chugging of the .50’s.

  “Some of them trying to run, General!” Jersey called.

  “Order the snipers to try for leg shots, Beth,” Ben told her. “Tell the Abrams to cease firing 105’s. All troops up on the line and let’s see if the outlaws want to slug it out.”

  They didn’t.

  Most of them, dazed and disoriented from the heavy pounding, seemed too confused to really understand what had happened to them. Most had never been under attack from any heavily armed and disciplined force of troops; they were accustomed to attacking small settlements of people who, strangely enough — but not to Ben’s mind — still operated against an enemy with some degree of civility and compassion.

  Ben Raines was not burdened with any such illusions. Never had been.

  “Thumper cease firing. Fifties cease firing.” Ben lifted his walkie-talkie. “Over the walls, Tina. We’re coming in from both sides and down the middle. Go, people, go!”

  Ben squatted on the ridge, looking through field glasses, watching the short and very deadly battle unfold before him. Tina’s Scouts, already extremely irritated at being ambushed and pinned down like a bunch of amateurs, came over the stone walls growling, eager to mix it up hand to hand.

  To the east of the farm complex, Ben could see that several of his people had already rounded up about a dozen of the bogies and had them lying facedown on the ground. He turned to Beth.

  “Radio Katzman, in Yiddish, to have a psychological interrogation team readied.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, sir?” Jersey said.

  Ben picked up on a strange note in her voice. “Yes, Jersey?”

  “Miss Hunter’s down there.”

  Ben leaned against a stone fence, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette — he allowed himself about four or five a day — and listening to his daughter’s report.

  “The way I see it, Dad, they must have intercepted some radio communications, and that gave them the time to get in place and dig in so effectively.”

  “Why is Jerre here?”

  “After considering that possibility, I don’t feel so badly about getting hit. I do feel bad about losing two people and having several more out with wounds.”

  “Why is Jerre here?”

  “Did you bring equipment to resupply us or will we have to return to the depot?”

  “Why is Jerre here, Tina?”

  “Do you have replacements for us with you, Dad?”

  “Tina, why is Jerre here?”

  “If we could take off now, we could easily get way to hell and gone up the road, Dad.”

  “Damn it, girl, will you kindly answer my question!”

  Tina shifted from one boot to another.

  “Do you have to go to the bathroom, Tina?”

  “No, I don’t have to go to the bathroom!” she fired back. “Jerre is here because she isn’t a coward like Dan would have you think.”

  “Dan never said she was a coward, Tina. And I don’t think she is, either. But you know as well as I that we have many people within the Rebel ranks who could not and would not shoot an unarmed person. But they are not front-line combat troops.” He frowned. “I don’t like her” I just love her, “but I don’t think Jerre is a coward.”

  Tina blinked. “Now, what the hell does that mean, Dad? You’re in love with her!”

  “I may be. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her. Which I don’t. She’s a con artist.”

  Tina’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her father. “And you’re not?”

  “I beg your pardon, girl!”

  “You have four thousand people fighting and willing to die for you, Dad. You’ve got no telling how many thousands of people out there,” she waved her hand toward the war-torn vastness of America, “who worship you! Many of them think you’re a god! Granted, Dad, you use people for, or toward, a much more noble cause, or objective, than she. But that’s just semantics.”

  Ben grunted. “Are you quite through lecturing me, Tina?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  The other Rebels were staying far away from the father and daughter by the fence.

  Tina stuck a finger in Ben’s face. Ben drew back, startled at the move. “And let me tell you something else, General: you’ve got your butt up in the air because you’ve been carrying a torch around for years, and the only reason you’re angry is because she doesn’t share your feelings!”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Well, then . . . what is it?”

  “It’s, ah . . . none of your business. That’s what it is.”

  “Personally, Dad, I like Jerre.”

  “That is your prerogative.”

  “And I’ll call for a review board if I have to; but she stays in my team.”

  Ben stared hard at her, then slowly nodded his head. “Tina, putting my feelings aside, listen to me: OK, you can keep her in your team. But don’t lean too heavily on her. There are people in this world who wish, and there are people who do — you talk with her and then make up your own mind as to which category Jerre falls into.”

  “But you’d take her even though you think she’s a quitter, wouldn’t you, Dad?”

  Ben walked away from the fence, toward his Blazer. He passed Jerre. He stopped and walked back to her. “Tina believes in you, Jerre. But I know you. You get my daughter killed, and I’ll track you through Hell to personally cut your throat. Believe it, kid.”

  “Any word from the interrogation teams?” Ben asked.

  “Too soon, General,” he was told. “Be a few more hours at best.”

  “Keep me informed.” Ben walked to his Blazer and told Cooper to take him to the new lines. Since they now knew that Monte’s detachment was not in the city (most of them were dead, stiffening and bloating in New Jersey), Ben, on the way back from the rescue mission, had ordered the search-and-destroy operations to resume.

  The Rebels, on the south end, had now cleared everything up to Liberty Street. Colonel West’s people had pushed in from the shoreline, and the Colonel was now looking at and contemplating the enormity of clearing the Chase Manhattan Bank Building: sixty-five stories aboveground and five stories belowground. It was the belowground area that he knew was going to be grim. They were going to have to pump it full of tear gas and shoot the bastards as they made a run for it.

  All in all, West mentally summed it up, it was not going to be a pleasant operation.

  And he and his men sighed with relief when Ben told them it could damn well wait until tomorrow.

  “Stand down,” Ben told his people, just a few moments before the first lines of darkness began streaking the city, signaling the approach of night. He returned to his CP, now moved up several blocks on Broadway, and sat down behind his desk.

  So far, their push up Manhattan had not been terribly spectacular. They had advanced about 1500 meters.

  Only about 25,000 meters to go, and that was just counting one way: north. The island broadened out the farther up they went, until reaching its widest point, about 5,000 meters, just a few bloc
ks from where the Rebels now clung precariously to their tiny few blocks.

  Five thousand meters didn’t sound like much to anyone who had never stood in the middle of Manhattan. To those who had, the immenseness of it was awesome.

  Sighing, he poured a cup of coffee and then remembered that he’d forgotten to ask Jerre about Ian. The simpleminded jerk. There was no way he could get clear of Manhattan. All the escape routes were carefully guarded. Of course, Ben mused, he might find a boat and row across the Hudson or the East River; but Ben doubted that.

  He picked up the files on Ian and Jerre and scanned them quickly. Ian had just made it through Scout training. Very marginal. Jerre, on the other hand, had done quite well. That really didn’t surprise Ben, for he knew she could do just about anything she set her mind to. Sticking to it was another matter.

  He tossed the files to his desk. Jerre was Tina’s problem now. Ian could go to hell.

  Ian would pop up again, scared and hungry. If he didn’t, then it would have to be assumed the Night People had grabbed him.

  Jersey and Beth entered his office, with three mess trays of hot food. Jersey plopped one down on Ben’s desk. Ben looked at it. He could recognize potatoes and green beans and a piece of pie. He did not know what the meat might be. He asked Jersey.

  “I don’t know, General. It’s some sort of processed stuff the lab came up with.”

  “It’s not too bad if you put lots of hot sauce on it,” Beth said. “Kills the taste.”

  Ben picked up his fork and looked at the gravy-covered inert slab of whatever on his tray. “Pass the hot sauce, please.”

  TWELVE

  Ben’s eyes popped open. He felt rested, wide awake, and ready to go. He looked at his watch on the nightstand before buckling it around his wrist. Three-thirty. He dressed quietly and then slipped into his boots, blousing his field pants. Buckling into his battle harness, he picked up his Thompson, knew from the feel of it the drum was full, and stepped out into his office.

  Beth and Jersey were sleeping soundly on their cots, air mattresses softening the canvas of the cots. Very pretty ladies, Ben observed. And should be very desirable. But the sleeping beauties produced no feelings of sexual arousal within him. Jerre had a habit of doing that to him, he recalled. Just her memory could produce the same effect as a cold shower in December.

  When he held some other woman up to her, that is. And it wasn’t that Jerre was so beautiful. She wasn’t, not in the classical sense. She was just . . . It was just . . . love.

  “Screw it!” Ben muttered, jerked open the door and stepped outside.

  He almost scared the sentry out of his boots.

  “Easy, son,” Ben told him. “Settle down.”

  The young man grinned, embarrassed. “Sorry, sir. It’s kind of a jumpy night.”

  “And cold, too,” Ben added. “You want some coffee, son?”

  “That sure would be nice.”

  “I’ll stand your post. You go to the mess and bring us back some.”

  “Sir!”

  “Go on. I’ll stand your watch. Put a little sugar in my coffee. No cream. And I’d like to have a garlic bagel, too.”

  The young man stared at him.

  “Just kidding, son. Did you have to stand outside my door all damn night?”

  “I came on at midnight, sir. My relief will be here at four.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carson, sir.”

  “I assume there is no password?”

  “No, sir. But there’s a bunch of creepies out there. Problem is, you can’t get a clear shot at any of the jerks.”

  “Take off. Stretch your legs and get back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben stepped back into the darkness of the stoop. Neither time nor age nor circumstances had dulled his enjoyment of the early predawn hours. It was, to Ben, the best time of the day, although certainly not everyone shared that opinion. Ben enjoyed watching the world come alive after a period of rest. But, he cautioned himself, in this city, while one segment rested, another much more deadly species came out of their dank and stinking hovels.

  A quick flash of dark movement caught his attention. He knelt down, the Thompson coming up, Ben easing the SMG off safety. There it was again. But what was it? He looked left, then right. Carson had rounded the corner, heading for the mess. Ben could see no other Rebels, although he knew he was not the only sentry on duty.

  He remained motionless, squatting in the darkness. His vision was still excellent at a distance, although he had, of late, been forced to wear glasses when doing extended close-up work. Whatever it was skulking across the street was laying low. Waiting. But for what?

  The click of metal against stone faintly reached Ben’s ears.

  A gust of wind came whipping and spinning coldly down the stone and steel and rubble-littered trails of the city, picking up bits of trash and winding them up like a top before hurling the debris in all directions as the wind devil lost power.

  But the slight noise of the wind was enough for the hidden person across the street to make his move. Their move, Ben corrected, as three shapes darted from the darkness, their robes flapping, heading for his position.

  They never made it. Ben leveled his Thompson, and the SMG began chugging out .45-caliber justice, the big slugs knocking the creepies sprawling. But one had been carrying something, Ben was sure.

  That one got to his feet. Ben could see the suitcase-like object.

  Rebels began running toward the sounds of action.

  “Get down!” Ben shouted. “Get your butts down! Satchel charge!”

  He pulled the trigger back and held it back. The entire street seemed to mushroom into blazing balls of light and fury. Ben was knocked back against the door, hard into the door, and then through the door, rolling and tumbling into his outer office.

  The tinkle of falling glass and the thudding of larger objects torn loose, slung into the air, and returning back, smoking and ruined, came to him faintly. His hearing had been momentarily dulled by the tremendous explosion and his vision impaired by the sudden flash.

  He got to his knees, still holding onto the Thompson, and looked around him. The hastily boarded-up windows to his office — done the day before by Rebels — had been shattered, blown completely out. His office was a wreck. Jersey was on the floor, the cot on top of her, with her turning the air pink with cussing, so Ben assumed she was fine. He looked around for Beth. Found her standing up in a corner, clad only in very skimpy bra and panties. Ben grinned at her.

  “Now that is a very nice way to greet the morning, Beth.” His voice sounded as though it was coming from the bottom of a water bucket. “Thank you?”

  She finally realized what he was talking about, yelped, and grabbed up a blanket. Jersey flung back the cot and sat up, wild-eyed.

  “What the hell happened, General?”

  “Satchel charge, Jersey. You ladies get some clothes on. Lovely as you both are, if we start romancing now we’re going to draw a crowd.”

  He got up and stepped outside. What a mess. Windows blown out all over the place. His boots crunching tiny shards of glass littering the ground, he walked to the knot of Rebels gathering in the middle of the street.

  “You all right, General?”

  “Oh, yeah. There were three or four of them. I’m not sure. Jesus. There must have been fifty or sixty pounds of C-four or -five to make this big a bang.”

  “Lemme through, damn it!” a voice shouted, a man shoving his way through the crowd. Carson. He looked at Ben. “Are you OK, General?”

  “Sure.” Ben smiled. “But you forgot the coffee.”

  There was not even a greasy spot left of the man who had carried the satchel charge. And of the others, they had been spattered all over the place.

  Ben had looked up at the sky. No stars. And the air was wet as well as cold. “It’s going to rain anyway. No point in us wasting our time scraping them off the buildings. Let Mother Nature do it. Let’s go
get some breakfast.”

  In the building that was serving as a mess hall, Ben ran into one of Chase’s doctors and waved him over. “What’s the word on those prisoners we brought in yesterday?”

  “No help at all, sir. It appears that only Monte and maybe a couple of his closest people know anything at all about the Night People.” He hesitated. “What do you want us to do with them?”

  “Turn them over to Dan Gray.” The doctor seemed relieved to hear that. His jaw dropped when Ben added, “We’ll try them for crimes against humanity and then shoot them.”

  Ben buttered a piece of bread and resumed eating, leaving the doctor sitting, staring at him from across the table. Ben looked up. “Pass the salt and pepper, would you, Doc?”

  The rain was coming down in cold silver slashes when Ben stepped out of the mess hall. He was glad he had returned to his shattered office and rummaged around until he could find his poncho. He looked at Beth, standing beside him, the radio a covered hump on her back. He grinned at her.

  She knew what he was grinning about and blushed.

  “Come on. I want to see Trinity Church since it’s been cleared.”

  “Do we drive or walk?” Jersey asked.

  “Walk.”

  “That figures,” she muttered, dutifully trudging along beside Ben.

  Ben laughed at her. “You’d have made a greater character to add to Willie and Joe, Jersey.”

  “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” Mentally adding, Whoever in the hell they are.

  They slogged along toward Broadway, with Ben stopping at every little shop and store, peering in, the expression on his face that of a little kid looking into a toy shop.

  “How come,” Jersey asked, “we haven’t really seen much signs of looting, General?”

  They walked on. “I don’t know, Jersey. It’s puzzling to me, too.”

  “Nothing down here to loot, you ask me” Beth said. “What was this place, General?”