Valor in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I tend to agree with you,” Ben said. “But if that is the case, why would they think I would want to do them harm?”

  The sky had increased the intensity of falling snow, and the Rebels shifted locations, moving under an awning. Jersey was studying the blow-ups. Ben watched her for a moment.

  “What have you found, Jersey?”

  She looked up at him. “Solar power is not the only thing those people over by the park are using, General. Look here. You got to look hard to see them, because they’re painted to same color as the rooftops.”

  “What?” Dan leaned closer.

  “A whole bunch of little-bitty windmills.”

  Ben had removed his boots and socks — his feet had been soaked for hours — and was rubbing some warmth back into his feet, sitting on a couch in his office. “Rubber boots,” he told Beth. “Make a memo for Katzman to send to Base Camp One. We need rubber boots. Insulated types. Get them up here pronto.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Solar energy and windmills” Ben mused. “Educated people, and yet they’re afraid of me. Why?”

  “A lot of educated people are scared of you, General,” Jersey bluntly informed him.

  Ben stared at her, amazement etching his features. No one had ever told him that before. “What do you mean, Jersey? I don’t burn books and destroy institutions of higher learning. We reopen schools wherever we go. Why would an educated person be afraid of me? And where did you hear that?”

  She sat down on the edge of his desk. “Hell, General, everybody has heard that. How many ex-college professors and hotshot writers and TV people and those types are in the Rebel ranks?”

  Ben didn’t have the vaguest idea. There were several thousand Rebels in New York City alone, another thousand spread out all over the nation, patrolling and setting up outposts and recruiting and what-have-you. Joe Williams was commanding a full battalion back at Base Camp One. Juan Solis and Alvaro had set up a tiny version of Tri-States in the Southwest. Ben couldn’t be expected to know the names and previous occupations of everybody in his army.

  “I don’t know, Jersey. How many?”

  “Maybe five or six. Ask General Jefferys. He’ll tell you the same thing. They just don’t like our form of government.”

  That didn’t come as any surprise to Ben; but he had never given it much thought.

  “Too repressive, huh, Jersey?”

  She shrugged. “Not for me. But for them? . . . I guess so. You remember how much hell the professor-types raised when the military put you in the White House.”

  Ben had forgotten all about the fury raised from academia-ville during his short stay as President. He had been trying to put the country back together and those yoyos were resorting to 1960’s tactics, trying to burn it down again.

  He caught the folded-up socks she tossed him. “Screw ’em,” Ben muttered. He put on dry boots and stood up, slipping into battle harness. “Let’s go get something to eat. Damn, I’m hungry.”

  Ben put the puzzle of why the midtown survivors were so afraid of him out of his mind and stepped out onto the street at four-thirty the next morning. This time he did not have to worry about startling any guards, for his new office building had shifts working all night long: in communications, intelligence, supply, evacuation, transportation, service and personnel.

  They were skeleton crews, to be sure, but each department was staffed on a twenty-four-hour basis.

  Dan’s call turned him around. He stood with West and Ike and Cecil and Chase. “We’ve been waiting for you, General,” the Englishman said. “We’ll walk to breakfast with you. Tell you about a few new tricks we ran up on during the night.”

  Over a breakfast of beef and gravy over biscuits — better known universally as Shit on Shingle — Dan dropped it on him.

  “The creepies are smartening up, General. It’s really going to be slow going from here on in.”

  Ben looked at him, waiting.

  “It appears as the creepies pull back, they’re booby trapping everything they can,”

  “Damn!” Ben said.

  Chase took it. “We lost two last night. Three more were hurt so badly they’re out of it for the duration.”

  “What kinds of booby traps?”

  Ike shrugged. “All kinds, Ben. Trip wire, swing stakes, signal-breaker types. Some of them are crude, some are very, very fancy.”

  Ben chewed for a moment and took a sip of coffee. Jersey and Beth and Cooper sat at the next table. They were all three privy to everything that might be said. Traitors in the Rebel army were a rare thing, and when they were caught the punishment was always the same: they were put up against a wall and shot.

  “Well, people,” Ben said, “let’s go back to the military classrooms; we’ve all been there. The class is called Estimate of the Situation.”

  Ike groaned.

  Ben smiled. “You take the pointer, Ike.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Ben!” the ex-SEAL said. “OK. Number one: mission. Number two: situation and courses of action. Number three: analysis of opposing courses of action. Number four: comparison of our own courses of action. And number five: the decision — who, what, when, where, how, and why.”

  “We know the mission,” West took it.

  “Our situation,” Dan said, “while not grim, could certainly be better. Our course of action is going to have to be much slower, with much more caution. We’re going to have to accept the fact that our use of explosives will be much greater. That’s for our own safety. Many of the buildings we’ll encounter are ready for the wrecking ball anyway. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about chemicals.”

  “I thought we rejected that idea,” Chase spoke up.

  “We rejected the use of lethal chemicals,” Ben told him. “Not incapacitating ones such as a hydrolytic form of H-series. Which we have plenty of, by the way.” Ben did not wait for any further discussion on that matter. His was the final say, and he was not going to risk the lives of his people unnecessarily. “Beth. Tell Katzman to honk at Base Camp One. Tell Joe to start shipping up the H-series. Mustard and Blister. We can mix it here. And tell him we wanted it yesterday.” Ben stood up. “Stay put. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” He walked away, Jersey and the squad of bodyguards trooping behind him.

  “Now what do you suppose he’s up to now?” Chase tossed the question out.

  Ben went to the same manhole cover and pounded on it with a wrench. “You better talk to me, people. All Hell is about to break loose.” Silence. “Now, goddamn it, I’ve tried to contact you on the frequency you gave me. You won’t reply. I’m trying to save your lives. Now, by God, talk to me.”

  “All right, General Raines,” the voice was muffled but understandable, and coming from directly under Ben’s feet. “You are who you say you are. Forgive our suspicions. We each have news; I will share mine first. The survivors around Central Park are very anxious to link up with you and your Rebels. Their leader is named Gene Savie. He is fearful of you killing his father should you meet.”

  Ben looked up at Jersey. “You ever heard of anybody called Savie?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Those people have nothing to fear from me,” Ben called.

  “Nevertheless, this is their reason for not answering your calls. Now what is your news?”

  “A question first?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you people ever come out into the light?”

  “Only during the day. But not in a long time and not since you and your army have arrived in the city. We used to come out to kill Night People while they slept. Then they became too many for us to cope with.”

  “How do you live?”

  “We grow foods organically in hothouses. We are entirely vegetarians and really eat quite well. There is no cause for you to worry about us in that respect.”

  “You speak like an educated man.”

  “I have my doctorate in Philosophy.”

  “How far away can
you get from this area? The area being from here up to West Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “None of us live in this area. We only came this far down because you were here.”

  “Then clear out. We’re being forced to use something I had hoped we could avoid.”

  “Is it lethal?”

  “No. But a prolonged concentrated exposure to it might be.”

  “I thank you, General Raines. We’ll talk again when you reach the survivors around the Park.”

  Ben put his ear to the cold metal and could hear the sounds of footsteps vanishing, probably down a steel ladder. Ben stood up.

  “How do you know you can trust him, General?” Jersey asked.

  “I don’t. But sometimes, Jersey, you just have to play your hunches.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The old prop-job cargo planes began landing at Teterboro Airport at noon the next day, most of them carrying a very deadly cargo, a couple of them carrying winter boots for the Rebels.

  The cargo was off-loaded onto trucks and transported to an old chemical plant some miles away, to the south, where the process of dilution would be carried out.

  On the morning Ben was informed the Night People were booby-trapping buildings, he had told most of his people to take a rest. It was time for the explosives’ crews to go to work.

  Ben stood on the south side of Canal, facing SoHo and Little Italy. “We don’t blow the art galleries or the museums in SoHo, people. I’m just hoping to God that something is left to salvage.”

  “SoHo is a funny name for a community, General,” Jersey said.

  “It’s a shortened version for South of Houston Street, Jersey.”

  “How can you keep all those facts in your head, General?” a young Rebel asked him.

  Ben laughed and showed him a tourist guide of NYC. “I just read it in here, son.” He pointed to an uncleared building across the street. “Toss a couple of concussion grenades in that one, people. Let’s see what happens.”

  What happened was the entire ground-level floor erupted in a wall of roaring debris that would have knocked Ben and his party flat on their butts had not Ben ordered them all in an alley and down on their bellies.

  “Are you people all right?” Ben yelled to the two Rebels who had chunked the grenades. He had seen them dash to the front of the buildings next to the one being tested.

  “We’re OK!” came the shout. “Looks like everything was directed forward.”

  “The nasty buggers also know what they’re doing when it conies to explosives” Dan observed, getting to his boots.

  “Unfortunately for us,” Ben agreed. “But unless we’re awfully lucky, concussion grenades are not going to break a beam, and since the crawlers seem to know what they’re doing, they’ll have the explosives rigged so that a simple concussion won’t set them off. Back to square one.”

  Ben squatted in the alley, staring at the devastated building across the snowy and debris-littered street. He studied a map intently for a moment, then abruptly stood up and turned to Beth. “Bump Katzman. Tell him I said to order all APC’s and tanks to immediately begin grouping at the intersections of Canal and Bowery and Canal and the Avenue of the Americas. We’re jumping ahead, bypassing everything that lies between Canal and Washington Square. That also includes everything east and west, from the East River to the Hudson. With any kind of luck, that should move us past the booby-trap zone. Let’s go! Strike hard and fast. Move!”

  Ben was off and running to his Blazer before anyone else could move.

  As soon as Beth had finished relaying the order, she and Jersey were right behind Ben. Cooper was already behind the wheel.

  Dan lifted his walkie-talkie, hesitated, then keyed the handy-talker. “The Eagle is preparing to lead the newly ordered push. Cover him as best you can.” He switched to his Scout frequency. “All Scouts. Supplies and ammo for a week and gather around me at the main CP. I want it done fifteen minutes ago. Move!”

  Dan was off and running, slipping and sliding in the snow and uttering some decidedly ungentlemanly oaths, most of which were directed toward the Night People.

  A few were directed at the audacity of one Ben Raines. The Blazer, unless it took a direct rocket hit, was practically a rolling fort — Dan had seen to that. The doors and roof were steel-reinforced and the glass was bulletproof. It was just that generals did not lead wild charges into enemy territory. It just . . . well, wasn’t done!

  With the exception of Ben Raines.

  He was always doing something that was totally unexpected and thoroughly irritating to those who cared about the man’s safety. Which was, without exception, every member of the Rebel army.

  When he got to the main CP, Ben was throwing gear into the back of the Blazer.

  Dan lifted his walkie-talkie. “Lead tanks out. Good luck, gang.”

  Ben turned. “I didn’t OK the sending of tanks yet, Dan.”

  “No, you didn’t. I did.” Dan stood his ground. “Somebody has to take the initiative in protecting the general’s ass — begging the general’s pardon, of course.”

  Ben laughed at him and closed the rear of the Blazer. “Are you going to sit back here and sip tea, Dan? I’m gone.”

  Ben got into the Blazer and pointed his finger. “Go!” He gave the order to Cooper.

  The Blazer moved out, leaving Dan shouting orders for his people to get the lead out of their butts and get moving.

  As Cooper turned north off Canal, onto Bowery, two Abrams cut in front of him, two APC’s pulling in behind him. The tank commander spoke into his headset, Ben watching his lips move.

  “Got you now!” Ike’s voice came through the speaker in the Blazer.

  It had come as no surprise to Ben. He lifted the mike. “What’s your twenty, Shark?”

  “Sittin’ on ready at Canal and Avenue of the Americas.”

  “Cec?”

  “He lost the toss. He’s rear guard.”

  “You’re in command, Cec,” Ben radioed. “Hang tough and watch for a possible swing-around from the creepies.”

  “Ten-four, Eagle. Good luck.”

  Ben lifted his eyes. The tank commander had twisted and was looking at him. Ben pointed a finger up Bowery. The Abrams lurched forward, the tank commanders closing the hatches and buttoning up.

  “Go!” Ben issued the orders and the columns, widely separated by a dozen city blocks, moved into unknown territory.

  “I joined the Rebels because I didn’t want to get married and raise cows,” Beth said. “What the hell do I know about cows? Except that you’re always stepping in the mess they leave behind. Katzman promised me a nice safe job in communications. Now here I am riding into boggie country with a good chance of getting my butt shot. You can’t trust anybody nowadays.”

  Ben turned and grinned at her. “Where is your sense of adventure, Beth?”

  “Back with Lev and those damned cows!”

  “Where is back there?” Jersey asked.

  “Illinois.”

  The 105’s on the Abrams began pounding, putting an end to conversation. Hatches popped open and gunners began working the 7.62 machine guns. The 12.7mm gun on each tank joined in. It took about one minutes to clear both sides of the block; but it left the area smoking and ruined, with bits and pieces of night crawlers all over the place.

  The column moved on, slowly. A black-robed figure ran into the littered street, his clothing on fire. Maddened by the pain, the creepie leveled his AK at an Abrams. The 55-ton tank ran over him, the huge tread grinding him into the street.

  A grenade sailed down from a rooftop. It bounced off a tank and exploded harmlessly in the street. The gunners in the APC’s behind the Blazer opened up with machine-gun fire as the column moved out of that block and crossed Grand Street.

  The street change had put them right on the edge of Little Italy, but those were not friendly Italians waving pizzas at them from the windows and the rooftops and the alleyways.

  Ben’s move had caught the creepies comp
letely by surprise; whatever they had been expecting, this certainly was not it.

  Ben grabbed up his mike. “Button everything down and ram on through!”

  Ike heard the order. “It’s hell over here, partner!” he radioed. “The bastards are crawling and slithering out of the woodwork.”

  “Ram on through, Ike. This proves that they didn’t get far with their booby-trapping. I think we’re clear of it now. West? You monitoring this?”

  “Ten-four, General.”

  “What’s your twenty?”

  “Coming right down the middle of Houston. We’ll intersect in a couple of minutes if you don’t get stuck in traffic.”

  “Ten-four, West. Ike, what’s your twenty?”

  “I’m parallel to you, Ben. Coming up to Broome Street.”

  Ben heard a thump coming through the speaker. “Did you take a hit, Ike?”

  “Naw,” Ike drawled. “We ran over one of the creepies. He’s hangin’ on the hood, squallin’ at me. Jesus, he’s ugly. Wait a minute.”

  Ike didn’t even take his thumb off the mike key. Ben heard the sound of a shot. Ike came back on.

  “He’s off now. We gonna set up north or south of Washington Square Park?”

  “Just north of it. We’ll clear out the NYU complex first thing.”

  “Ten-four. Shark clear.”

  The Night People began hurling grenades from the rooftops. The tanks were impervious to the grenades, but Ben’s Blazer was rocked with each explosion from the minibombs. The sounds of shrapnel slamming into the sides of the four-wheel drive was nerve-racking, if not terribly life-threatening.

  It was not a particularly enjoyable few moments for anybody. Ben noticed Jersey had crossed herself and her lips were moving in silent prayer. Beth had her eyes closed. He looked at Cooper to see if his eyes were open. They were.

  Then they were free of the deadly hail. They had crossed Kenmare and were picking up speed, roaring up Bowery.

  “Colonel West and his bunch just up ahead, General,” one of the tank commanders radioed back.