Warriors from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “That boy’s got more balls than brains,” Josh said. “The Defender may be good against tanks and ground installations, but it’s not worth spit as an attack chopper.”

  “He’s gonna find that out in about twenty seconds,” Held said as he locked his target acquisition computer sights on the smaller helicopter and pulled the trigger on the Chain Gun.

  The Defender seemed to just disintegrate under the onslaught of the first burst of 30mm shells, breaking into pieces too small to see, then exploding in a fireball of av-gas and ammunition.

  Without slowing his descent, Held asked, “Next target?”

  Josh keyed his computer and said, “Half-track personnel carrier at three o’clock low, off to the right. It’s already keyed into right-pod rocket launcher.”

  “Roger,” Held said, and fingered the trigger to the right-hand-side rocket launcher.

  A 2.75-inch rocket shot from under the right turbine engine, and curved in a gentle arc downward toward a large truck with tank threads on its rear part, full of soldiers. As the rocket flared on its way down, Held could see a couple of men try to jump out of the vehicle. They were in midair when the rocket buried its nose in the engine compartment of the truck and exploded, sending crumpled, blackened metal and bits and pieces of soldiers’ bodies flying through the air.

  “Incoming!” Josh hollered as his computer picked up the trail of a handheld GTA SAM missile that’d been fired at them by one of the soldiers.

  Without thinking, acting on reflex since he had only seconds to react, Held pulled up on the collective, jerked the throttle stick to the side, and pumped his feet on the pedals, sending the Apache in a sideways, leaning dive toward the ground. The SAM passed by less than thirty feet from the right turbine, too close to turn toward the heat.

  In one continuous move, Held bent the Apache’s nose back around and arrowed toward the ground, his finger holding the trigger of the Chain Gun down, strafing the thousands of troops scattering like stampeded cattle before him.

  A 30mm bullet makes quite a mess of human flesh, and the soldiers below were smashed and torn asunder by the fusillade of bullets that rained down on them like hail from hell, killing hundreds of men in the first pass.

  A few soldiers tried to fire their machine-guns at the Apache, but it was like trying to hit a hawk with a slingshot, and none of the bullets made contact as Held pulled up out of his dive and prepared for another pass.

  “Target?” he asked in a calm voice, as if this were just another day at the office.

  “There’s a pair of Chinooks over to the left,” Josh said calmly. “Looks like they’re trying to warm up their engines for a fast getaway.”

  “Dial ’em in and let’s get the bastards,” Held said.

  Josh’s fingers flew over the keyboard to his target acquisition computer, and seconds later he said, “Done.”

  Held lined up the nose of the Apache, and pulled back on the collective to cause it to hover momentarily. Just as he tapped the fire button on the rocket launcher, one of the Chinooks lifted off, the heavy helicopter trying to get airborne and escape its fate.

  The first rocket hit the Chinook on the ground, exploding it in a giant fireball, the metal of its fuselage collapsing around the troops that had been trying to clamber on board and killing all in a split second.

  The second Chinook was about thirty feet off the ground and just beginning its turn when the 2.75-inch rocket entered its turbine exhaust port, blowing the engine off the machine.

  The Chinook spun wildly, out of control, and smashed to the ground, first flattening out like a giant pancake. Then it too exploded, sending flames and smoke a hundred feet into the air.

  Stringer and Fuller were equally busy. Stringer had elected to focus his attack on the troops on the outskirts of the town. He aimed the nose of his Apache at several HumVees and smaller jeeps that were using their pole-mounted fifty-caliber machine guns to rake the buildings of Valapraiso with murderous fire.

  When their gunners saw the Apache coming at them out of the sun, they swiveled their guns upward and continued to fire, trying desperately to down the approaching aircraft.

  It was no use. The Chain Gun mounted under the Apache’s nose exploded into action, sending thousands of rounds of 30mm shells at the vehicles.

  Two HumVees disintegrated under the impact, exploding and killing all the men within a hundred yards of their location as molten, twisted metal acted like shrapnel from a dozen hand grenades and scythed through them like a cultivator through a field of wheat, mowing them down and killing them instantly.

  One of the jeeps took off in a screeching turn, trying to escape the fire, but the tracers of the Chain Gun followed it, stitching a path up the road until they intersected with the jeep and blew it twenty feet into the air, its rubber tires on fire and sending out thick, black clouds of smoke.

  By now, the mercenaries were in full retreat, running in packs and individually as fast as they could away from the town. Some even dove into the rivers that ran near the city limits and tried to hide in the slowly moving waters.

  With most of the heavy equipment either abandoned or destroyed, the two Apaches flitted back and forth, firing their Chain Guns at the running men, killing hundreds as they tried to make their escape.

  Soon, most of the larger groups of men were either dead or had dispersed, dropping their weapons and hightailing it toward the sparse jungles in the distance, trying to get under cover and away from the Angels of Death flying overhead.

  “Whirlybird Two, come in,” Held said, pulling his Apache away from the fleeing soldiers and back toward town.

  “Whirlybird Two here,” Stringer replied. “What do you think, Johnny? We done enough damage for the time being?”

  “Roger that, Jerry. You stand guard up here for a while in case that Kiowa decides to come back and fight. I’m gonna land and see if there are any defenders left in the town to fight.”

  “That Kiowa won’t come back, Johnny, not unless he’s got shit for brains, but I’ll keep an eye out just in case.”

  Johnny Held landed his Apache, leaving Josh at the controls in case he needed to take off in a hurry, while he walked toward the destroyed buildings of Valapraiso.

  Within ten minutes, bedraggled Mexican soldiers and townspeople began to come out of basements and the rubble of collapsed buildings from all across the town.

  Held stood with his hands on his hips until a contingent of soldiers, led by a man with sergeant’s stripes on his uniform, walked up to him.

  The sergeant saluted smartly, even though blood from two wounds on his left arm was dripping onto the ground.

  “Sergeant Raul Dominguez, sir,” he said.

  “You the commanding officer here, Raul?” Johnny said, sticking out his hand to shake.

  “Yes, sir, I am now. Both our lieutenants were killed in the attack.”

  Johnny looked around. Dominguez had perhaps sixty or seventy men left who looked like they were well enough to fight.

  “Why don’t you get your men to round up the weapons and ammunition, and a couple of those jeeps over there with the fifty-calibers on ’em?” he asked. “My partner and I will stay aloft and cover you until you’re back in the town and get your defenses set back up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dominguez said. Then he turned and barked orders in rapid Spanish to his men, who scattered and began to pick up machine guns, grenades, and ammunition boxes that were lying among the dead and wounded mercenaries.

  Dominguez glanced around. “What shall I do with the wounded enemies, sir?” he asked.

  “You got enough men to play nursemaid to a bunch of mercenaries that were doin’ their best to kill you an hour ago?” Held asked.

  “Uh, now that you mention it, sir, I don’t.”

  “Then leave ’em,” Held said. “Buzzards gotta eat too.”

  Dominguez grinned, and Held knew that was the answer he’d wanted, and probably what he would have done no matter what Held had advised. The Mexica
n Army was not known for its humanitarian instincts in the best of times.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll hang around until we see your men are all safely back in town. Then we gotta split. Gettin’ kinda low on go-juice,” Held said.

  “You think they’ll be back, sir?” Dominguez asked, glancing in the direction the soldiers had taken when they ran off.

  Held shook his head. “Not today, but they’ll get reinforcements and probably hit you again tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Can we expect more help from you americanos?” Dominguez asked.

  Held shrugged. “Yeah, our battalion should be well within distance to help out by tomorrow, but you fellows look like you were doin’ all right on your own. Now that you got plenty of ammo and time to dig in, I don’t think you’re gonna have any problems.”

  Dominguez saluted again, then turned to make sure his men were thorough in picking through the weapons and ammunition scattered around the battlefield.

  THIRTY-SIX

  It was almost full dark by the time the Kiowa helicopter that had fled the battle at Valapraiso landed outside the Presidential Palace at Mexico City.

  The pilot and copilot were brought to the conference room on the third floor, where Bruno Bottger and Perro Loco and their entourages were having a strategy meeting.

  Bottger and Loco sat side by side, glaring across the desk at the tired, sweaty men who stood before them, their heads hanging down.

  “Give us your report,” Bottger ordered harshly.

  “We were about to enter the town, Field Marshal, when two Apache helicopters came at us from the north,” said the pilot.

  “They had the SUSA markings on them, Herr Bottger,” the copilot added.

  Bottger glanced at Loco, then back at the two men. “And you didn’t stay to fight?” he asked, scorn dripping from his tongue.

  The pilot shook his head. “No, sir. The Kiowa is no match for one Apache, much less two. The pilot of the Defender tried to fight them, and was blown out of the sky before he could get a shot off.”

  “It appears the dead man was much braver than you two,” Bottger said, his face turning red.

  “I thought it more important to save the helicopter, sir,” the pilot said, standing up straight. “I am not afraid to die, but to throw my life away when I have no chance would be counterproductive to our efforts to win this war.”

  Sergei Bergman leaned forward to speak to Bottger. “He is correct, Field Marshal. The Kiowas, and the men with the know-how to pilot them, are too valuable to us to lose unnecessarily.”

  Bottger took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you are right, Sergei.”

  He glanced back at the two pilots. “Get yourselves cleaned up and get something to eat. We will need you again in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two men said in unison, and saluted before turning to leave, much relieved they hadn’t been shot out of hand.

  After they were gone, Bottger referred to a radio report from the field. “It appears the attack on Valapraiso was completely routed by the arrival of the American warships.”

  Loco nodded. “The same thing happened to my men at Ciudad de Valles. General Enrique Gonzalez states he barely escaped with his life and that most of his men are either dead or wounded. He desires immediate reinforcements and better air cover.”

  “Looks like Ben Raines’s men have arrived a bit sooner than we expected. This is gonna complicate matters.”

  Sergei Bergman nodded his agreement. “Yes. It means it will be extremely difficult to occupy the remainder of Mexico in the time frame we first planned.”

  Bottger thumbed through the intel reports in front of him. “It seems a full battalion of troops has been sent to defend Tampico, and a full battalion to defend Durango.”

  “Our men will play hell trying to defeat battalions equipped as well as those of the Americans are,” Paco Valdez said from his seat next to Loco.

  Loco nodded. “I do not believe it can be done as long as our forces are divided.”

  “I agree,” Bottger said, his eyes fixed on a map of Mexico.

  “I propose we unify our forces and concentrate on Durango. If I send my men straight from Guadalajara toward Durango, skirting the mountains to the west of the city, they can be there in two days’ time.” He cut his eyes to the other side of the map. “And if you order your men that are south of Tampico to strike directly west, we might be able to catch Durango in a pincer movement between our two forces.”

  Loco leaned over to look at the map. “I see. Together, we vastly outnumber one battalion. If we strike fast enough by having our men travel all during the night and lay low during the day, we might be able to catch the defenders of Durango off guard.”

  “We can transport most of the men still here in Mexico City in our C-130’s and land them at Sombrerete, fifty miles southeast of Durango. There is an old airfield there that will let the transport planes land. If we tune it right, we will then have a three-pronged attack that will hit Durango at the same time.”

  Bottger and Loco looked at each other and nodded. “Then that is what we shall do,” Bottger said. He glanced at Sergei Bergman. “Sergei, you and Mr. Strunk coordinate me troop movements so that the attacks will occur simultaneously.”

  Bergman and Strunk nodded and began to gather their papers together.

  Sergei knocked on Bottger’s bedroom door just before midnight.

  “Come in,” Bottger said.

  “Field Marshal,” Bergman said as he entered. “The plan is done and the orders have been given. The attacks will occur day after tomorrow at dawn.”

  “There’s one more thing we have to do,” Bottger said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tomorrow evening I want you to send three jets loaded with our plague bombs to the north. One is to let his bombs off over Durango. The other two are to fly as far north as they can get and drop them as close to the SUSA’s southern border as they can.”

  “But, Field Marshal, they will never get all the way to the SUSA. The air defenses are too good.”

  “I know that, but with two divisions of Americans here, and with several million people inhabiting northern Mexico, it will not take long for the plague to spread to the SUSA. By the time we’ve finished with Durango, the disease should be well established in both the SUSA and Mexico.”

  “You are aware the plague will devastate not only the Mexicans and Americans, but Perro Loco’s troops as well?”

  “Yes, but by then, we will no longer need Señor Loco or his men. Once the plague has rendered both Mexico and the SUSA impotent, it will only be a matter of occupying the countries with our mercenaries and beginning to take them over.”

  Bergman nodded, smiling. “And soon after the SUSA falls ill, the U.S. will follow.”

  Bottger grinned. “Exactly.”

  After darkness fell the next day, Bottger and Bergman rode out to the Mexico City airport. Bottger had told Loco he was going to send a couple of bombers over Durango to see if they could soften the city up by dropping some bombs from a high altitude.

  Loco didn’t think much of the plan, but since the planes belonged to Bottger, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Of course, he knew nothing of the lethal cargo in the bombs the planes carried.

  Bottger and Bergman pulled up to the runway in front of the three F-111’s. The pilots were standing on the edge of the tarmac awaiting final instructions.

  “Gentlemen,” Bottger said, standing in front of them. “You have your orders. It is imperative that the bombs be dropped as planned. It is not important that you are precise in your targeting. The bombs are designed to detonate one thousand feet from the ground to insure maximum spread of the bacteria contained in them.”

  He pointed to one of the men. “Your target is the city of Durango, or as close to it as you can get. The most important thing is to release the bombs if you come under attack, even if you are not over your target.”

 
He glanced at the other two. “You men are to separate and to head at maximum altitude and speed toward the southern border of the SUSA. Once again, at the first sign of interdiction or if you are fired upon by missiles, release the bombs no matter where you are. Understand?”

  The men all nodded. They knew there was little chance of them returning from this mission, but Bottger had promised each of them huge sums of money in the event they succeeded, with the money to go to their families if they died in the attempt.

  One after another, the jets taxied up to the end of the runway and took off, climbing at a steep angle to get as high as they could as fast as they could.

  A Mexican soldier burst into the situation room at the Army base at Durango where Ben Raines and his team were going over the latest intel reports with General Guerra and his staff.

  The soldier and General Guerra spoke back and forth in rapid Spanish for a moment, with Guerra’s face becoming more and more worried the longer they spoke.

  Ben glanced at Harley Reno. “What’s going on, Harley?” he asked.

  Harley, who was fluent in Spanish, leaned over and whispered, “That man is the radar operator of the base. Evidently, he’s picked up three fast-moving blips at high altitude and coming this way from Mexico City. They’ll be over us in less than fifteen minutes.”

  Without waiting for confirmation from Guerra, Ben turned to Corrie, his radio operator. “Get on the horn, fast, to Georgi Striginov,” he said, “and tell him we need a couple of F-111’s up here pronto.”

  Corrie, who was never very far from her compact radio set, rushed to the back of the room and began the call immediately. Her low voice could be heard talking urgently to someone, but the words couldn’t be made out.

  After a couple of minutes, she came back over to Ben. “Georgi’s second in command said he’d get right on it, but there was no way they could be here in time to beat the bogeys from Mexico City.”

  Ben turned to Guerra, who was listening. “Can you scramble anything that’ll help us?” he asked.