“Do we push on, General?” Dan asked.
“Yes. Get your troops moving. Let’s go, people.”
They met their first resistance twenty miles outside of Fort Benton and it was a stiff attack by disciplined and well-armed troops of the survivalist Malone’s army.
The two sides slugged it out for over an hour until Ben’s superior firepower finally drove the racist survivalists back. But they retreated grudgingly, fighting all the way, not giving up one inch of ground easily.
In his command post in the town of Conrad, Malone listened to the field reports coming in.
“Root hog or die time,” Malone said to the men gathered around him. “Raines doesn’t give up. And don’t sell his Rebels short. They may be a mixture of niggers and other inferiors, but they can fight, and fight damn well.” Malone stood up and walked to a wall map. He was stocky, and in excellent physical shape, as were all the men who were members of his organization. Malone’s hair was peppered with gray. He was the same age as Ben, and had hated the man for years. No particular reason was outstanding in his hatred; Malone just didn’t like anybody who had anything to do with those he considered inferior . . . and that included anybody who was not white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant.
Malone considered himself to be a very religious and God-fearing man. He could point to passages in the Bible which he interpreted to read that all nonwhites were inferior. So were Jews and Catholics and so on and so forth. Malone did not smoke, did not drink, did not consort with loose women—he’d been married for years—and only rarely cursed.
When he did curse it was almost always directed at either some inferior ... or Ben Raines.
Back when civilization was the rule rather than the exception, Malone was always organizing some book-burning or book-censoring event. And anyone who did not agree with his whacked-out views was a “damn hairy hippie commie pinko Godless queer!”
Either that or they worked for some national network news team and everybody knew those types couldn’t be trusted. Bunch of damned left-leaning liberal punks.
“Where is that pack of hoodlums that is supposed to be joining up with us in this fight?” Malone asked.
“Between Helena and Great Falls the last report,” he was informed. “But I believe they were changing routes.”
“War certainly makes for strange bedfellows,” Malone muttered.
“That’s profound, sir,” one of his lieutenants complimented him.
“Thank you.”
Ben paused at the battle site long enough to make a thorough inspection of the dead and wounded and their equipment. Their weapons were well maintained, their clothing well kept, and their boots in good shape. Ben knew then he was up against a paramilitary group that was well trained and motivated.
He squatted down beside the body of a young man—maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. Unlike so many of those the Rebels fought, this was a nice-looking and clean-cut young man, from all appearances the kind any father would be glad to see his daughter date.
Until the boy opened his mouth and started spouting his political leanings.
Ben stood up with a sigh that had nothing to do with the fact that he was middle-aged. For Ben was in better physical shape than most men half his age. He had heard his son walk up and stand just behind him and to his left.
“If you’re thinking that there but for the grace of God go I, Father,” Buddy said, “you are wrong.”
Ben turned to look at his son. “Oh?”
“I learned how to think very early in life, Father. And I have very little patience with those who are content to stagnate in the murk of their minds.”
Ben smiled as he looked at his son. The boy was built like a weightlifter and was as handsome as he was strong. More importantly, Buddy could think. Just a few more campaigns, Ben thought, and he’ll be ready to take over his own battalion. After that . . . ? Buddy knew he was being groomed, along with this sister, Tina, to take over if something happened to Ben.
Ben shook those thoughts away. “Get your team up the road, boy. Let’s see what’s happening north of us.”
Buddy’s team was stopped cold and thrown back at the junction of 223 and Highway 366, about fifteen miles south of Chester. He pulled his people back a mile or so and radioed the news to his father, calling in the coordinates.
Soon the air over his head was filled with 105 rounds from the vehicle-drawn howitzers. Buddy corrected the range until the rounds were dropping in right on target, clearing out a line five hundred yards east and west of the highway. Buddy called for the barrage to cease and waited for Ben to come up.
It wasn’t a very long wait.
At Ben’s orders, Corrie got General Striganov on the scramble frequency.
“Georgi, I just heard from Colonel Gray. He and his people are stalled between Big Sandy and Box Elder, on Highway 87. I’m pulled up short about fifteen or so miles south of Chester. I’m going to start spreading out and digging in. Colonel West and his mercenaries should be here sometime tomorrow. We will then attack on three fronts south of your lines. You copy that?”
“Ten-four, Ben. You will need my coordinates and I shall need yours so our artillery will not overshoot.”
They exchanged coordinates and agreed not to shift present battlelines without notifying the other.
“Dig in,” Ben ordered. “And bunker deep. I expect mortars in very shortly. I want forward observers on the high ground to spot enemy mortar sites. The instant you get something, bump it to me so we can lay in artillery. Captain Ramos, have the 105s deployed well back, out of mortar range. Get them stabilized for action.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you people get busy digging. I want to see that earth fly. Get to filling bags for use around the pits. Move, people!”
Malone did have mortar capability, but they were light mortars and did not have nearly the range of Ben’s heavier pieces. But a suicide or sneak attack was not out of the question . . . not when one was dealing with any type of fanatic. And Malone was a fanatic of the worst type.
He actually believed his was a Holy War, sanctioned by God.
“About the same mentality as that nut over in Iran,” Ben muttered.
“Beg pardon, sir?” Jersey asked.
“Nothing, Jersey. You were just a gleam in your daddy’s eye when that disgrace went down.”
“How come we never heard of this Malone character before now, General?”
“He was busy building his empire and army and keeping his head down. I knew about him. But I never guessed he’d ever get this strong. That’s what I get for guessing, I suppose.”
“We’ll deal with him,” she said confidently, her head just about even with Ben’s chest. But the M16 she held and could use with expertise made her as tall as anybody in Ben’s command.
“You damn right, Jersey!” Ben said with a laugh. “Especially if they mess with you.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she told him.
Laughing, Ben began a quick inspection of the digging-in of his people.
The Rebels had just completed their bunkering in—some of them with holes dug just deep enough to cover their butts—when Malone’s mortars began chugging.
“Order everyone to stick their berets in their pockets and get into helmets,” Ben told Corrie as the first volley of mortar rounds came crashing in, jarring the ground.
“FOs calling out enemy positions,” Corrie said, after relaying the helmet orders.
“Advise the artillery to adjust and commence firing.”
The long range 105s soon silenced Malone’s mortars.
“Get some night glasses up to the FOs,” Ben ordered. “As soon as it’s dark, Malone’s people will be moving back up. Double the guards. Tell them to be alert for any sneak attacks. Malone might have knee mortars; if he does, he’ll sure use them if he can work his people in close enough. Corrie, get Dan on the horn.”
“Coming under heavy attack, General,” Dan reported. “I don’t know if we
can hold. I don’t know if we should.”
“Explain that reasoning, Dan.”
“We’ll plant Claymores and fall back. Make it look like we’re running for our lives and suck Malone’s people in. The Claymores will shorten the odds against us.”
“Sounds good, Dan. Go ahead. Report back to me when the operation is concluded. Corrie, have we locked in on Malone’s frequency?”
“That’s ten-four, sir. Fort Benton is monitoring now. He’s being very cautious on the air.”
“He would be. Malone is a fanatic but he’s not a stupid man.”
“Troops from Base Camp One are on the way, General. They’ll be landing in Lewistown around midnight. Colonel West had an accident. Broke his ankle. He will not be leading.”
“His XO taking over?”
“Ten-fifty, sir. Third battalion of Rebels coming up.”
“Under whose command?”
Corrie smiled. “Ike.”
5
Ben opened his eyes as soon as the person drew close to his sleeping bag. He closed one hand around the butt of a cocked and locked .45, then relaxed as he made out Corrie’s shape.
“What’s up, Corrie?”
“General Ike, sir. He pushed his people hard as soon as they deplaned. He’s at Fort Benton now. Be here in about an hour.”
Ben looked at his watch. Three-thirty. He unzipped and rolled out of his sleeping bag, pulling on his boots and speed-lacing them. “Let’s get some coffee.”
“You’ll really be glad to see Ike, won’t you, General?” Corrie asked as they walked to the coffee truck.
“Oh, sure. I bitched about his coming up, but I’m never going to keep Ike out of the field. He loves it as much as I do and hates paperwork as much as I do. Cecil, on the other hand, enjoys administrative work, and is the best I’ve ever seen at it. Ike and I go back a long way, Corrie. I gather Malone didn’t try anything last night?”
“No, sir. Nothing spectacular, at least. Some of his people tried infiltration. They didn’t make it.”
Dan had successfully pulled off his fake rout and the carefully planted Claymores had done the rest. Dan’s people had returned, deactivated those Claymores that were not triggered, and counted the dead. Malone had lost more than a hundred of his men, and that was sure to be very demoralizing to the man who believed he was engaged in a Holy War.
Over hot coffee and cold field rations, Ben waited for Ike and his battalion to arrive. He knew Ike would exit his vehicle whooping and hollering like a painted-up buck on the warpath, and he was not disappinted. If any Rebels were still in their sleeping bags when Ike arrived, they weren’t in there long. Ike jumped out of his Hummer and hit the ground yelling.
Ben and Ike shook hands and stood for a moment grinning at each other. Then Ike’s eyes narrowed as he began making out the hastily dug bunkers.
“Outnumbered again, huh, Ben?”
“You got it, Ike. You know it’s a tough crew when Georgi and his people can’t punch through. You and your people want to catch some sleep?”
The ex-Navy SEAL shook his head. Like Ben’s, Ike’s close-cropped hair was peppered with gray. “We slept on the planes and dozed some on the way up here. Let’s get something to eat and go over this operation. Then we can kick some ass.”
Walking over to draw rations, Ben said, “How’s West?”
Ike laughed. “Mad as hell! It was one of those freak accidents. He was stepping out of a shower stall, stepped on a silver of soap, and went elbows over butt on the floor. Busted his ankle. He was still cussin’ when we pulled out.”
“He probably wanted to see Tina as much as getting into combat.”
“There is that to consider, for a fact.” As they approached the truck, Ike put out his hand. “This is not some of Dr. Chase’s goop we’re having for breakfast, is it?”
“I buried that crap.”
“Good. I hope it doesn’t poison the earth.”
Buddy and Captains Ramos and Brad joined them, and after drawing their breakfast packages and mugs of coffee, they walked over to a vehicle and sat down on the ground. Ben pulled a map out of a pocket of his BDUs and Buddy shone a light on it.
“Dan and two companies are here,” Ben said, placing a finger about halfway between Box Elder and Big Sandy. Georgi has swung his troops around and is covering from Chester over to Cut Bank.”
Ben explained what Dan had done the previous afternoon and Ike smiled with satisfaction. Ike was Mississippi born and reared, but he despised bigotry and all those who practiced it.
“Where is Malone’s CP—anybody know?”
“Somewhere around Conrad. Right here.” Ben punched the map.
“Pretty good move on his part,” Ike said “Things get too hot, he could easily duck into this wilderness area just west of his location and it’d take ten times the people we have to flush him.”
“I’m thinking that’s where he and his people live. I’m recalling that back in the mid-eighties the government had to go in there and arrest him a time or two.”
“That’s right,” Ike replied, looking up from the map. “I remember this bunch now. So where do you want me and mine, Ben?”
“There is no way in hell you could effectively spread your people out, north and south along Highway 89, to put Malone in a box. We just don’t have the troops. Ike, we’ve got a bunch of outlaws and bikers and crud coming up behind us. Up Interstate 15 or using county roads, we really don’t know what route they’re taking. And we don’t know how many. It might be five hundred, it might be fifteen hundred. Both Georgi and I feel that Ashley and Sister Voleta have swung north to try to box Georgi. But I think we’ve pretty much nixed that by shifting Georgi over to this other sector. I’ve left one frequency open so Ashley can listen to us ...”
“And hope that he’s arrogant enough to stop his westward advance and cut south to butt heads with you,” Ike correctly guessed.
“That’s it. We’re a lot fresher than Georgi and his people. They’ve been getting a pounding for long enough. They don’t need Ashley and Voleta breathing down their necks.”
Ike glanced at Buddy. The young man caught the glance and said, “I’m tired of being shifted around, Ike. If I have to meet my mother in combat, so be it. Though I am of her, that does not mean I am for her.”
“My, my,” Ike drawled in his Mississippi best. “The boy shore do talk fancy, don’t he?”
“Put it in your ear, Ike,” Buddy told him.
After the laughter, Ben said, “I’ve already notified Georgi of this move. Now then, we’re going to punch a hole through Malone’s lines and cut his people in two. When that is done, one battalion will turn east to push those troops back and eventually link up with Dan, the other battalion will push west, to link up with Georgi.”
“Sounds good to me, Ben.”
“Sounds good . . . but will it work?”
“There is one way to find out, Father,” Buddy said, standing up.
“Oh?” Ben looked up at his son.
“Do it.”
The Rebels struck Malone’s lines at dawn. There was nothing fancy about the attack; it was straight out of a textbook. Tanks and mortars and vehicle-drawn 105s laid down a smoke pattern and the tanks led the advance, ground troops coming in behind them.
And when Ike and Ben said they were going in with the troops . . . who among them was going to argue and tell them they could not?
Jersey and Beth.
“Stupid!” Jersey said, a disgusted look on her face.
“Foolish and childish!” Beth said, a reproachful look in her eyes. “It smacks of typical male bravado.”
Ike beat it back to his own battalion and left Ben to handle it.
“Coward!” Ben called after him.
Jersey and Beth bitched and pouted, with both knowing it was not going to change Ben’s mind. Ben leaned up against a fender in the predawn darkness and let them wind down.
“You all through?” he finally asked.
Jersey and
Beth glared at him.
“Get into body armor and helmets if you’re coming along with me. Corrie, Cooper, the same goes for you. Gear up, we’re moving out.”
The Rebels busted through Malone’s lines at the junction of 223 and 366. For almost a half hour it was eyeball to eyeball and hand to hand along a two-mile stretch of Montana countryside. Cooks, medics, supply personnel, clerks, and radio operators fought with pistols and camp axes against the troops of Malone.
Ben came face to face with a man who looked as if he ate trees for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Out of ammo, the ape reversed his AK47 and swung it like a club at Ben. Ben ducked and pumped the man’s belly full of .308 rounds from his old Thunder Lizard and kept on advancing.
Jersey was tackled and brought down by a young man, screaming out his hate. She gave him a knee in the balls and a knife blade across his throat, grabbed up her M16, and kept pace with Ben.
Corrie’s backpack radio took the brunt of automatic weapons’ fire, knocking her off her boots. Cooper tossed a grenade into the nest of hate mongers and hauled Corrie to her feet.
Ben, Beth, Jersey, Corrie, and Cooper found themselves a full two hundred yards ahead of the main body of Rebels, looked around, not liking their openness, and jumped into a bunker. Ben and Jersey and Corrie began heaving bloody dead bodies out of the bunker—brought to their present state of final unpleasantness by two Rebel-fired mortar rounds—while Cooper righted the .50 caliber machine gun and yelled for Beth to feed it.
Then he turned the weapon on Malone’s men and let the big .50 rock and roll.
A breech in the line had been opened and secured.
“Cease fire!” Ben finally yelled. “Pass it up and down the line. Cease fire!”
The landscape was littered with the ghostly silence of the dead and the moaning and crying of the badly wounded and the dying.
Ben used a walkie-talkie for communications while Corrie waited for another radio to replace the ruined backpack. “Approach the wounded cautiously,” he ordered his people. “Work in two-person teams. One medic with an armed guard to watch for suicide tries. Bear in mind that these people are fanatics.”
Death in the Ashes Page 19