Ash: Rise of the Republic
Page 18
The sergeant visibly struggled with his self-control. Hatred flared in his eyes. Captain McLelland, watching from a few feet away, thought for a moment that the man would snap, but discipline held. After a loaded pause, the sergeant turned to his squad, "Private Jones! A bucket of water for the Colonel!"
There was a flurry of dangerous muttering among the troops nearest the scene as the young soldier rushed to fill a bucket. The Captain knew it wouldn't be long before the Colonel's insulting behavior turned the men to desertion or mutiny. These soldiers were volunteers, fighting for a common cause. They had not left their families to be treated like criminals by snotty, over privileged aristocrats. Whatever guilt still remained over the plan he had devised vanished with the men's morale.
With the vomit cleaned and the ramp closed, the army was finally ready to march. The rangers sped on ahead in their nimble vehicles while the armor trundled through the gates. The infantry followed, discouraged and frustrated. Most had sprung from bed that morning inspired and ready for a fight, but the long hot wait in the dust and the deplorable behavior of their commander had sapped their morale. They marched in silence, eyes on the ground, their thoughts on their homes and families.
As they passed the spot where four of his rangers had turned west in the early morning hours, the Captain glanced at his wife. She caught his gaze after a moment and smiled at him. She lovingly took his hand and squeezed. The reassuring gesture calmed his nerves, as it always did before a fight.
Moments later, the calm blanket of monotony which had settled over the plodding column was shattered by a screeching hiss. The men in the lead companies looked up at the sudden sound just in time to see a thin trail of white smoke streaking toward the Colonel's Stryker. Before they could so much as blink in surprise, the rocket burned through the vehicle's thin armor with a hollow thump. For a moment, it seemed as if no damage had been done, but soon smoke began to pour from the gun ports that lined the flanks of the machine. The hatch in the turret burst open, unleashing the terrified screams of the men trapped inside. Their flesh was melting in the cruel inferno. A figure, flailing at the searing flames which licked along his blackening skin, tried to crawl from the hatch but slumped suddenly over, the life flash-boiled from his veins. The screams died soon after, the devastating heat was almost mercifully quick.
There was a moment of shock amongst the troops as they watched the flames curl around the charred corpse in the hatch and the smoke boil from the gun ports. Even the veterans were chilled at the sight. Memories of horrors seen in past battles, diluted by time, paled in comparison to the savage flames and the shrieks of the dying.
The commander of the lead Bradley recovered first. His crew were shaken from their trance by his barked orders. Hatches were slammed shut, the motor thrown in gear, and the turret whirled to face the unseen threat. The deafening staccato thrump of the big chain gun broke the rest of the troops from their astonished reverie. The second APC mimicked the first and unleashed its own storm of destruction. Each round that ripped from the narrow, tapered barrels was a more than inch in diameter and tipped with high explosives. The horrible thunder of each shot was followed a moment later by a deafening crack of explosive impact; each bullet's devastating warhead burst with a violent sphere of flame and ash and shrapnel. Over and over the motor driven chains worked the heavy bolts, ejecting the red hot spent casings and driving home the next deadly round.
The veterans in the ranks of the infantry ran to take cover and return fire from the ashbank at the edge of the highway, but the inexperienced volunteers wavered, shocked at the violence of the fusillade. The sound beat at them, almost physically driving them back. The angry shouts of their officers were lost in the storm of noise. They turned in panic, the fear bubbling up like it had two days before, but this time there were men behind them, men in battered uniforms statically mottled with intricate patterns of ash and stained with old blood. They carried worn rifles and wore grim looks. These men had seemingly appeared from nowhere, and almost caused fresh panic until recognition sparked in the terrified soldiers. These were not the enemy, these were the hardened, experienced men who had been protecting their isolated homesteads and villages for years. They were rangers, friends, and the volunteers took heart and joined the veterans firing from the ashbank.
The terrifying display continued until the hillside was lost in a cloud of black smoke and grey ash. The guns fell silent, finally responding to the shouts of "Cease Fire!" from the Bradleys' commanders. The gun-born thunder was still reverberating from distant topography as the rangers skidded their HORSVs to a halt in front of the hulking armored vehicles.
The Captain rushed to the Stryker, searing his hands as he tried to work the mechanism of the big rear hatch. The aluminum outer armor was smoking hot from the inferno within. Men rushed to McLelland's aide. Men who, a short time before, had cursed the fat Colonel under their breath, now ran forward, braving the overwhelming heat to pull him from the burning oven.
One by one, they stepped back, realizing the futility of their actions. The ranger Captain took charge immediately, barking orders to his troop. Deb jumped out to join him and beckoned Mason to take the wheel of her UTV. The swift vehicles peeled away in a shower of pebbles and ash, the five young rangers whooping in enthusiasm as they sped off to hunt down the attackers. He bellowed at the dazed commanders of the remaining APCs to advance at full speed and take up blocking positions on the highway a hundred yards south. He ushered the infantry around the burning hulk, pushing them at double time, hoping that the column could pass safely before any secondary explosions ripped from the flaming carcass. He sent two companies to line the ash banks on either side of the armor to protect against any further attacks from the flanks.
As they assembled, he ran to the Stryker and slapped the release lever on the huge recovery winch. He touched the big hook and found it surprisingly cool for it was on the front bumper, a long way from the inferno in the passenger compartment. He ran toward the bulk of the men, the thin cable unwinding behind him. When he reached the end of the spool he called for the rest of the army to join him. Five hundred men lined up on the cable and heaved. The straining mass of bunched muscle slowly pulled the twenty tons of burning steel up the steep slope of the ash bank, clearing the road for the supply trucks stranded in the rear. As the last set of wheels crested the embankment, the sweating, panting men cheered. The terror of the ambush was forgotten for a moment, replaced by the triumph of accomplishing an impossible feat.
The Captain ordered the men back down the slope. They formed in their companies behind the APCs which sat buttoned up, bristling with weaponry, side by side across the roadway. The rear hatch of one of the vehicles lowered as he approached. Major Price, still pale and shaky from his long night, peered warily out from the cramped troop compartment. He summoned his courage and rushed down the ramp toward Captain McLelland.
"The Colonel?" He nodded toward the smoking wheeled coffin on the ashbank.
"Never had a chance." McLelland's face was grim.
"Poor Pete," Price was silent for a moment, thinking of how close he had come to joining his commander in his fiery grave. "I'll take it from here, Captain. Please deploy your rangers on the banks as we advance to guard against any further ambush."
"Could we have a word, Major?" The Captain gestured at the Bradley's open hatch.
"Can it wait, Captain? We have war to fight."
"I really must insist, I just received some sensitive intel."
Price sighed, "Very well, Captain. Goodwin! Breimer!" The two young staff officers scurried out of the cramped compartment, "have the company commanders get the men ready to march, I will be out shortly." He dismissed them with a wave and beckoned McLelland to follow him.
With the hatch sealed, the Captain growled in a dangerous voice at the vehicle's crew to make themselves scarce. Price blinked in surprise at the order. "McLelland, what are..."
"Shut your fucking mouth you pompous little shit."
"Do you want those men to die?"
Price could only stutter in fear.
"Because that is what is going to happen if you try to lead them against that fucking psycho Werner. He's laid a trap for us and Garza was determined to walk right into it. I'm not going to let that happen, do you understand me?"
Price gave up trying to speak and simply nodded frantically.
"Good, now listen: if you follow my instructions you'll come out of this smelling like a rose. As much as I hate the thought, you'll have so many medals you'll have to wear two uniforms. Here's how we're going to do it..."
Twenty minutes later, Major Price, still pale and trembling from his hangover, called the officers to a meeting behind the rumbling APCs. McLelland and Collier flanked him as he addressed the dusty, sweating group of Captains and Lieutenants. He hid his fear well.
"The rangers have received intelligence which suggests that enemy has devised an ambush for us…"
He played his part perfectly. He walked them through the plan exactly as they had rehearsed. The officers grinned as it was laid out for them.
"We'll move out once the Captain's scouts return," he said in closing, "make sure you draw sufficient ammunition from the reserve. We’ll need to restock the Bradleys too. Keep your men focused, and keep your eyes open!"
As the officers disbursed, McLelland's troop returned from hunting the outlaws responsible for the Colonel's death. No one noticed that, though five rangers had left for the hunt, seven rangers had returned.
The final UTV returned just after dusk. The two scouts reported to the Captain and then unrolled their sleeping pallets in the ash and collapsed, exhausted. They had driven nearly five hundred miles through rough country, stopping only to refuel from the spare tanks strapped to the frame. They would probably be useless from exhaustion for a day or two, but they had done their job. The preparations had been made and the Captain's plan was in action.
****
The army moved out two hours before dawn. They left the road two miles north of Hempstead, climbing the ashbank and spilling into the brushy country to the west. When the clouds to the east began to glow with soft morning light, they were in position. The Captain waited to order the assault until he could see his hand in front of his face.
They went in a line, two ranks deep, marching like a battalion of musket wielding, eighteenth century fusiliers. The Bradleys were on either flank, motors rumbling and tracks creaking as they advanced in step with the infantry.
The line was positioned to straddle the low hill west of the road; the hill which held an enemy who thought he was waiting in ambush, undetected in the thick brush. They climbed the northern flank of the hill with no opposition. They were ducking into the brush at the top before the first shot rang out.
There were hundreds of outlaws in the bushes. They had lain in wait for the better part of two days, groaning in boredom. To keep his troops undetected, the Chief had ordered them to camp in the center of the ridge, as far away from the edges of the brush as possible. They were to burn no fires, make no sounds above a low whisper, and above all they were to stay put. No one had argued; they were all terrified of the big savage who killed on a whim. To minimize the risk of discovery, he set only one sentry at the edge of the brush. If he had been attempting to defend the hill, he would have had pickets on all sides, but he wasn't defending, he was hiding, waiting for the foolish Colonel to wander into his trap.
If Werner had placed proper sentries, he may have thrown back the brazen attack. They had marched straight up the hill through open country. A few dozen alert men with rifles in the bushes could have shredded the thin line. As it was, the first of his men to see the attackers had his pants around his ankles.
The prevailing wind was from the south so, to avoid breathing the stench from the droppings of four hundred unhealthy men, Werner had declared the northern end of the patch of brush to be the latrine. He announced that any man caught shitting upwind of the camp would be castrated on the spot and forced to eat his own excrement. The bandits had no reason to doubt the threat. So, as the soldiers of the Republic marched warily into the dense brush, the first sight they had of their enemy was a pale, pimpled, and hairy half-moon.
The snapping of a twig under a heavy boot made the shitting man turn. The sight of a line of grim men in grey made him stand, the pants around his ankles kept him from running, and a bullet in his back put him down.
All along the top of the ridge, disheveled, bearded men stood up when the shot rang out in the still morning air. The bushes were low, in most places they only came up to a tall man's chin. To the advancing infantry, the enemy seemed to bloom like hairy, cursing fruit from the thick brush. The line opened fire at the sight. More than seven hundred men pulled their triggers. The tremendous volley swept the hill, ripping the tops from bushes and plucking the hairy fruit from between the branches.
Those outlaws smart enough to stay crouched knew they had been discovered and began crawling away from danger. Many moved to the edges of the brush to scamper down the hill, but when they burst into the open the Bradleys were there, lumbering along either flank, belching lead and smoke from machine guns and cannon.
The grey line continued forward at a walking pace, calmly firing when targets presented themselves, jeering at the enemy, taunting them. They kept moving and firing, moving and firing, driving the outlaws along the ridge like a herd of deer. The infantry's inexorable advance kept them moving forward, and the vicious firepower rolling on either side of the hill kept them funneled along the ridgeline.
Occasionally one or two desperate bandits would brave the fire of the crawling gunships and make it down the hill, hoping to melt into the countryside and escape. Their relief was short-lived however: the rangers patrolled the flanks in their swift UTVs, hunting the fugitives down mercilessly. Those who threw their hands up in surrender were hogtied and left to wait in the ash. Those who turned to fight were gunned down.
Most of the outlaws, penned in by the armor and driven by the grey line of men and rifles, scrambled along the spine of the ridge, shredding their clothes on thorns in their haste. Their knees grew bloody, their hands torn. When they ran out of bushes, those at the head of the pack paused, fearing some new terror below. The way was clear, however. There was nothing before them but the interchange. The soaring curve of the roadway stretched out before them. Their comrades knelt behind mounds of thick sandbags halfway up, clutching at their big machine guns. Behind the apparent safety of their defensive line the highway stretched straight and empty into the distance; a tantalizingly open route back to the safety and comfort of their lair, back to the crates of liquor and piles of looted food and their warm and willing whores.
They saw a way out and they sprinted for it, forgetting that they had planned to trap their enemy on the same curving stretch of narrow highway. They streamed from the top of the ridge and the terrifying thunder from the Bradleys stopped and the line of grim men let them run. They pounded up the smooth incline, forced to press together by the concrete walls which lined the road. They swarmed over the sandbags and shrugged off the grasping hands of their comrades, ignored their reassuring shouts.
"Stand and fight!"
"We can hold them here!"
The men at the head of the rout thundered up the curve of the interchange. As they neared the crest, they began to whoop in relief: they had escaped! They began to slow now, the panic bleeding away. The aching in their legs and the burning in their lungs and the steepening slope brought their headlong flight from a sprint to a run, a run to a jog, a jog to a walk and then they were at the top! They looked back down at the battlefield, panting and wheezing, chattering excitedly, adrenaline still boiling in their veins. Their pursuers stood watching, still in their grey line straddling the ridge, the Bradleys at their flan
ks blessedly silent.
Perhaps they had run out of ammunition for the big guns? They shuddered, remembering the horrifying blasts from the explosive rounds, the men who had turned to gory mist before their eyes. And where was the Chief? No one had seen him. Probably dead. Serve the bastard right. They slapped each other on the backs and laughed as if a spell was broken. They would head back to collect their women and wine and go their separate ways. They turned, good spirits returned, and started walking down the gently sloping road. They took a few steps and stopped. The road was no longer free and clear, no longer a straight shot to their loot and their freedom. The despair returned, the panic began to rise again. Waiting for them at the base of the interchange, where the single soaring lane settled back to earth to join the highway going east, were the hard men of the Refinery.
The Captain’s scouts had reached them before noon. They had made a two day march in just over eighteen hours. They were exhausted. If the outlaws had thought to rush them, they would be hard pressed to resist, but the outlaws turned back. They fled back over the crest, seeking safety amongst the sandbags. The Refinery men made their weary way up the last hundred yards to the crest. The view was magnificent.
The broken army was packed between the concrete walls of the narrow roadway. They had been lured into their own trap. They were milling in confusion now, no leadership to speak of, frantically looking for an escape. Those who tried to go up were thrown back by well-aimed shots from the tough men above them. Those who tried to go down drew fire from the grey clad troops from Campus. One man racked the bolt on his fifty caliber machine gun and put a burst downrange at his tormentors. He was rewarded with a flurry of explosive 25mm shells. No one else tried the machine guns. Some of the more desperate men tried their luck over the concrete walls. They lay on the concrete below, screaming in pain, their legs shattered from the fall. The screams kept any more from trying their luck over the walls. Soon the defeated men began to sit down in the road in abject surrender. They had been beaten.