111 AMBUSH IN THE ASHES 111
The last thing anyone saw of those two for about an hour was Jersey chasing Cooper out the front door, threatening all sorts of pain and suffering upon his body.
112
The press was two days late in arriving, due to the big news Stateside about most of the country reuniting. They started raising hell within moments after their charter plane landed at the Bissau airport. They were very unhappy about their vehicles and supplies having not been unloaded. Several of the big-shot news anchors, from the Big Three Networks, demanded to know why their equipment had not been unloaded.
“It’s your equipment,” several Rebels told them several times within the span of about twenty minutes. “You unload it.”
That attitude did not do much to improve strained relations between Ben Raines and his Rebels and the nation’s press. Not that Ben cared.
The press finally contracted with some locals to offload their equipment and that was completed just about the same time Ben and his 1 Batt was due to pull out. They had done all they could for the residents of the city.
Ben had yet to meet with any member of the press, even though they had repeatedly asked for a meeting.
Ike had radioed Ben, telling him if he sent any of the press over to his sector he’d strand them in the middle of hostile territory the first chance he got.
“They don’t want to travel with Ike anyway,” Mike
113
113
Richards told Ben on the day before the battalion was due to pull out. “They want to get some dirt on you.”
“I’m sure of that. You going to stay with me on this next run?”
“Not on your life. I’m gettin’ out of here today. Press types give me a pain in the ass. They always ask the dumbest questions.”
“I wish I could go with you,” Ben said wistfully. “Sooner or later a half a dozen of them will corner me somewhere and bombard me with questions.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks a lot. Keep in touch.”
“I will. From a distance.”
Ben watched the chief of intelligence walk away. There was no telling where Mike would pop up next. Even though he should have his butt parked behind a desk, he had spent too many years in the field to be content with paperwork.
“We’re lining up the column now, boss,” Corrie said. “Where do you want the press?”
Ben sighed. “Oh, hell, Corrie. As much as I want to, I can’t stick them at the rear of the column. They’d get lost or ambushed. I’d get the blame for sure. Put them in the middle of the column. Hell, we might as well get used to baby-sitting them.”
“Right.” She didn’t tell Ben she’d already done that, knowing that would be his final decision. Corrie was one of the few people who knew that in many cases, Ben’s bark was a lot worse than his bite. He didn’t like the press, and wouldn’t hesitate to inconvenience them, but he didn’t want to harm any of them. Well … most of them.
There were three news anchors that Ben had absolutely no use for at all. Stan Travis, Marilyn Dickson, and Ford McLachlan. Those three had been up-and-comers just before the Great War, being groomed for
114
William W. Johnstone
the anchor spots on the big three networks. All three were one-hundred-percent left-wing democrats, sobbing and pissing and moaning every chance they got about guns in the hands of private citizens, the use of deadly force by the police, the death penalty, and anything else that smacked of conservatism.
Ben’s feelings for the three news-people came very close to open hatred. And he made no effort to hide it.
Before dawn, on the morning of the pull-out from Bissau, Ben was standing beside his vehicle when the three news anchors walked up.
“Well, General,” Ford said. “We meet again.”
“How wonderful for you,” Ben said acidly.
Jersey gave Marilyn Dickson a very contemptuous look and spat on the ground.
Marilyn fixed Jersey with a haughty gaze and then ignored her.
“Nice to know you ladies are going to get along,” Ben said, deliberately antagonizing them both.
“It came as quite a surprise when we learned you were allowing us to accompany you, General,” Stan Travis said.
“I’d rather have you with me than have to waste time hauling your asses out of trouble.”
“We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, General,” Marilyn said.
Jersey laughed at that.
Ben verbally stepped in before Marilyn allowed her ass to overload her mouth and Jersey popped her … something Jersey would do in a heartbeat. “You people ready to pull out?”
“We’re ready whenever you are, General,” Ford said. “What’s the next stop?”
“We’ll travel from here over to Mansoa, then Bam-
115
115
badinca, with stops along the way. Wherever the people need us.”
“Looking for trouble along the way, of course,” Marilyn stuck her lip into it.
“We’re always ready for trouble, Ms Dickson,” Ben answered evenly, although if she could have seen his inner thoughts concerning what he would like to do to her neck she would have run shrieking into the jungle. “We’re an army, not a pack of wimpy-assed left-wing liberals who faint at the mention of a gun.”
Marilyn curled her lip at him and walked off. Jersey pranced along silendy behind her for a few meters, doing a pretty good imitation of a prima donna carefully avoiding the mud puddles.
Ben’s team laughed at the sight. Marilyn stopped and glanced behind her. Jersey was standing innocendy, a smile on her face. “Go away,” Marilyn told her.
“With pleasure, lady.”
Marilyn minced on, with Jersey once more resuming her imitation.
“Amusing, in a crude sort of way,” Stan said.
“That’s us,” Ben said cheerfully. “Crude. Awfully crude.”
Ford looked at Ben for a few heartbeats, then smiled faindy. “Come on, Stan. We’d better get ready to move out. Wouldn’t want to be left behind, would we?”
The press walked off and Jersey rejoined die team. “Twenty-five of those buttholes to put up widi. How long will they be with us, boss?”
“The duration, I guess.”
“Wonderful,” Jersey said. “Sometime between now and then that bitch is sure to stumble and fall on her face right in the mud.”
Ben walked back to the wagon, chuckling as he walked. He hoped Ms. Dickson never got too close to
116
a large mud puddle while Jersey was around. Although, that would be quite a sight to see …
There was nothing left of Mansoa. Not one building remained of the village. The Rebels pushed on to Bambadinca, or rather, what was left of it. It too, like Mansoa, had been destroyed. In Bambadinca, Ben’s 1 Batt linked up for a day with Nick Stafford’s 2 Batt. The two huge battalions would travel together south down to Mampata. There, Nick would veer off to the east and Ben would continue south.
“Starving and sick people,” Nick told Ben. “It’s been a depressing run so far.”
“I’ve got a hunch it’ll only get worse the further south we go,” Ben said.
“Says here there is excellent food in Mampata,” Beth read from an old travel brochure. “French food.”
“Not anymore,” Corrie called. “Scouts report the town is in ruins. Looks as though it’s been deserted for a long time. Water is still good though.”
“Where have the people gone, General?” Ford McLachlan asked, standing a few feet away.
Since the question had been posed in a civil tone of voice, Ben answered it civilly. “I don’t know, Ford. All my battalions have run into the same thing.” Ben’s eyes narrowed as a gaggle of press types strolled up to join Ford, including Marilyn Dickson and Stan Travis. “Gangs might have driven them out or killed them, or taken many of them to sell in the newly flourishing slave trade. They might have died from disease or malnutrition; probably a lot of them did. Many of them fled to the cities … and died there.”
“And many of them were forced to turn to a life of petty crime in order to survive and your troops shot
117
117
them down like rabid animals and killed them,” Marilyn ran her mouth.
Nick quietly slipped away from the growing crowd and beat it back to his battalion. He had seen Ben lose his temper a couple of times while dealing with certain press types, and it was not a pretty sight.
Ben ignored the woman’s comments. “Other than the explanation I just offered, I don’t know what happened to the people. I can add this: for several years we have had rumors-those rumors now confirmed-that after the Great War, millions of people died here on the African continent.” He cut his eyes to Marilyn. “Long before we arrived.”
“General,” a reporter that Ben did not know asked, “Who is paying for this massive military operation of yours?”
“The SUSA is covering part of the cost,” Ben replied. “The newly formed United Nations and participating countries is picking up the rest of it.”
“But you are not here as peacekeepers, officially sanctioned by the UN as such?” another asked.
Ben shook his head. “No, we are not.”
“You are here primarily to deal with the growing threat that Bruno Bottger and his army presents to the free world, is that it?” another asked.
“Yes. That is our primary mission.”
“But General Bottger says he would welcome the press in his country,” another reporter stated. “He says he will show that the nations under his control have prospered, and there is no rampant starvation there.”
“Feel free to go anytime you wish,” Ben came right back. “But by all means, ask the general if you may travel unescorted throughout his territory, asking questions of anyone. How about doing that?”
“The general says there are still many gangs prowling
118
the countryside, and that would be dangerous for us,” the reporter replied.
Ben laughed, devoid of humor. More and more, his suspicions that Bruno had a large hand in what was happening back in America were being confirmed. “I could have told you that would be his reply. A few years back, the dictators of Libya and Iraq-to name two countries-basically said the same thing. If you care to recall.”
“Are you comparing General Bottger to those dictators, General?” Marilyn asked.
“Bruno Bottger is worse than Hitler ever thought about being,” Ben told the crowd. “Hitler is the man’s idol. Bear in mind, I’ve fought this bastard off and on for years. Believe me, I know him far better than any of you. The man is the personification of evil.”
“But we only have your word for that,” another liberal jackoff popped.
“Oh, shit!” Jersey muttered under her breath.
Several more knowledgeable reporters quickly stepped away from the reporter who had just let his ass overload his mouth.
Ben held his famous temper under control … sort of, and for a moment only. He smiled at the young man, guessing the reporter to be in his very early to possibly mid-twenties-probably just out of college, with his head crammed full of socialistic bullshit from egg-headed professors who had never had a firm grip on reality in their entire life. “That is correct to a degree, sonny-boy,” Ben said softly, the crowd straining to hear his words. “You only have my word. But that remark tells me you know nothing about world events, and probably very little about anything else. My advice to you would be to keep that flapping blow-hole of yours closed until you have the ability to see and report, fairly, both sides of every story.”
119
119
Ben turned to Corrie. “Tell the troops to mount up. We’re out of here.”
Ben turned and walked off without another word.
Jersey fixed the mouthy young reporter with a gaze from her dark obsidian eyes. There was a lot to be read in that look, and most of the reporters read it accurately. Unfortunately, the young man, Alex Marsh, was not yet worldly enough to understand he had just implied that General Raines was a liar.
Not a very smart thing to do.
120
The Rebels passed through many small villages on the way south to Mampata, but most were long deserted and falling down.
“Where the hell did all the people go?” Cooper asked, as they crossed the bridge over the Rio Corubal River and headed for Quebo. At Quebo, they would cut south once more and cross over into the Republic of Guinea.
The Rebels had found no signs of mass graves, and since leaving the north, no signs of mass slaughter in any of the villages along the way.
“I don’t know, Coop,” Ben replied. “What I do know is we’re less than a month away from the rainy season. And when that hits, we’re going to be slowed down to a crawl and worse, we’re all going to be miserable.”
“Says here,” Beth said, lowering the travel brochure, “that in some parts of Guinea, the rainfall can be torrential from May to September, with many roads closed during that period.”
“If it gets too bad, we’ll just hole up,” Ben said.
“And then, Jersey,” Cooper said with a grin, “you and me can play house.”
Jersey told him to go commit an impossible act upon his person.
“I just can’t figure Mampata,” Anna said. “Not a
121
skeleton to be found, not the first sign of any fight. But the people were all gone. It’s weird.”
“Here’s something just as weird,” Corrie said. “Scouts are reporting that Quebo is deserted. Not one sign of life.”
“Damn!” Ben whispered. “Corrie, signal we’re stopping. Tell the Scouts to hold up.”
That done, Corrie asked, “Bad feeling, boss?”
Ben shook his head. “Not really. I don’t know. Maybe. Hell, I just don’t know what’s going on. And these mysteries about deserted villages and missing people are beginning to bug me.”
Cooper stopped the big wagon and Ben got out, waiting for the HumVees carrying his company commanders to come to the front of the column.
“I want everybody in full body armor,” he told his CO’s. “Button up. Heads up.”
Ben looked carefully all around him. It was perfect country for an ambush. For a few seconds, Ben thought it might be deja vu: a halted column, then ambush. But nothing happened. “All right, people. Let’s move out.”
A few miles north of the Guinea border, the guerrillas sprang from their ambush, cutting the column in half.
The Rebels jumped from trucks and hit the ditches, taking up defensive positions. They didn’t know who they were fighting, but whoever it was had opened the dance; now it was time to pay the fiddler.
“Any of our people take hits?” Ben shouted to Corrie, over the ratde of gunfire.
“Half a dozen. I don’t know how bad.”
“How about the reporters?”
“None of them hurt. Just scared.”
Bullets sang their deadly song as they passed over the heads of the teams, the lead slamming into the side of the big wagon. The nine-passenger wagon was bullet-proofed, but the exterior was really taking a beating.
122
Then somewhere out in the mangroves and marsh the ambushers opened up with heavy machine guns, the gunfire coming from both sides of the road, all up and down the stalled column.
“Mortars,” Ben ordered. “Lay the pickles to them. WP and HE. The tops of that marsh grass will burn, so let’s give them some fire and create some smoke for us. If we stay on this road, we’re going to get creamed. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to get out there among ‘em and mix it up.”
Within thirty seconds, the thunk of mortars could be heard and the ground on both sides of the road exploded, the willie peter igniting the tops of the grass. The WP arched upward, then returned to earth and struck cloth and burned into living flesh of the ambushers. Through the thick smoke and gunfire, muffled screaming could be heard.
The Rebels had set up their big .50’s and were pouring out the lead. The tank commanders had swiveled their turrets, lowered their main guns, and were roaring out death and mayhem. The Bradley Fighting Vehicles and APC’s were hammering out 25mm rounds from their chain guns. The sound was nearly overpowering and conversation was impossible.
The lightly armed ambushers soon realized that if they continued the attack, they would die. They broke it off and began fading away into the marsh and swamp.
“Cease fire,” Ben ordered, and gradually the sound and fury died away. A sullen, smoke-permeated silence setded over the land.
“CO’s want to know if they should press the attack,” Corrie asked.
“No,” Ben said. “Hold their positions. It’s the attackers’ country, their land, not ours. They know it, we don’t. To follow would be foolish.”
“We’ve got some dead,” Corrie announced.
123
123
“Bodybag them and put them in trucks until we can clear this fucking swampy area. Ask Chase if the wounded can take the ride out of here.”
Seconds later, “Affirmative, boss. But not for any extended length of time.”
“All right, let’s get these flattened tires changed and mount up and move out. Goddamnit!” Ben cursed. “I hate not knowing my enemy. See if we can drag some prisoners out of that swamp. Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”
A dozen miles down the road, the Rebels came to a village, the buildings still standing, but the homes and few businesses devoid of human life.
“Check it all out for booby traps,” Ben ordered. “Then see to the wounded ASAP.” He looked all around him at the still and silent village. “Damn, I hate mysteries. I never did like mysteries. They bug me.”
“Who attacked us back there, General?” a reporter asked, walking up.
“I don’t know. We did take some prisoners and they’re being questioned now. Maybe we’ll find out, but the odds are we won’t.”
“What will you do with the prisoners after you’ve questioned them, General Raines?” Marilyn Dickson asked. “Shoot them?”
Ben sighed. “I doubt it, Ms. Dickson. We’ll probably patch them up as best we can and leave them behind.”
“It was our understanding that the Rebels always executed their prisoners,” a reporter said.
“Whoever told you that is full of shit,” Ben said bluntly. “If we’re dealing with murderers and rapists and child molesters and the like, yes, we sometimes do execute them. But these men today are soldiers, following orders from someone. They’ll be treated as fairly and as decently as is possible, under the circumstances,
124
and left behind. Now if you will all excuse me, I have things to do.”
The Rebel dead were buried in a local cemetery, with simple military honors, in unmarked graves. The Rebels had learned to do that because many times, depending on the enemy, marked graves were opened and the bodies desecrated and mutilated.
Ben explained that to the reporters.
“How awful!” a woman exclaimed.
“We are not well liked,” Ben said simply, then turned away and walked off.
Ben did not hear Marilyn Dickson say very sarcastically, “I simply cannot imagine why that would be.”
But Jersey heard her.
On the way to Conakry on the coast, where they were to resupply before traveling on to Sierra Leone, the Rebels passed through a dozen villages, all deserted. The town of Boke was a shambles, ravaged by war, and so was Boffa, a town south of Boke. The Rebel doctors attended to the few people that remained, mostly the very old, the sick and the dying, and then they moved on after leaving them food. There was litde else they could do.
The highway, and it was stretching the imagination to call it that, missed the town of Coyah by a few dozen miles as the Rebels turned west heading for the city of Conakry.
“A mass of humanity, to use the words of the Scouts,” Corrie told Ben. “But they are making some effort to cope.”
“Gangs?” Ben questioned.
125
“Negative. They split a few days ago when they learned we were on the way.”
“I hate to ask, but how many people are we dealing with here?”
“About half a million.”
Ben groaned. “Damn! Is the airport functional?”
“Affirmative. Once we chase the people off the runways. They’re camped all over the place.”
“All right. Tell Nick to send us half his doctors and Paul Harrison and Mike Post to do the same. Tell them to share some of their medical supplies. Thank God we do have ample vaccines and medicines.”
“The airport is on the main road into the city,” Cor-rie reminded him.
“I’ll set up a CP there.”
“The SEALs went in with the gunships and set up a defensive line along with the Scouts. So far no one has made any serious attempts to breech it.”
“We’ll be there by midafternoon. The ships?”
“Standing by well off the coast. The people in the city are hungry, boss. It could get touchy. Probably will.”
“We’ll handle it,” Ben said. “One way or the other.”
“We have shooting trouble with starving people, that will be just what the press is waiting for,” Anna said.
“I know,” Ben said softly. “But I won’t lose a Rebel to a goddamn mob when I can prevent it.”
The column arrived at the airport just in time. Huge mobs were gathering all around the runways and the Scouts and SEALs, as tough as both units were, were about to be overrun by the screaming mobs.
Tanks began to circle the airport as Rebels by the hundreds jumped from trucks to set up defensive lines. The mob paused.
“The gangs had surrounded the city, General,” a Rebel SEAL told Ben. “They cut off the people from food; took it for themselves.”
126
“Here’s an interpreter, General,” a Scout said, walking up leading a very reluctant-appearing man with him.
“A sound truck is being readied right now,” Ben told the man. “You tell these people food is on the way. It will be handed out in an orderly fashion. If they try to breech our lines, we will open fire.”
“The people are starving, General!” Stan Travis shouted the words. “You can’t shoot starving people!”
“Get this son of a bitch out of here!” Ben ordered.
Stan was led away without protest. He knew better than to offer any resistance.
Ben turned to the local. “Tell the people to clear the runway. We have planes coming in. Tell them I want about fifty volunteers, men in good physical shape, to help unload the ships that will be docking very soon.”
The interpreter climbed up onto the truck and took the microphone. The speakers howled in feedback and the scared locals looked wildly all around him. The volume was adjusted and he received a nod to go ahead.
Whoever the interpreter was, and Ben never did find out, for as soon as the man finished speaking, and got a chance, he jumped down from the bed of the truck and disappeared into the crush of humanity. But he had done his job. Within moments, the mobs had settled down and were backing up.
“That was close,” Anna said.
“Too damn close,” her adopted father replied. “Cor-rie, tell the troops to keep gently pushing them back. No rough stuff, just be firm. We’ve managed to round up a dozen English-speaking locals, they’ll assist. We’ve got to get these runways clear of people and trash.”
Ben turned to a Rebel SEAL. “How did the port look to you, Chief?”
“As far as we could tell without going in there, General, the harbor is clear. Of course, there is no harbor
127
127
master and the tugs are long gone. It’s all up to the captains if they want to chance it.”
“We’d have smash-ups for sure. Hell, there wouldn’t be a dock left. How about small boats?”
“Plenty of those.”
“We’ll offload that way. Corrie, tell the ships to anchor as close in as possible. Set up defensive lines at the port ASAP and get the trucks down there ready to receive supplies.” He turned to the SEAL. “Can you find us a good distribution site in the city, Chief.”
“No problem, General.”
“Now we have to find people to captain the small craft …”
“We’ll take care of that,” a Scout quickly volunteered.
“Have at it,” Ben told her.
The SEAL looked dubiously at the female Scout, but said nothing. He knew the females who made the spec ops units had no slack cut for them because of gender: they could either cut it, or they were washed out. There was no such thing as preferential treatment in the SUSA, civilian workplace or military. No quotas, no such thing as affirmative action. If one was qualified to do the job, they got hired. If they weren’t, they hit the boards.
“Found a CP for you, boss,” Cooper said, walking up with a group of Rebels. “It’s in the old main terminal building. Just right.”
“Okay, Coop, thanks.” Ben looked slowly all around him. The crowds had almost disappeared, only a handful of diehards remaining. Ben’s eyes narrowed as Stan Travis walked up with a small group of reporters.
“Travis!” Ben barked at him. “I have a word of warning for you. Take it to heart. If you ever, ever, interfere with me again, I will not hesitate to shoot you stone dead on the spot. Do you understand that, mister?”
128
William W. Johnstone
“\es, sir,” the reporter said. But he could not keep the hate from his words.
“You better understand it. I don’t have the authority to order you home, but I can damn sure banish you from this column, and I will, mister, I will.”
Ben turned away and began the walk over to the main terminal building, his team with him. He knew he had not heard the last from Stan Travis.
129
The small boats began bringing in food, including fifty pound sacks of rice and dried beans, later that afternoon. There were only a few instances of trouble, and the Rebels, with the help of some ex-Guinea army personnel who had volunteered to work with the Rebels, quickly handled it without any bloodshed.
Ben was impressed with the work of the ex-military personnel and told his people to see about making them into some sort of militia or police. When asked, the men quickly agreed, and the first steps toward order were taken. The rebels outfitted them with uniforms and weapons and radios.
“The people are really in pretty good shape, except for the miserable diet, or lack of one, they’ve been forced to endure,” Dr. Chase told Ben, over a glass of bourbon in Ben’s CP the next evening.
“Supplies holding out?”
“Oh, yes. We’re fine there. Those countries in Europe who agreed to help with this project have really come through.”
“I just wonder how long they’ll continue coming through after the reunited states start putting the pressure on them?”
“You think that will happen?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
130
Chase shook his head. “I’ll argue that with you, Ben. If the reunited states tried to halt a humanitarian mission such as this one, there would be a howl from every capital around the world.”
Ben smiled at his long-time friend. “You’re probably right, Lamar. I just don’t trust those people. I have a very deep-seated dislike for liberals.”
Lamar finished his bourbon and stood up. “I have a very deep-seated dislike for politicians in general. Bastards thrive on bureaucracy. I think if a kid of mine said he wanted to grow up to be a politician I’d drown him.”
Ben sat for a time after Lamar had gone. The gangs the Rebels had been pushing slowly southward could not keep running. They had to stop, turn around, and make a stand somewhere. Unless … Ben frowned. Well, that was a possibility. If Bruno was behind the gangs to some degree he just might allow them to cross over into his territory and use them for cannon fodder, thereby saving his troops. The more Ben thought about that, the more he felt that might be the case.
Ben picked up the just decoded communique from Base Camp One and reread it. Mike Richards’s people had been busy and had done well. Paula Preston was indeed working for the new government of the reunited states. Her parents had been lifelong, highly dedicated workers in the left-wing of the democratic party. And Paula had been in lock-step with their socialistic ideology ever since she had reached the age of comprehension.
They had trained her well.
But if she was such a dedicated worker, and so trusted, why the hell did her masters (that was the way Ben viewed people who gave their hearts and minds to the left-wing) leave her in North Africa? What the hell was the point in that?
“Oh, shit!” Ben muttered, sitting straight up in his
131
131
chair. “Of course. That has to be it. It was so obvious I didn’t see it.”
They must have known that Ben and his Rebels were planning to come here. Must have known that the Rebels had been gearing up for this mission for a couple of years.
But that didn’t necessarily mean the leak came from Ben’s HQ. Those working on the mission back in Base Camp One had known of it for just as long, setting up supply lines, lining up ships and planes, working out logistics, and doing the hundreds of other things that went with such an operation.
But that still did not explain the “why” of Paula being left over here. Mike’s people had found that other state department personnel who had survived the Great War had been either brought back Stateside by their government or managed to find their way back.
So what was the real story behind Paula’s staying?
As much as Ben hated to even entertain the thought, his mind kept returning to one conclusion: Bruno Bottger.
But would an avowed socialist work for a fascist? Really give her heart and mind to such a philosophy?
“Sure seems as though that happened in this case,” Ben muttered.
“Ike on the horn, boss,” Corrie broke into his thoughts.
Ben walked to the radio and picked up the mic. “Go ahead, Ike?”
“Ben, we’re doing a lot of good work with the people, but the gangs keep running away toward the south. It’s almost as though they want us to follow them.”
“I think they do, Ike. I think Bruno is behind this whole damn scenario.”
“They’re not going to be able to flank us, Ben. Not
132
in any strength. We’ve got eyes in the sky every moment. They’d pick it up. So what’s his plan?”
“What’s your estimate of the gang strength, combined?”
“A hundred thousand or so, and that’s probably figuring on the low end.”
“I agree that’s low. Say … the equivalent of seven or eight divisions.”
“All right.”
“That’s a hell of a buffer zone, Ike. Especially with long-range artillery laying back and giving them support.”
Ben could almost hear Ike sigh. “Well … that’s the way I had it figured, Ben. But what is the point of Bruno allowing us to get all these hundreds of thousands of people well and healthy … Oh, shit!” he suddenly said.
“That’s right, Ike. He’s got people scattered throughout the starving, hundreds, maybe thousands of infiltrators, ready to rise up and take up arms when we do butt heads with the bastard. He’s had several years to recruit, promising them all sorts of things in return for their support.”
“And we have no way of knowing who they are so we can flush them out.”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll be fighting on two fronts.”
“If we’re both right in our assumption. But I could be way off base. It’s still pretty early and things are iffy at this stage.”
“Well, hell, Ben. Even if the gangs are not affiliated with Bruno, we’ve still got to fight them at some point. And with that many of them, we’ll be held up and sure to take casualties.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right.”
“Any word on the ringer?” He meant Paula.
133
133
“Ike, I think she’s working for Bruno.”
“Son of a bitch! How do you figure she got hooked up with him?”
“Through the people who ramrodded the reunification of the States back home.”
There was a long pause from hundreds of miles away as the full impact of what Ben had just said struck home to Ike. “Ben … are you serious.”
“Yes, I am, Ike. I …” He cut his eyes to Jersey, who had just been handed a slip of paper and had stiffened as she read it. She motioned to Ben to cut it short. “Back in a few, Ike. I think we may have a little trouble here.”
“Okay, Ben. Take it easy.”
“What’s up, Jersey?”
“Intel says something’s in the wind. There is some unusual movement among the locals in the city and we’ve got several hundred people all moving toward the airport in small groups.”
“Any sign of weapons?”
“All of them carrying bundles about three feet long.”
“My, my,” Ben said with a grin. “You don’t suppose they’re going camping this late in the evening, do you?”
“I kinda doubt it, boss.”
Ben glanced at Corrie. She nodded. “Everybody’s on alert.”
Ben picked up his CAR and looked around the large room. Cooper had set up his squad automatic weapon and had placed extra two hundred round magazines close by. Anna and Beth had taken up positions at the rear of the room, facing away from the runways. Corrie picked up her CAR and smiled at Ben.
“Rock and roll,” she said.
“Indeed we shall,” Ben replied, just as the first sounds of gunfire reached their ears. “Cut the lights.”
The room was suddenly plunged into darkness.
134
William W. Johnstone
“Groups of people swarming all over the airport,” Corrie spoke calmly. “One large group attempting to cross the runways.”
“They won’t make it,” Ben said softly, just as Rebel .50 caliber machine guns opened up.
Portable lights set up all around the area clicked on and the harsh beams showed dozens of men either lying very still in darkening pools of blood or flopping around in twisted pain on the runways.
“Fools,” Ben muttered.
A face filled with hate suddenly appeared in a window and Ben leveled his CAR and squeezed the trigger. The face dissolved in a spurt of blood and shattered bone. Another face took its place and Ben’s CAR bucked in his big hands. The top of the man’s head splintered apart and gray matter splattered.
Cooper’s bi-podded SAW began yammering and a line of figures went down in boneless sprawls as the 5.56 rounds stitched them from left to right in the center of the body.
“It’s heavier than anticipated,” Corrie shouted over the rattle of battle. “A large contingent of reinforcements coming in from the north.”
A man suddenly shoved a weapon through the smashed window near Corrie and without changing expression she one-handed lifted her CAR and pulled the trigger. The 5.56mm rounds took the man first in the throat and then left a hole-pocked, bone-splintered, and bloody trail from his chin to the top of his head as the CAR rose on full auto.
“Asshole,” Corrie was heard to mutter.
A grenade sailed through a smashed window and without hesitation Anna scooped it up and hurled it back outside. “Hit the floor!” she shouted.
Ben and team hit the brass-littered floor just as the grenade exploded outside the CP, waist-high about
135
135
three feet in front of a group of charging infiltrators. The shrapnel shredded living flesh and the torn bodies were flung around like puppets with a madman manipulating the strings.
Witfi their ears still ringing from the concussion, Ben and team rose to their boots and once more took their positions. But the attackers had shifted their attack away from the small cluster of buildings-which included Ben’s GP-and seemingly were concentrating on attempting to overrun Rebel positions around the airport.
Bad mistake on the part of whoever was in charge of the enemy operation.
Ben and his team could hear the battle raging all around them, but for now, their part of the airport complex was quiet except for the moaning of the wounded outside.
“My God!” came the call from outside. “Is it all right to come in there?”
Ben recognized the voice as belonging to Stan Travis. “Come on. Stay low and get on the floor as soon as you enter the building.”
Jersey jerked open the door and Ben could almost see her smile in the darkness as Marilyn Dickson came crawling in on all fours. He braced himself for what he was sure was going to be a very caustic comment from Jersey.
She didn’t disappoint him.
“Damn,” the diminutive bodyguard said sarcastically. “Looks like a big-assed crab crawling in.”
Stan Travis came crawling in right behind Marilyn, then Ford McLachlan, and finally came Paula Preston, bringing up the rear.
“Four big-assed crabs,” Jersey said.
“Your people told us this area was secure!” Marilyn squalled indignantly.
“Funny thing about war,” Ben said calmly. “Things
136
can and often do change very quickly. Get over against that wall to your left, people. And stay down. You’ll be reasonably safe.”
“You mean it isn’t over?” Marilyn asked.
“I doubt it, lady,” Ben told her. “It’ll probably break loose again in a few minutes.”
Ben cut his eyes, which were accustomed to the dim light, to Paula. The woman did not appear to be frightened or upset. Ben had him a hunch that Paula would stand up to a spitting cobra and face it down. She was one hell of an actress, probably trained by the CIA at The Farm down in Virginia … years back.
Paula felt his eyes on her and met his gaze with a level gaze of her own.
She knows I’m onto her game, Ben thought. Hell, it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. It just might get real interesting after this.
“Here they come!” Corrie called. “They’ve split their forces. I just got a flash from Lieutenant Scott. They took a prisoner and the prisoner blabbed. They’re after you.”
“My, my,” Ben quipped, seating a fresh magazine into the belly of the CAR. “All this great big fuss over little ol’ me. I’m flattered.”
Ben could hear Marilyn’s snort of derision at that. Marilyn shrieked as a burst of automatic gunfire shattered what was left of some of the windows and splintered the wall behind her, sending bits of plaster and wood raining down on her head.
“I believe they’re really going to get serious about it now,” Anna said.
“I think you’re right, baby,” Ben told her, and that got him a sharp look from Marilyn. “She’s my daughter, Ms. Dickson,” Ben explained the familiarity.
“Your daughter!” Marilyn blurted.
“Yeah, lady,” Anna told her. “But right now, we don’t have time to explain our family tree.”
137
137
“Daughter?” Ford muttered. “I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t either,” Stan said.
“But she’s just a child!” Marilyn exclaimed. “She couldn’t be over eighteen years old!”
“Yeah; something like that,” Ben agreed.
“Something like that?” Paula got into the conversation. “You mean you don’t know how old your own daughter is?”
“Not really,” Ben admitted.
“That’s disgusting!” Ford said.
“Well, I can come within a year or so,” Ben replied, keeping one eye on the outside for any sign of movement while he had a good time putting on the reporters.
“Where is the child’s mother?” Marilyn asked.
“Damned if I know.”
“You mean you deserted her?” Paula asked.
“Well, not exactly.”
“You … you beast!” Marilyn said.
Anna started laughing softly and the civilians cut their eyes to her dim shape. “We had them going there for a while, didn’t we, General Ben?”
“We sure did, baby.”
“Heads up!” Jersey put an abrupt end to the game. “Here they come.”
“Stay out of the way, you people, and get belly down on the floor,” Ben ordered the reporters. “And stay there.”
Bullets ripped through the shattered windows and tore into the walls. The reporters hugged the floor as Ben and team returned their attention to the attackers, coming in human waves out of the darkness.
“I think they’re serious this time,” Ben muttered, raising the stock of his CAR to his shoulder.
Then conversation was impossible as gunfire roared.