Ill

“Colonel West reporting heavy fighting in his sector, sir,” Beth said. “He says his men are stacking up the creepies like stovewood.”

“Good. We’ve been effective in blocking off most of their escape routes. We could conceivably break the backs of the creepies this day and night.”

“And then all we have to deal with is Khamsin,”

Thermopolis reminded them all.

“No sweat, Therm,” Ben told him. “Trust me.”

“That’s the problem,” the hippie said dryly. “I’m beginning to do just that.”

The cracking of burning wood, the thick, sweet-scented smoke, and the occasional collapsing of a building became familiar sounds in the waning daylight as Ben kept up the pressure.

“Set charges!” he yelled to the men and women handling the explosives. “Bring the buildings down on their heads. You others, use tear-gas grenades to flush them out.” He turned to Buddy. “Son, you remember that fenced-in area we passed on the way up here?”

“The one with all the fifty-five-gallon drums stacked up?”

“That’s it. Take some Rebs and some trucks and get down there. Cut the tops off of them and bring them back up here. We’ll fill them with loose-packed dirt and saturate that with gasoline. We can use them for heating purposes and to give us light this night. Go, boy!”

Buddy was off and running.

“Beth, bump HQ and tell them to get a truckload of flares up here. When that’s done, tell General Striganov and Ike to go to full alert-everybody up and ready this night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thermopolis was curious about that. “Why those last orders, Ben Raines?”

“If you were in the creepies” shoes, wouldn’t you call a close ally and ask him to take the pressure off?”

“Ahh! Yes. I certainly would.”

Ben smiled and walked away, whistling an old tune

from the fifties: “Let the Good Times Roll!”

“Doesn’t anything ever bother that man?”