232 Twelve

Ike and his people stayed busy rendering large portions of roadway impassable and blowing every bridge in their sector. The area assigned to Ike and his people was so large that planes and helicopters were in use transporting the teams from place to place. Ike and his people had encountered very few hostiles. The word was spreading among those in North America who had aligned with Hoffman that they had better stay the hell away from those prowling teams of Rebels. To mix it up with the Rebels was not a wise thing to do.

South of the border, teams of Mexican soldiers sent out by General Payon were herding those who wished to go north across the border. Many did not wish to leave their homes. The soldiers didn’t argue the point with them. There just wasn’t time.

Once across the border, the people were interviewed, given medical exams, and those fit to fight were asked if they wished to do that. Not a one refused.

Tina and Raul had their hands full setting up training schedules for the new people.

Back at Base Camp One, Cecil had the factories

233 working twenty-four hours a day, making everything from uniforms to ammunition.

In the HQ Company building, Thermopolis often wished he was back in the field. Things were a lot less hectic.

South of the border, Hoffman’s forces mustered to move against General Payon’s troops and found very quickly that nearly everything they drove across, touched, or put their boots on was going to blow up. Hoffman had not counted on this. And he was not prepared for any type of assault from the sea. He ordered his troops back across the line, and the push toward Mexico City was halted, for a time.

At the edge of the Ouachita National Forest, Corrie acknowledged the message and said, “Hoffman just tried a push across the no-man’s-land. He obviously thought it was a bad idea, for he immediately pulled his people back.”

“Buying us a little more time,” Ben said. “Every additional day makes us stronger and better prepared to meet him when he does try to cross our borders.”

“Scouts up ahead,” Cooper said.

“We think they’re hostile,” the team leader told Ben. “They know we’re here but have made no aggressive moves toward us. About a hundred and fifty of them. They’re well-armed and seemed to be very well trained. Nothing like that shit group Banning ran. Their camp is clean and so are they.”

“You have a fix on radio frequency?”

“That’s a ten-four, sir.”

“Give it to Corrie, please.” Ben turned to another scout. “You find us a good defensive position?”

“Yes, sir. We could stand off a battalion in the place I picked.”

Ben saw his teams get into position for the evening and told Corrie to contact the group camped in the

234 forest. “Let’s see if they want to talk with us.”

“We’re minding our own business, General,” came the reply. “We don’t want anything to do with you or your army. So just leave us alone.”

“Want to come over for coffee?” Ben asked, a strange smile on his lips.

“No.”

“Downright unfriendly,” Cooper said. “I smell a stinking rat, General.”

“Yeah. So do I, Coop. But if they are linked with Hoffman, why didn’t they pull out? Surely they knew we were coming in this direction.”

“They knew,” Beth said, walking up. “Corrie just got a fix on some of the frequencies they’re using. They’re transmitting in code. That spook says he wasn’t trained in cryptology and can’t break it. That guy is weird!”

Ben smiled at that. He knew it went with the territory. He turned to the leader of the scout team. “How good are these people?”

“Real good, sir. They’ve got the forest around their camp covered with trip wires. I went a little ways, but it’s a real maze in there. I didn’t go in far. Just far enough to know these guys are plenty good. They’re not cornballs.”

Ben looked off into the distance for several moments. “Why?” he finally tossed the question out, to no one in particular. “Why would they go to such lengths knowing that we were on the way here and would surely stop and check them out? And more than that, once we did check them out, and received such an unfriendly reply to any questions, we would immediately become suspicious of their motives.”

“Because they want us to linger for a couple of days,” Buddy said.

“That’s correct, son. Now tell me why they want

235 us to do that.”

Buddy looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “So they can contact a much larger force and wipe us out.”

“Very good, son. But you’re forgetting something. What about the statements of Wilbur Harris and Chester Higgins? They both stated that there were no large forces anywhere near here. Wilbur was drugged and Chester was so badly frightened it was impossible for him to tell a lie.”

“Those two were low-level personnel,” Jersey said. “They wouldn’t know all about the placement of Hoffman’s troops.”

“Right,” Ben said. “So now we are facing a dilemma. What to do?”

“We would have no trouble against this bunch here,” Buddy said. “Or very little trouble. But against a much larger force, with no hope of ambush … I don’t know, Father.”

“I don’t either. So until wejmake up our minds, I think that we shall behave as Riffs and fold our tents and slip quietly into the night.”

“It isn’t night and I don’t know what in the hell a Riff is,” Cooper said.

“Your education is sorely lacking, Coop,” Ben said, putting an arm over the young man’s shoulders. “You’ll have to listen to The Desert Song sometime. It’s really quite an entertaining light opera.”

Cooper looked up at Ben. “What’s an opera got to do with us hauling our asses out of here, General?”

“You’ll have to listen to it to discover that, Cooper.”

“Cooper and opera,” Jersey said, shaking her head. “This I got to see.”

“And hear,” Ben added.

“Wonderful,” Jersey said. “Me and my big mouth.”

236 The Rebels slipped out just after dark. Since their encampment was several miles from the other camp, and Ben was reasonably sure that they were not being spied on, the pullout was done easily enough. They backtracked several miles and then turned west, pulling over in a town that was so small it wasn’t even on the old state maps they were using. There were just enough old homes and stores in the town to hide the Hummers and the newly acquired Broncos. Even then it was a tight fit.

“Encoded burst transmissions, Corrie,” Ben said. “Just give HQ our location for the time being. I’ve got to think about this situation.”

Scouts came in about half an hour later. “We weren’t followed, General. We pulled it off.”

Ben smiled. “Won’t they be surprised in the morning. I want constant scanning of the frequencies we know they’re using. Give them to Therm so the decoding boys and girls down there can go to work. I want to know what these people are up to.”

The Rebels ate and went to bed, got a good night’s sleep, then ate and rested until noon of the next day. Corrie received word from HQthat the code had been broken.

“There was a large force of NAL people up in the northwestern part of Arkansas,” she said. “They were only about ten miles away from our location when we pulled out last night.”

“We just made it,” Ben said. “And you can bet they’re looking for us right now. This little town is so far off the beaten path it isn’t even on some maps. On the other hand, we could very easily be trapped in here

…”

 

“Sentries report a dozen vehicles coming our way,

237 General,” Corrie said. “From the east. Mixed bag of light and heavy trucks. Three miles out and coming in fast. Approximately one hundred troops. It’s the black-shirts.” She held up a hand. “Vehicles coming at us from the west. Just about the same number. We’re boxed.”

Ben picked up his M-16. “As they say in the navy, battle stations, folks.”

The Rebels moved quickly, but without panic. They had done this so many times it was very nearly automatic. They all knew they could not hope to pull off another deserted-town ambush trick, for the NAL knew they were here. How they knew was unimportant at the moment. They probably had been spotted by locals who had been recruited into Hoffman’s movement.

The two sentries posted three miles out east and west of the town would know to keep their heads down and out of sight. Four people against a large force would make very little difference and would, in all probability, only get the Rebels killed if they exposed themselves.

Ben did a little fast headwork. His people were probably outnumbered, but not by many. Hoffman’s troops were coming in fast, so that meant they could not be pulling artillery. In terms of firepower, both the Rebels and the black-shirts were pretty well evenly matched up. But this battle had to be over and finished as quickly as possible. If it dragged on, that group of turncoat Americans camped in the Ouachita would soon join the black-shirts, and then the Rebels could be in real trouble.

“Corrie, nobody fires until I give the orders. We’ve got to let them come in and face them nose to nose. We can’t let this turn into a prolonged affair. You can bet reinforcements are on the way right now. Pass the

238 word to prepare for hand-to-hand combat.”

Victoria and Maria checked their long-bladed knives for sharpness. Both of them had been stropped to a razor edge. Rebels checked pistols, for this was going to be very in-close work. All made sure the helmet-strap cup under the chin was tight and in place. This could very likely turn into a clubbing type of warfare, and a helmet could prevent a cracked skull.

Ben could see the black-shirts entering the edge of town, from the east, and he assumed also from the west. “Corrie, get the drivers in the Hummers and the gunners in place. Everybody else on their feet. Make the first rounds count,” Ben said. “Then we’re going to do the only thing we can to save our asses.”

Those in the room with Ben looked at him.

Ben smiled. “Charge.” He lifted his M-16 and sighted in a black-shirt. “Fire at will,” he said, and shot the Nazi right between the eyes. “Charge!” he shouted, and was out the door.

As Ben had been counting on, the move caught the black-shirts totally by surprise. Whatever they had been expecting, this was not it. The Rebels rushed them, screaming and shouting and cursing at the black-shirts.

“They’re mad!” a black-shirt platoon leader yelled. The words had just left his mouth when a Rebel shot him in the face with a 9mm subsonic round at nearly point-blank range.

Ben slammed into an officer and rode the man to the ground. He jammed the muzzle of his pistol into the man’s neck and pulled the trigger. The slug tore a huge hole as it went through, then bounced off the pavement and reentered the man’s skull just above the eye.

Ben rolled and kicked out, his boot catching a

239 black-shirt on the knee and felling the man. A Rebel shot the man as he was falling. Ben rolled away and came up on his boots.

Ben smashed his pistol into a man’s face and felt the bones crunch under the impact. Jersey jammed the muzzle of a short-barreled CAR into the man’s ribs and gave him lead. The slugs knocked the black-shirt backward, down and dying.

Vicki and Maria were using their knives, the blades shiny and red with blood as they slashed their way through the milling and sweating melee.

The black-shirts went into a panic. They were seasoned soldiers and had been ready for combat, but they were not mentally prepared for this type of nearly insane fury they were meeting from the Rebels.

Buddy faced two men who had either dropped their rifles or had them smashed from their hands. One clawed for a pistol, and Buddy shot him in the face with a .45, then turned the pistol on the other man, the slug taking the black-shirt just above the nose and nearly taking off the top of the man’s head. Buddy was clubbed on the helmet by a black-shirt swinging an empty rifle, and the blow knocked him to his knees. Buddy grabbed the man by one leg and brought him down to the street. Using his enormous strength, Buddy savagely twisted the leg and the bone popped, tearing out through flesh and cloth. The black-shirt screamed once and then passed out.

Buddy picked up the man’s rifle and set about busting necks and heads of black-shirts. It was so close that firing would put Rebel lives in danger. It was down to knives, clubs, entrenching tools, and hand axes.

“Spare me!” one black-shirt screamed at Jersey.

“Not likely, prick,” the little bodyguard said, and

240 smashed the man’s face to blood and pulp with an entrenching tool. She turned and split another skull with a shovel. Beth rolled out from under the broken body and jumped to her feet after grabbing the small camp hatchet from the Nazi. The women shoved through the crowd, looking for Ben.

Tomas jumped on the back of a black-shirt and rode him to the ground, then jerked his head back and cut his throat. He caught a glancing blow from a rifle butt that knocked him to one side just as one of his men stuck a pistol to the Nazi’s head and blew his brains out.

“Gracias,” Tomas panted, then watched in horror as his friend was decapitated by a machete-swinging black-shirt. The head bounced on the street. Ben stepped up and buried an axe he’d taken from a downed Nazi into the man’s back. The black-shirt shrieked and fell to the bloody pavement.

A black-shirt, screaming his hate and rage and frustration, ran up to Ben, a tire tool in his hands, held high over his head. Tomas kicked the man in the balls, and as he went down to the old pavement, doubled over and puking, Ben kicked him in the face with a boot.

A burly Rebel finished it by shooting the man in the head.

It was over as suddenly as it had begun. The single street of the tiny town was littered with dead, dying, and badly wounded, not all of them black-shirts.

An Oriental man, both legs broken and twisted after having been run over by an almost-five-thousand-pound Hummer, lay on the street crying. “Devils,” he sobbed. “Devils and madmen. You do the impossible.”

“What kind of shape are their vehicles in?” Ben called.

241 “Fine shape. Like new,” Buddy returned the shout.

“Load up all their gear and weapons and assign drivers. We’re getting the hell gone from this place. Pick up our dead for later burial.”

A black-shirt lay on the pavement, badly wounded by a knife blade in the belly. He watched as Ben leaned against a Hummer and started to roll a cigarette. “That won’t be necessary, General Raines. I have a full package … in my pocket,” he groaned out the words. “And a carton in a Jeep at the end of town. Take them. I will have no further use for them.”

Ben knelt down beside the man and fished out the cigarettes, enclosed in a metal protective case. The silver case had a swastika embossed upon it. Ben started to throw cigarettes and case away.

“The container does not diminish the quality of the product within, General,” the black-shirt said.

Ben thought about that for a moment, and took out the pack of smokes and put the container in his pocket to keep as a souvenir. He lit two cigarettes and placed one between the dying man’s lips.

“Obrigado, sir.”

Ben stared at the man. “You’re Portuguese?”

“Sim. I mean, yes.”

Ben waved a medic over. “Give this man a shot for the pain.”

“Yes, sir.” He knelt down and inspected the wound. “You’re not going to make it, soldier.”

“I know. The blade tore through …” He groaned in pain. “… my stomach and into my guts.”

The shot given, the black-shirt inhaled deeply of the smoke and said, “You and your people are truly unbelievable, General. You fight like demons.”

242 Ben noticed the man’s wedding band. “You’re married?”

“I was. She is dead.”

“Sir,” a Rebel called. “Can we keep these hand-rolled cigarettes we’re finding?”

There were a lot of smokers among the Rebels, even though Doctor Chase bitched and growled and howled about it.

“Sure,” Ben called. “Just leave that carton in the Jeep down the road. Those are mine!”

“Yes, sir!” the Rebel called.

The dying black-shirt managed a chuckle. “Soldiers are soldiers the world over, are they not, sir?”

“In many respects, yes. Although some of our objectives and philosophies certainly differ.”

“Confusing times, General.”

“Not for me, soldier.”

“Nor for General Hoffman, sir. I assure you of that. You both have very firm beliefs and will both go to the grave believing you are right.”

“How is your pain?”

“Gone. I thank you for that. How many of my group survived the attack?”

“Not many.”

“You will shoot them?”

“No. We’ll take them back for interrogation.”

“Then you will shoot them?”

“No. They’ll be kept alive and treated well.”

The soldier frowned. “Then we have been lied to about how you treat prisoners. We were told that you did not take prisoners.”

“We don’t take many. Or we try not to. But we’re not savages all the time.”

“Is the sky becoming dark, General?”

The sky was bright and blue and clear. “Yes,” Ben lied.

243 The black-shirt did not reply. Ben looked back at him and the man was dead. Ben took the cigarette from his lips and ground it out under a bootheel. He stood up.

“Everybody ready to roll?”

“All set, Father,” Buddy said. “Where to?”

“To a secure airport so we can get planes in for our wounded.”

“What about us, General?” a wounded black-shirt called.

Ben looked at him. “We’re not going to shoot you, soldier. Be thankful for that. So don’t press your luck.”

The black-shirt cussed him in a language that Ben was not familiar with, but could tell the words were not complimentary. “Mount up,” Ben said. “BeforeI change my mind.”