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  Battle In The Ashes

  The Ashes Series: Book #17

  William W. Johnstone

  PROLOGUE

  The Rebels had sailed tens of thousands of miles, fighting pitched battles on island nations from Ireland and England, south around the Horn, then northwest up to Hawaii and back to America. They had freed hundreds of thousands from the yoke of slavery and tyranny and thought that when this voyage was over, they could rest for a time.

  That was not to be.

  The war-weary Rebels were returning to America to begin preparations for what would soon be the largest guerrilla action ever undertaken in modern history.

  They had discovered while fighting halfway around the world that a massive army had been training for years in South America. The army’s mission: to conquer what was left of North America and reeducate its citizens . . . those that would be left after a savage purge of men, women, and children they considered to be inferior.

  Nazism had once more reared up its ugly face and was on the march, goose-stepping its way north. But the new leader making use of Hitler’s ravings was more subtle in his indoctrination methods. Within the ranks of the New Army of Liberation could be found men and women of all races, all nationalities, all colors. The man behind the movement knew that he must use people of all colors in order to win. After the battle was won, then he would purge his ranks of those he considered inferior. But in order to do that, once the battle was won, he would need the help of a certain type of North American . . . a rather ignorant type of person. Unfortunately, that type still existed in large numbers in North America, for as much as some Rebels might want to, they couldn’t just shoot anyone who did not subscribe to their way of thinking.

  Even though the world would be much better off had they done just that.

  Years before the Great War ravaged the world, offshoots of nearly every terrorist group operating around the globe had learned of the new movement and rushed to South America to join the ranks. A terrorist lives for terror, to kill and maim and destroy. Terrorists don’t particularly care what cause they’re fighting for (many soon forget their original passion and live only for the blood-letting), as long as they are causing pain, spilling blood and blowing this and that to bits . . . including old people, babies, animals, and other innocents. But terrorists almost always share one philosophy: they hate America and Americans with a red-hot passion. So when the world’s many terrorist groups learned that an army was being secretly formed and trained to take over America, they jumped at the chance.

  Then the Great War blew the world apart. The New Army of Liberation stayed down and low and continued training in small bases all over the jungles and mountains of South America. Soon after the germ and nuclear strikes, one man emerged out of the rubble and panic and confusion and chaos of war.

  He was an American, and his name was Ben Raines.

  Now the terrorists and the bigots and the hate-mongers and the lawless and the ignorant and the lazy and worthless of the world could really have someone to hate.

  Ben Raines.

  Ben soon formed a small gathering of like-minded people. They spread out all over the country, seeking others who shared their philosophy of living and their dreams of rebuilding the shattered nation. While the central government (politicians) of the United States were still staggering around and pointing fingers of blame at each other and appointing and forming seemingly endless (and useless) committees to study this and that, Ben Raines and his growing band of followers, soon to be called Rebels, were cleaning out and setting up their own brand of government in the Northwest. It was called Tri-States, and before the nitwit politicians who made up the new central government of the United States, its capital now in Richmond (Washington, D.C. had been destroyed, and many Americans, whether a part of the Rebels or not, felt that was long overdue) knew what was happening, they discovered that there was a country within a country, and everything was just fine in the Tri-States.

  The Tri-States had zero crime, zero unemployment, clean, pure running water, electricity, social services, schools that really taught the young, medical care for all, and all the other amenities that made life good for the law-abiding. And things just hummed right along in the Tri-States. And they did it all without help from the central government, and even had the audacity to tell the central government to keep their noses out of the business of Tri-States.

  “My God!” cried the politicians, blithering and blathering about in Richmond. “We can’t have this. Why, this is positively unamerican!”

  Then the central government in Richmond learned that criminals were actually being hanged in Tri-States, for such innocuous things as murder and rape and armed robbery and other such minor offenses that everyone knows is not the fault of the perpetrator, but rather the fault of everyone else. After all, if the homecoming queen won’t date a person, or the coach won’t let a person play in the big game, or if somebody has a nicer car or newer tennis shoes or flashier jacket, a larger TV set, or a better boom box or Walkman, why it makes perfect sense for that less fortunate person to go out and steal a gun and blow somebody away, for the mental scars left there by these horribly traumatic situations would certainly justify violent acts against an uncaring society.

  So after the liberals in Congress ceased months of blubbering and snorting and weeping and stomping on hankies, and after forty-seven committees had concluded 5,593 meetings and fact-finding tours (all at taxpayer expense), the central government reached its decision: The Tri-States would have to cease and desist and disband and stop all this foolishness.

  The citizens of Tri-States, through their elected leader, Ben Raines, told the President of the United States and the members of both houses of Congress to go fuck themselves.

  Well! Nobody tells Congress to do that!

  The government of the United States declared war on the Tri-States. They thought they had wiped out all those malcontents who had the nerve to think they knew more about running a government than professional politicians.

  They were wrong.

  Ben Raines gathered a handful of survivors around him and proceeded to rebuild his army. Once that was done, the Rebels proceeded to kick the crap out of the thugs and bully-boys the central government sent after them.

  The Rebel philosophy spread and the Rebel army grew in numbers. Just when Ben Raines and the Rebels had seized control of the central government, tragedy struck the world in the form of a rat-borne plague, and when it was over, there was not a stable government left intact anywhere in the world.

  Anarchy reigned. Gangs of thugs and warlords ruled the cities and countryside, wreaking havoc and misery on the battle-torn and weary population. Everywhere except inside the borders of the new Tri-States, that is.

  Ben Raines had gathered his Rebels around him and started all over, in the Deep South. When they had their sector cleaned out and running smoothly, the Rebels began the job of sweeping out the nation, coast to coast, and border to border. It would take them years.

  And down in isolated areas of South America, Field Marshal Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman continued building and training his army of Nazis, staying low and out of sight. Their time would come. They waited.

  Now it was time for Ben Raines and his Rebels, and Field Marshal Hoffman and his NAL to meet.

  The battleground: North America.

  The stakes: Freedom.

  BOOK ONE

  “Arms in the hands of citizens may be used at individual discretion . . . in private self-defense.”

  - John Adams

  ONE

  Ben Raines stood alone—as alone as the Rebels would ever let him be—looking south from his temporary CP in Texas. Everything was packed up in Hummers and cars and truck
s, and his personal company of Rebels were ready for him to give the word. Ben was dressed in denim work shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots. Gone were the famous tiger stripe BDUs of the Rebels. Every Rebel now dressed in civilian clothing. Their uniforms had been laundered and packed away in plastic bags and stored in the Rebels’ many underground bunkers, located all over the lower forty-eight.

  For the moment, Texas was clean of any members of Hoffman’s goose-stepping, black-shirted NAL. But Ben knew that was about to change, and that change was more than likely only moments away.

  This upcoming fight came as no surprise to Ben, for he had always predicted—even years before the Great War, back when the world was more or less stable—that the final action was going to take place on American soil. Only who they were fighting came as any surprise to him.

  Ben stood and clenched his big hands into fists. “Goddamn you mealy-mouthed politicians,” he swore, smoldering anger behind his words. “Goddamn you all. You brought us to this. Everything that happened is your fault. Everything that we now face is your fault. I should have gone along with the plan years back and toppled you bastards in Washington. I regret now that I didn’t.”

  That those hated political leaders were long dead in their graves held little consolation for Ben. He wished they would all rise up from the ground so he could personally shoot them.

  “Only a handful of you had the good of the tax-paying, law-abiding majority in mind,” he muttered darkly. “I hope you bastards are burning in hell with hot pitchforks jammed up your asses!”

  “The general is pissed,” Cooper, Ben’s driver, said, standing with Ben’s personal team a few yards away.

  “No kidding, Coop?” Jersey, the diminutive dark-eyed, dark-haired little beauty who was Ben’s self-appointed bodyguard replied. “Here we are, about to be attacked by several hundred thousand goose-stepping Nazis—who only have us outnumbered about two hundred to one. The entire Rebel army is spread out over four or five states, and with all of us dressed like people getting ready to go to a rodeo, or a country music honky-tonk. We have the supplies for a long operation but getting to them is going to be a bit of a problem. He knows the Rebels are going to take a lot of losses over the months ahead. Intelligence says about fifty to sixty percent of us are going to die, Coop. And that’s weighing heavy on his mind. In addition to all of that, General Raines knows that none of this would be happening today if the damn politicians of America had paid attention to the demands of the majority of citizens back umpteen years ago and let the Constitution be the road to travel instead of their own stupid mumblings. And you think the General is pissed, Cooper? Naw. Why would you think that?”

  Cooper winked at her and tilted her ball cap down over her eyes. Jersey laughed and took a mock swing at him.

  Corrie stood wearing a light backpack radio, earphones covering one ear to catch any messages. Beth, the historian and records-keeper of the team, had Ben’s Husky, Smoot, on a leash. The animal had filled out and matured, now nearly a full-grown Siberian husky of about seventy pounds. She would get bigger still. The husky got her name because, as a pup, she made sounds that sounded like she was saying, “Smoot! Smoot! Smoot!”

  Suddenly Ben’s team, to a person, stiffened when they realized just what they were seeing. Ben was once more carrying his old Thompson SMG, the old Chicago Piano slung over one shoulder. And belted around his waist were two Colt .45 auto-loaders.

  “Son of a gun!” Corrie said. “We haven’t seen those in a long, long time.”

  Ben heard and turned around and looked at them. “I carried this old dinosaur when it all began, years back.” He sighed. More years than he liked to think about. So many good friends dead. Hundreds and hundreds of men and women who gave their lives for the Rebel cause. “So I’ll be carrying this old Thompson when it ends . . . one way or the other.”

  Actually, the Thompson had been reworked so many times by Rebel armorers there was not an original part left in it. It was still a slow-fire weapon when compared to an Uzi or HK, but that monstrous slug it spit out would inflict horrible damage upon a person.

  All of Ben’s team knew that just the sight of those .45-caliber monsters would be a great morale boost to all Rebels, and that was probably one of the reasons General Raines had done it.

  Ben had put aside the old Thompson a long time back, because many people—including a lot of his own Rebels—were beginning to think the legendary old submachine gun had magical powers, and many of them wouldn’t touch it. They were just as much in awe of the SMG as they were of Ben. Ben had convinced most of his people that he was not some sort of God. But there were many living in the battered nation who felt he was just that, and no amount of talking would ever make them believe otherwise.

  “What’s the word on Thermopolis and his bunch, Corrie?” Ben asked.

  “All set up and dug in deep and tight in Arkansas, sir.”

  “Did he take Emil with him?” Ben asked with a smile.

  “Very reluctantly, sir.”

  “At least that will keep the little con artist out of trouble for a while.”

  Thermopolis and his band of hippies made up part of Ben’s HQ’s Company. It would be their job to keep track of all units of Rebels. A demanding and nerve-wracking job. Ben had handed that to Therm because he was a fine detail man and had never liked the killing involved in fieldwork. Thermopolis had a staff of just over 250 men and women. And the finest communications equipment known to exist in the world.

  “Latest position of Herr Field Marshal Hoffman and his New Army of Liberation?” Ben asked, contempt thick in his voice. Then he spat on the ground.

  “About five miles south of the border, sir.”

  General Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman was the commanding general of the NAL. Spelled Nazi. He was the grandson of a very infamous Nazi SS general who escaped to South America after the Second World War. Hoffman had been schooled from birth to despise America and everything Americans stood for. His sole purpose in life was to destroy the very last vestiges of America and establish a new Nazi order that would ultimately rule the world.

  But first he had to kill Ben Raines and the Rebels, and that was something that thousands had been attempting to do for years, with no success. Yet.

  Field Marshal Hoffman was looking forward to mixing it up with Ben Raines and his Rebels. He paid little attention to his advisors when they warned him not to become overconfident. True, he had suffered some minor losses shortly after the Rebels returned from Hawaii, but those were only very unimportant skirmishes. There was not a doubt in Hoffman’s mind that this upcoming campaign would be a short one. There was simply no way the Rebels could stand up to his mighty army. No way. That was so ridiculous a thought it was laughable.

  “All of General Payon’s people over the border, Corrie?” Ben asked.

  “All that’s coming across.”

  Ben again turned to face the south. The Rebel commanders had looked over, discussed, and rejected dozens of plans on how best to confront the Nazi hordes fast approaching what had once been called the United States.

  “Loosely united,” Ben muttered, disgust in his voice. “And ruled by federal judges.”

  Even before the Great War cast its long darkness over the land, Ben had written that the United States was no more than a slightly benevolent dictatorship, and anyone who believed that the American people had any real power over their own lives was living in a dream world.

  “General,” Corrie called. “Buddy wants to know why in the hell you are still here with Hoffman’s scouts less than five miles away?”

  Buddy Raines, the powerfully built and brutally handsome son of Ben.

  “I’m surprised that Tina hasn’t put in her two cent’s worth, as well,” Ben said.

  “She has,” Corrie told him. “And so has Dr. Chase. I just didn’t tell you. What do I tell Buddy?”

  “Tell him to worry about his own ass. I’ll take care of mine.”

  “Rat,” Corrie whispered Buddy’s
code name, “the Eagle says to thank you for your concern and that he will be along presently.” Corrie was forever rewriting and rewording Ben’s remarks from the field.

  “I’m sure that is exactly what he said,” Buddy responded.

  “Would I lie?” Corrie replied sweetly.

  “Tell that middle-aged Rambo-type to get his butt out of there!” Dr. Chase thundered over the air.

  Dr. Lamar Chase, Chief of Medicine, a man well into his seventies, had been with Ben since the Rebel dream of true liberty and justice for all law-abiding citizens began, years back.

  “Yes, sir,” Corrie acknowledged the transmission.

  “That must be Dr. Chase bitching about me being here,” Ben said, without turning around.

  “Ah . . . right, sir.”

  “Tell him to clear the air and leave it open for emergency transmissions only.”

  “The Eagle says we are bugging out of this area very soon, sir,” Corrie radioed.

  “I just bet he did,” Chase snorted. “You’re a sweet girl, Corrie. But you’re a terrible liar! Chase out.”

  “Feels funny not being in uniform,” Jersey said.

  Ben heard her. “We are in uniform, Jersey. From this moment on. But I know what you mean. Does feel odd. The Hummer all packed and ready to roll, Coop?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben walked back to his group and knelt down, petting Smoot for a moment, rubbing the husky’s head. “You’re going to Arkansas, Smoot. You’ll be safe there.” He stood up. “Take Smoot to the airstrip, Beth. Coop, drive her there. Smoot will be safe with Therm and his bunch.”

  Ben had cut his personal detachment down to his small team and one platoon of Regulars, all of them hand-picked by Ike McGowen, the Russian, General Striganov, Dr. Chase, the mercenary, Colonel West, the former SAS Officer, Colonel Dan Gray, and Ben’s children, Buddy and Tina. That one platoon had the fighting capability of approximately a full company of any other soldiers in the world.