Battle in the Ashes Read online

  “I don’t know,” Ben said softly. “The movement itself will never die. I know that. But whether you and I and those close to us will live through this fight . . . that’s up for grabs.”

  Lamar sighed. “Well, I’m an old man.” He smiled. “With a reasonably young gal and a baby to look after. It won’t matter much if I don’t make it. You, now, you’ve got a few more good years ahead of you.” And . . .” He paused and frowned. “If you’d quit smoking cigarettes, that is.”

  “I haven’t lit one in your presence so far, have I?” Ben said with a smile.

  “No. But you’d like to. Oh, go on and roll one, Raines. You’re beginning to fidget like a virgin in a locker room.”

  “And what, Lamar?”

  “What do you mean, Raines?”

  “You started to say something then paused and started your usual harangue about my smoking.”

  “I do not harangue anyone, Raines.” He took a sip of coffee. “Ike’s right, you know.”

  “Oh, Lamar, not you, too!”

  “Listen to me, Ben. You’ve got to listen to me. You talk of the movement. Ben, you are the movement. I know all the times we’ve discussed this. I know all your arguments: Buddy and Tina will take over, blah, blah, blah. And I know that someday they will have to assume the lion’s share of what you now do. But not yet. The time is not now. You said it yourself, Ben: we are facing the most crucial time since the Great War. Now, more than ever before, we need you.”

  It was said with such sincerity, such quiet emotion, Ben sat and stared at the older man for a moment. “What do you want me to do, Lamar?”

  “I can’t ask you stay out of the field, Ben. That’s in your blood. But do so with caution. Don’t spearhead. Don’t lead wild charges. And don’t get careless and let yourself get boxed in somewhere.”

  Ben slowly nodded his head. “All right, Lamar. I’ll rein in my horns. I won’t go looking for a fight, but damned if I’ll run from one.”

  “That’s good enough for me, Ben. Go get some sleep. We’ll talk more at breakfast.” He smiled. “Fresh eggs and ham.”

  “That’s an invite I’ll accept.”

  Far to the south, Hoffman sat in the darkness of his trailer. He felt he knew perfectly well what his generals wanted to discuss in a few hours. The taking of Ben Raines. But Hoffman, even though he was younger than Raines, and did not have near the experience, was nonetheless a very intelligent man. He knew that should he, Hoffman, die, his army would fight on. And so would the Rebels. Perhaps not with the cunning that Raines possessed, but fight on they would. And he felt that Ben Raines knew that, too.

  Any of Raines’ colonels or generals could step in. He knew. He had studied the dossiers on them all. Dan Gray was a brilliant leader of men, as was Ike McGowen. General Payon was tough and smart. General Georgi Striganov, the Russian Bear, was a tough old soldier with years of experience behind him. The mercenary, West, was as mean as a cornered panther.

  Ben’s son, Buddy, was fearless in a fight and showed great potential as a leader.

  No, Hoffman concluded, his generals were wrong. Very wrong. But they were right about one thing: they could not continue to allow the Rebels to chip away at them. How to stop the bastards and bitches from doing that had caused Hoffman endless hours of sleeplessness. But there had to be a way. There just had to be a way.

  Hoffman ordered every division to hold their positions and not to attempt any advance. Every commander in Hoffman’s army doubled and sometimes tripled security on the edges of their perimeters.

  Ben ordered his own people to back off and take a wait and see attitude until after the generals met with Hoffman. It would be interesting to see what came out of the high-level meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” Hoffman kicked off the meeting. “Let’s face facts. And the overriding fact is that our eight divisions and Brodermann’s short spearheader division are surrounded by a thin line of Rebels. Now I do not perceive that as much of a threat; we could punch through at any time. However, when we do punch through, and we will, Raines will simply order his northern-based troops to fall back, and realign his forces to the east, west, and south. We will conquer nothing, because Raines is destroying everything in his path. We will kill no Rebels, because Raines will not allow any face-to-face fighting, except on his own terms. And we all know that is savage surprise ambushing.”

  He paused and looked at his commanders for a moment. “And we have learned some hard lessons about ourselves and the Rebels during this short campaign. I myself have learned that up until we crossed the border, I was an arrogant fool. I believed that we would just roll over the Rebels and march on to glory. I said that Texas would be ours in a week. Well, comrades, Texas will be ours, but it certainly will not be ours in a week, and probably not in several months. Unless we are very, very careful, Texas could very easily be our Russian front, our Waterloo, our Dunkirk. If we don’t succeed here, we’re finished. Think about that for a moment.”

  Hoffman waited until the sudden babble of voices had fallen back into silence. “Gentleman, Raines is not going to fight us on our own terms. He simply will not do it. And if we continue fighting him, using the tactics we have thus far practiced, he’ll eventually defeat us. Look at the facts. For every Rebel we’ve killed, they’ve killed five hundred of our people. At least. We thought, I thought, we could occupy the towns and cities and turn the people against the Rebels. I did not count on Raines evacuating everybody and relocating them north. And north of the thirty-sixth parallel he has Rebels training many of those evacuees, whipping them into an army five or six times our size. That son of a bitch Raines is the most unpredictable goddamn bastard I have ever encountered in my life!”

  Hoffman stomped to a window and stared out, struggling to regain his composure. He turned slowly, looking at his men. “Who among us ever dreamt General Raines could very nearly successfully evacuate an entire state? That’s impossible! But he did it.”

  Hoffman paced the room like a caged animal, around and around the neatly aligned chairs.

  “Field Marshal,” General Timmermann spoke. “Does not that prove what we here maintain? Kill Ben Raines and the movement dies?”

  Hoffman shook his head. “No. It does not. Raines is the driving force. But the Rebel movement—no, their philosophy—is ingrained. The death of Ben Raines will not cause the Rebel movement to dissolve. They would falter for a step or two, and then, I believe, grow even stronger. For then, Ben Raines would not be a leader, he would be a martyr. I sure as hell don’t want that. Many of the people of the United States who presently dislike the man would pick up a gun to fight us.”

  The more Hoffman spoke, the more frustrated he became. He felt like going away where no one could see him and jumping up and down and screaming in a temper tantrum. He could not remember ever feeling so helpless.

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “Ben Raines has approximately fourteen battalions. About eight hundred to a battalion. Eleven thousand men and women, and those badly outnumbered forces are kicking the shit out of us!” he screamed the last. “They are doing what tacticians would claim is impossible.”

  “We could kidnap his son and daughter,” General Schmidt suggested.

  “Raines does not negotiate with criminals,” General Maihofer said. “And he would call that a criminal act. Besides, we don’t even know their location.”

  “Hell,” General Kroesen said. “We don’t know the location of any of Raines’ people. We send out patrols, they never return. We send up planes and helicopters, they’re shot down. Hunting the Rebels is like searching for a single ship on the ocean. You know it’s there, you just can’t find it.”

  “We had dozens of collaborators in this state,” General Schleyer said. “Feeding us very good information. Raines hanged some of them, shot a few more, and the others got the message. They now claim to have no knowledge of anything. The three monkeys personified.”

  “Take some of them to Colonel Barlach,” General Mohnhaupt suggested.
“He’ll get whatever is in their heads.”

  “It would be of no use by the time they were transported to him and he did his work,” Hoffman nixed that. “Raines and his Rebels do not stay long in any one spot. What we have to worry about is whether our former spies are now spying on us!”

  General Jahn had remained silent thus far. Hoffman met his eyes and said, “Something on your mind, General Jahn?”

  “Break my paratroops up into small, highly mobile guerrilla teams and drop them far behind enemy lines.”

  “The planes will be shot down!” General von Hanstein flared.

  “Shut up,” the tough paratrooper told him, steel in his voice. “I have that problem all worked out.”

  General Jose Schmidt then uttered what every person who had ever fought Ben Raines and the Rebels had said at one time or the other. “I hate that goddamn Ben Raines.”

  TWELVE

  “Our Scouts on the western and eastern fringes of Hoffman’s position report hearing planes go over last night,” Corrie told Ben. “They did not return.”

  “What do our people at the thirty-sixth parallel report?”

  “Nothing. Their radar picked up no air traffic at all.”

  Ben thought about that for a moment. “How many planes, Corrie?”

  “A large number.”

  “Well, Hoffman is either dropping supplies to the few of his people we know still remain north of us, but I think that’s unlikely. I think he probably dropped paratroopers north of us, then the planes took a wide half circle back home and none of our people heard them.”

  “Somebody down there finally got some brains working,” Jersey remarked. “I was beginning to think this was going to be a piece of cake.”

  “I knew it was too good to last,” Ben said. “All right, Corrie, have communications alert all our people for impending guerrilla action. These boys and girls are going to be tough. From what our intell people have managed to find out, General Jahn is smart, tough, mean, and a damn good soldier. And you can bet this, too: Jahn jumped in with them. The German authorities arrested him and kicked him out of the German army just before the Great War because of his Nazi views. He was an up and coming career man, too. Only the Great War prevented the Germans from putting him in prison. But he’s a top-notch soldier.”

  After Corrie had done her work, she turned in her chair and said, “Speaking of Germany, Thermopolis up at communications is getting some strange signals in German. He just bumped me about an hour ago. He says that Germany is now stabilized—kind of like we thought we were in the States—and the messages are saying something about you to hang on, two units of GSG 9 are on the way to help us. Therm says he has no idea what GSG 9 means.”

  Ben’s boots hit the floor and he jumped to his feet. “GSG 9? Hell, that’s Colonel Wegener’s old outfit. I think Uwe Dee was commanding officer when the Great War came. GSG 9 is, or was, a top antiterrorist unit. You get Therm on the horn and have him find out who’s commanding these units and then have our people in England verify it. Man, oh, man. I hope these boys are on our side.”

  “Are they that good, General?” Beth asked.

  “They’re tops, Beth. Or were. I imagine they still are. Come on, boys,” Ben urged. “We need all the help we can get.”

  It did not take Corrie long to determine that the GSG 9 people were for real and they were on their way to assist Ben and the Rebels. They were still a few hundred miles off the South Carolina coast, and Ben ordered trucks from Base Camp One to be there to meet them.

  “Who’s in command?” he asked.

  “A Colonel Lenz is in overall command,” Corrie told him. “The battalion commanders are Major Streicher and Major Dietl.”

  “So this gives us about two thousand more people, right, General?” Cooper asked.

  Ben smiled. “Well, not . . . quite. Coop. I figure about four hundred.”

  “Four hundred!” Jersey blurted. “But you said two battalions.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said two units. Their combat units consist of two hundred men per unit . . . or at least they used to. But don’t worry, gang. Those four hundred will more than carry their weight.”

  Ben was silent for a time, standing by a boarded up window, staring out through the cracks in the warped old boards hastily nailed up years ago. The old home showed signs of having been involved in several battles over the long, bloody years. He turned from the window.

  “Corrie, bump Thermopolis on burst and ask him to start contacting other countries that we know are free of the plague and have stabilized their governments. We know of several.”

  “Yes, sir. What are we asking those governments for?”

  “Help,” Ben said simply.

  Hoffman’s forces began inching forward, sometimes no more than a mile or two a day. Ben’s people harassed them every inch of the way. But harassment was not enough to stop them. The Rebels fought hard, but constantly lost ground, as they were now fighting Hoffman’s massive divisional thrusts, and also guerrilla actions on all sides. General Jahn’s tough paratroopers were popping up and striking all over the place.

  The GSG 9 people had landed and were on the way. Poland had responded to Ben’s plea for help and was sending a battalion. The governments of Denmark, Finland, and Norway were hurriedly putting together a force of men and equipment. Australia had answered the call and they were sending a small force of volunteers. Iceland was sending 250 men. Korea was sending men and equipment. England was sending over a short battalion. Holland was putting together a small volunteer force of their Royal Netherlands Marines Corps.

  For the moment, at least, no one else could send anything except prayers. France had been virtually wiped out by the plague, as had Spain and several other European countries. But Ben knew that many other countries around the world were functioning and could send help. For whatever reasons, they remained silent, not responding at all to the pleas for help.

  “They better get their act together,” Ben said grimly. “For if we don’t stop Hoffman here, right here, that Nazi son of a bitch will conquer the world.”

  “General,” Corrie said, turning from her radio. “Israel has come on board. They’re up to their eyeballs fighting the Arabs, but they’re going to send a small force of paratroopers.”

  Ben nodded his head. “God knows of all countries they can least afford to send help. But I felt they would. Anyone else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Tell Thermopolis to keep sending out the call for help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The next day, Spain came through. They were sending a special force of their GEO, the Spanish antiterrorist unit.

  Ecuador, Peru and Venezuela asked if they could not be of more help by combining their forces, to try to block Hoffman’s supply line from the south.

  “Tell them it would be much appreciated,” Ben said.

  Beth added it all up. “Just under five thousand personnel, General.”

  “There may be more coming,” Ben said, rubbing his face. “But don’t count on it.”

  None of the older Rebels said anything, but Ben knew they were, to a person, thinking about all the countries America had helped over the years, countries who now were remaining silent. Some of those countries were, Ben knew, just simply unable to send any help. But more than a few just chose to ignore America’s plight.

  “You will be remembered,” Ben said, a very ugly note to his voice. “Tattoo that on your arms, assholes.”

  “Ike on the horn, General.”

  Ben took the mic.

  “You’d better split, Eagle,” Ike warned him. “Hoffman’s first division is exactly twenty miles from your location.”

  Ben sighed in frustration and anger. The Rebels were not accustomed to retreating. “All right, Shark. We’re bugging out now. We’ll set up north of I-20.”

  Ben turned to Corrie. His team could easily read the anger and despair on his face. “Corrie, order all units to retreat north of I-20 and regroup there. The
rest of you, start packing up.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said softly.

  Hoffman was euphoric when the news of the Rebel retreat reached him. He actually felt like singing and dancing around his office. He had not conquered all of Texas in a week, as he had boasted he would, but his people now controlled a large chunk of it. His bubble of euphoria burst when he was given the rest of the news.

  He was stunned silent for a moment. “German troops are coming over to aid Ben Raines?” Hoffman gulped for air and screamed at the aide. “German troops will fight against me? I do not believe that. That is impossible. We are fighting for the Fatherland. They must know that.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure they do,” the aide said diplomatically. “But units of GSG 9 are rapidly approaching what we think is General Raines’ current position.”

  “There must be some mistake. Surely they are coming to aid us?”

  “No, sir. We intercepted messages from the German chancellor. He said we must be stopped at all costs. Nazism must not be allowed to flourish again.”

  Hoffman fell back into his chair, his mouth hanging open. He stared at the young aide for a moment. “That cannot be! It’s a lie someone made up!”

  “No, Field Marshal. It’s true.”

  “How many German troops?”

  “Approximately five hundred, sir.”

  Hoffman started laughing. “Five hundred? That’s ridiculous. Five hundred troops. That’s funny, my friend. Five hundred troops. Oh, thank you. I needed a good rousing laugh.”

  The aide waited until he had stopped his laughing and was wiping his eyes with a clean handkerchief. “Also troops are on the way from Poland, Denmark, Finland, Norway, Australia, Iceland, Korea, England, Holland, Israel, and Spain.”

  Hoffman’s butt left the chair in a hurry and the aide backed up quickly, thinking the field marshal was going to jump clear over the desk. “What the hell did you say?” Hoffman yelled.