Warriors from the Ashes Read online

  He looked around as the men nodded they understood. “Let me make myself clear,” he added. “These men are the best I’ve ever seen. Take no chances. You will have superior firepower, so do not be afraid to use it. Blast the bastards to death from as far away as you can, ’cause if you get close to them, they will surely kill you first.”

  FIFTEEN

  Bruno Bottger sat in his office with Rudolf Hessner and Sergei Bergman, making plans for the upcoming war.

  “Sergei, we cannot afford any more time for training of our mercenaries. It is time to move the men and equipment out and head for Mexico.”

  “But, Herr Bottger,” Bergman said, “the men are not ready.”

  “We have no choice, Sergei,” Bottger said impatiently. “If these traitors manage to get the information about our plague weapon to Ben Raines, it will give Raines time to try and develop a vaccine. We must press the attack on Mexico immediately, and keep our enemies so busy they have no time for defensive measures against our biological weapons.”

  “But what about this Perro Loco who is to fight with us?” Bergman asked. “Will he be ready?”

  “I will contact Osterman in the U.S. and tell her the timetable must be advanced.”

  “She will want to know why, Bruno,” Rudolf Hessner said, “and we dare not tell her of our plans to use the plague as a weapon.”

  “I will merely tell her that some spies from Ben Raines have found out about our mercenary force and we need to strike before the Mexicans can ask Raines for reinforcements.”

  “Do you think that will work?” Hessner asked.

  Bottger nodded. “Yes. Osterman is so paranoid about Raines that any mention of his name will cloud her mind to our real reasons for advancing the date of the attack.”

  “Then I will begin preparations for an immediate departure,” Bergman said, standing up.

  “We have five of the C-130 troop transport aircraft at our disposal,” Bottger said. “Send a few thousand of our best troops in those, and put the rest of the twenty thousand men and our equipment on the troop transport ships. They should be able to make it to Perro Loco’s base within a week.”

  “I’ll see to it immediately, Herr General,” Bergman said, and left the room.

  “Get me President Osterman on the scrambler,” Bottger said to Hessner.

  Claire Osterman was in a strategy meeting with her top advisors when her phone rang.

  “President Osterman, this is Bruno Bottger.”

  “Hello, General,” she said.

  “I am advising you that I am sending my men and equipment to Mexico today. I feel it is imperative we advance the attack date on Mexico.”

  “Is there some reason for your haste?” she asked, tapping a switch on the phone and putting him on the speaker so her advisors could hear the conversation.

  “Yes. I have just found out that Ben Raines sent a team of spies into my camp. I’m afraid they now know of the strength of my forces and our plans to aid you in your attack on Mexico.”

  “And you let them get away with this information?” she asked, steel in her voice.

  “Not yet, Madame President,” Bottger answered. “They are still in the jungle and haven’t been able to communicate what they found out to Raines. However, if he does find out how large our force is, he may be able to convince the Mexican president to allow his SUSA forces to join the Mexicans. That would make it very difficult for us to succeed in our attempt to take Mexico City.”

  Osterman hesitated a moment, then nodded as she answered. “Yes, General, I see your point. Better to make a quick strike before Raines has a chance to reinforce the Mexican troops.”

  “That is what I thought,” Bottger said. “Do you think Perro Loco will have any trouble getting ready earlier than anticipated?”

  “No. He has been pushing me to move the attack date forward. There should be no problem at all.”

  “How about your forces?” Bottger asked. “Will you be able to attack Raines from the north in conjunction with our attack from the south?”

  “I have already started moving my men into position,” she said. “We will be able to start by the time your men and equipment get to Mexico.”

  “I believe we will be in place and ready to move within one week, Madame President.”

  Osterman consulted a calendar on her desk and marked the date. “One week it is, General.”

  After she hung up, Claire glanced around at the men in her office. Herb Knoff, Harlan Millard, Major General Bradley Stevens, Jr., and his second in command, Colonel James King, were all watching her intently.

  “What do you gentlemen make of that?” she asked.

  Stevens shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me when we attack. Our forces are almost in place and will certainly be ready within the week.”

  “I’m a little concerned, Claire,” Harlan Millard said, his eyes narrowed.

  “Why is that, Harlan?” she asked. Though she had little respect for Harlan as a man, she knew him to be a shrewd thinker and politician.

  “His reasons for advancing the date of the attack don’t make any sense. We always knew Raines was going to find out about Bottger and his mercenaries sooner or later. Why the sudden panic when it happens?”

  She glanced at Herb Knoff. “What do you think, Herb?”

  Herb shrugged. “I agree with Harlan. I don’t think Bottger is telling us the whole truth about his reasons for advancing the attack date. I’ve never trusted him.”

  “Nor have I,” Claire said. “There’s something he’s not telling us, but until we can discover what it is, I can see no harm in moving up the attack. He’s right about one thing. We can’t afford to let Raines talk the Mexican president into allowing the SUSA to send troops to aid him before our attack.”

  “Our intel says that’s not going to happen, Claire,” Stevens said. “From what our spies in Mexico City say, the president is a vain, stupid man who thinks his Army can handle Perro Loco without letting the SUSA help.”

  “By the time he finds out differently,” Colonel King added, “it’ll be too late for Raines and his Army to make much difference in the battle for Mexico City.”

  “What about after we take Mexico City?” Claire asked.

  “Raines won’t dare counterattack then, Madame President,” Stevens said, “’cause we’ll have the ten million citizens of the city as virtual hostages. We’ll just let Raines know if he interferes, we’ll raze the city and he’ll have the deaths of millions of innocent civilians on his conscience.”

  “That bastard doesn’t have a conscience,” Claire said spitefully.

  “No, but the United Nations does,” Millard said. “Once we’ve taken the city, we’ll appeal to the UN. to intervene and keep the SUSA from doing anything to help.”

  “Do you think they’re dumb enough to fall for that?” Claire asked.

  Millard grinned. “You’ll never go broke underestimating the stupidity of the UN., Madame President. Their only function seems to be to maintain the status quo. Once we’re in a position of power in Mexico City, they will do everything in their power to stop further warfare.”

  “But Raines has shown he has nothing but contempt for the UN.,” Claire argued.

  “If it were up to Raines, the UK’s opposition would mean less than nothing,” Millard said. “But the president of the SUSA, Cecil Jeffreys, is more of a political animal. I feel if the UN. strongly opposes intervention, he will keep Raines under control to prevent it.”

  Claire slammed her hand down on her desk. “It’s settled then. General Stevens, inform your commanders we attack the SUSA in one week all along its northern border.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stevens said with a smile.

  “Harlan,” she said.

  “Yes, Claire?”

  “I want you to start to work on the UN. Call in some debts, bribe whomever you have to, but make damned sure that once we’ve taken Mexico City, they keep Raines and the SUSA out of it.”

  “That shouldn
’t be a problem, Claire.”

  “Okay, gentlemen, you’ve got your orders. Now, get to work.”

  After the men filed out of her office, Claire put her head in her hands. “All this has given me a headache,” she moaned.

  Herb Knoff got to his feet and walked around behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders and began to knead the muscles there.

  “I know a great cure for a headache,” he murmured in her ear.

  She leaned her head back and kissed him on the lips. “You must have read my mind,” she said in a soft voice.

  SIXTEEN

  Jersey’s body shook with a chill, and sweat broke out all over her body. She glanced to the side, and saw Coop wasn’t much better. His skin was pale and pasty-looking, and he was breathing heavily through his mouth as they made their way through heavy jungle undergrowth.

  Harley was keeping them off the main trails to prevent their being ambushed, but it was heavy going. He was constantly checking his maps and compass as he led them toward the coastline of the island.

  Anna looked back over her shoulder as Jersey stumbled over a root and almost fell.

  “Jerse, you all right?” she asked worriedly.

  Jersey nodded, accepting Coop’s arm to help her stand up. “Just keep your distance, Anna,” she said.

  A cough started deep in her chest and exploded from her mouth, causing a deep, burning pain in her lungs that almost made her faint. She sleeved her face off, and noticed flecks of blood on the cloth when she looked at her arm.

  “Trouble breathing?” Coop asked from her side.

  She nodded. “Whatever the hell this bug is, it must attack the lungs, ’cause I feel like a truck is sitting on my chest.”

  He reached over and wiped sweat from her brow. “You’re burning up, Jerse,” he said. “Your fever must be up to a hundred and four.”

  “You don’t look so hot yourself, Coop,” she answered with a wan smile.

  “I’m still in the early stages,” he answered. “You were exposed before me.”

  “How much farther till we can rest?” she gasped through the mucus clogging her throat.

  “Hey, Harley,” Coop called. “How soon ’fore we can take a break?”

  Harley stopped and turned to look at them in the slight light from a half-moon. His eyes widened when he saw how bad the two of them looked.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “We’ve got another couple of hours to the coast, but we can take five now if you need it.”

  Jersey flopped down on the ground and lay on her back, breathing heavy, her BDUs saturated with sweat.

  Coop broke out his medical bag and opened a bottle of aspirin. He poured several into his palm and handed them to Jersey along with a canteen.

  After she swallowed them, he took a handful and did the same, wincing at the bitter taste they left in his mouth.

  As they sat there, munching on MREs to keep their strength up, the whoop-whoop of a low-flying helicopter sounded over their heads.

  Harley glanced upward. “Looks like they’ve found out we’re missing.”

  Hammer nodded. “They’ll be sending teams ahead of us to set up ambushes.”

  “If we can make the mainland, it’ll be tougher for them to figure out which way we’re going,” Anna said.

  Harley shook his head. “Not really, Anna. The Pariba do Sul runs parallel to the coast a few miles inland.”

  “What the hell is a Pariba do Sul?” Coop asked irritably.

  “It’s a wide river flowing to the sea,” Harley answered, looking at his map. “Several hundred yards wide and filled with crocs and snakes and other goodies, I imagine. The leader of the mercs has got to know we won’t be able to cross it, so we’ll be trapped in a corridor a few miles wide. He’ll also know we’re bound to head south, ’cause there’s nothing north except more jungle.”

  “That means we’re gonna have to fight our way to Santos,” Hammer added unnecessarily.

  Jersey had another shaking chill as the aspirin began to lower her body temperature. Some of the aching in her joints eased a bit, and she felt well enough to try to force down an MRE, knowing she had to keep her strength up as much as possible or she’d never make it back to the ship.

  Harley glanced at his wristwatch. “Time to saddle up,” he called.

  “Do we have to?” Coop groaned.

  “Only if you want to live,” Harley replied with dry humor.

  Coop helped Jersey get to her feet, concerned when he felt how weak she was. If she got much worse, he was going to have to carry her.

  Harley, seeing that Jersey was not going to be able to make much speed, pulled Hammer to the side.

  “Hammer, we’re never going to make it at this speed, not with men on our tail.”

  Hammer followed his glance at Jersey and Coop, both barely able to stand. He nodded.

  “I need a rear-guard action to slow them up a bit,” Harley said. “You think you can manage it?”

  Hammer grinned without speaking.

  Harley squatted and shined his flashlight on the map. “Here’s where we’ll rendezvous, just before first light. Once we get there, I’ll scout up and down the coast until I find a boat suitable to take us across the strait. You just be there by 0400 and we’ll cross then.”

  “If I’m not there, go without me,” Hammer said.

  “No way, pal. We all go, or none of us goes,” Harley replied grimly. “So, be careful not to get your ugly butt fragged or you’ll do us all in.”

  Hammer held out his fist and they touched knuckles. Then he whirled and disappeared into the darkness of the jungle.

  * * *

  Hammer made quick time back the way they’d come, coursing back and forth until he found a trail leading toward the coast. This was most probably the way their pursuers would come.

  He followed the trail until he came to an area to his liking. Squatting, he dug several small holes in the humus of the path and placed fragmentation grenades in the dirt. He pulled a spool of twine from his backpack, tied it to the rings on the grenades, and stretched it across the trail, tying the ends to a bush there.

  Once the grenades were covered with leaves and twigs, he ran up the trail to a large banyan tree and scurried up into its branches. He pulled his SPAS shotgun out and checked the loads, replacing the buckshot with flechette rounds. Each shell was filled with hundreds of tiny razor-sharp shards of metal that would shred a man like a scythe would grass. Once the SPAS was ready, he pulled out his Beretta automatic and placed it on the branch near him, ready for use.

  Lieutenant Jean LaFite was a Frenchman who’d hired on with the mercenaries after being kicked out of the French Foreign Legion for raping and killing an Arab girl. The only reason he hadn’t been hanged was he’d heard of his impending arrest and managed to leave the country ahead of the gendarmes.

  He was leading a squad of twenty men through the jungle after the deserters. He knew a promotion was in it for him if it was his troops who killed the deserters their leader wanted so badly.

  Even though he was markedly ambitious, LaFite was no fool. He led his men from the rear, having six or seven other men take the point ahead of him. He remembered how Harley Reno and his team had taken out Watanabe’s squad with seemingly little trouble, and he didn’t intend to make the same mistakes the black man had.

  Gunter Held was an eighteen-year-old German boy who was full of the ideals of Bruno Bottger’s New World Order and had volunteered to walk point. He was sure this was the fastest way to get a promotion in Bottger’s army.

  He felt a slight tug as his leg tripped the string attached to the fragmentation grenade, and he looked down just as the grenade exploded, taking his head off and the upper half of his body down to the waist. He didn’t even have tune to scream as the shrapnel passed through him and shredded the next four men in line, sending body parts, blood, and brains showering through the jungle.

  Lieutenant LaFite reacted with lightning reflexes at the sound of the explosion, thro
wing himself facedown in the moldy humus of the jungle trail just as the second grenade went off.

  The bloody stump of an arm hit LaFite in the back, and he screamed as blood and mucus showered his face. He rolled over once and brought his M-16 up and squeezed the trigger, ripping off a full clip of twenty rounds in two seconds.

  Six more of his men danced a macabre dance of death as their lieutenant shot them in the back in his terror.

  Sergeant Blandis jumped on LaFite’s back and ripped the M-16 from his arms, shouting, “Stop it, Lieutenant, you’re killin’ our own men!”

  “Oh, God . . . oh, God, help me!” LaFite screamed, completely out of his mind with fear and loathing at the sight of the carnage around him.

  Sergeant Blandis stood up, sneering down at LaFite. “You yellow bastard,” he hollered, and aimed his own weapon at LaFite.

  LaFite held his arms out as if they could stop the bullets, but before Blandis could pull the trigger, a booming echo of an automatic shotgun shattered the sudden quiet of the jungle and Blandis was blown off his feet, his head shattered and almost decapitated as he slumped and flopped down on top of LaFite.

  What remained of LaFite’s command all started firing blindly into the jungle, some screaming and some moaning in fear at the horror of their first firefight.

  Several more loud explosions of the shotgun took more men down, and caused the others to bury their faces in the ground and cover their heads as they saw their comrades blown apart before their very eyes.

  After a few minutes, when no more shotgun blasts came, one of the braver men crawled over to LaFite and pushed what was left of Blandis’s body off him.

  “Lieutenant, what’ll we do now?” he whispered in the stillness of the early evening darkness.

  LaFite tried to gather his thoughts as he stared wildly around the semidarkness, looking for whoever was killing his men.