Chaos in the Ashes Page 13

  But Mike Richards, head of Rebel intel, had learned something that really came as no big surprise to Ben.

  “The gangs are working, albeit indirectly, for Simon Border,” Mike reported one hot summer’s day. “I know we suspected it all along, but now I have concrete proof.”

  “And their main objective is to kill me,” Ben finished it.

  “That’s it, Ben. With you out of the way, Simon’s thinking is the Rebels would fall apart.”

  “That just proves what a fool he is. He can’t seem to realize that the Rebel movement is far more than mere flesh and blood. It’s a philosophy that will never die. Killing me would accomplish nothing. Hell, it would make me a martyr.”

  1 Batt was bivouacked near what was left of the town of Union City, just a few miles south of the Kentucky border. The gangs of punks and thugs and rabble had hit the town hard, leaving much of it in ruin. No resident had returned. It was a silent ghost town, utterly devoid of life. The Rebels could not find any evidence of a mass grave, so they had to assume the people had just fled when the gangs poured across the border.

  Mike had nothing to add to Ben’s last statement. He sipped his coffee in silence. But Ben knew the man had something on his mind. Mike would get to it, sooner or later.

  After eating a sandwich and working on another cup of coffee, Mike finally said, “Ben, don’t you think it’s time you got out of the field?”

  Ben smiled and said nothing.

  “Ben, you’re a middle-aged man. You’re the Commanding General of the most powerful army on the face of the earth. CGs don’t lead combat patrols.”

  Ben had risen to walk over to the ever-present coffee pot. He turned and looked at Mike. “Is this your idea, Mike?”

  “Not entirely. A lot of the troops would like to see you slow down.”

  Ben laughed. “Oh, yeah. Right. Well, I bet you I can name most of those so-called ‘troops.’ Ike, Cecil, Danjou, West, Nick, Georgi, Buck—”

  Mike held up a hand. “OK, OK. So you can name them. But they do have a valid point.”

  “Mike, Georgi is the same age I am. Ike is about the same age. Dan isn’t far behind us. Hell, we’re all getting older. You’re no spring chicken.”

  “I’m not the supreme commander, Ben.”

  “Cecil is the elected supreme commander, Mike.”

  “On paper.” Mike tossed the very true words at Ben. “The troops follow you, Ben. They always have, they always will. And you can’t argue that.”

  Ben made no attempt to argue it. He knew it was true. “Mike . . . I’m not a politician. Never have been, never will be. I’m too blunt. I don’t like to tell lies and try to fool the people. I’m a soldier. I’m happy in the field. I’d be miserable out of it. When I become a liability in the field, nobody will have to tell me. I’ll voluntarily remove myself. End of discussion. I hope.”

  Mike nodded his head in understanding and lifted his coffee mug in a salute.

  After a moment, Ben asked, “Where the hell did all the people go, Mike?”

  “Good question. My personal thought on the matter is that they scattered in small groups. They’ve living on cold rations and keeping their heads down until they see which way the wind is going to blow.”

  “Millions of them?”

  “Who really knows how many people survived the Great War and the time after it? Our own people are having to revise our figures every week. And how many people were killed by the rabble and the punks while we were over in Europe?”

  “They’ve got to be networking some way.”

  “Short quick bursts on CBs, probably. Hell, Ben, they know a power play is going on between you and Simon Border. Even those who are aligned with us don’t want to get caught up in the middle of it. The others—the majority of them—have sensed that you’re planning on pulling this nation back together and they don’t want any part of Rebel rule.” Mike looked long at Ben. “A hard question, Ben?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are we really going to try to heal the entire nation? And if so, what happens to the SUSA?”

  Several seconds passed before Ben answered. And when he did, it wasn’t what any Rebel wanted to hear. “I don’t know, Mike. I just don’t know.”

  FOURTEEN

  Slowly, slowly the Rebels were driving the punks and thugs and the looking-for-something-for-nothing crowd out of the territory known as the SUSA. Most went voluntarily, but more than a few elected to fight. Those who went under their own steam crossed the borders with their lives. Those who chose to fight were buried (when enough of their bodies could be found) in unmarked graves and forgotten. One by one, the batt coms began radioing in that their sectors were clear.

  Now Ben had some hard decisions to make. He flew back to Base Camp One and met with former President Blanton and Cecil. Ben was never one to beat around the bush. “Decision time, folks. Do we try to heal the entire nation? Can we? Will it work?”

  “That part of the nation not under the control of Simon Border, you mean?” Cecil asked.

  “For the time being, yes. But sooner or later we’ll have to fight him.”

  “Cecil has discussed this subject with me many times in the weeks you’ve been gone,” Homer said. He smiled. “It may surprise you to learn that I take a more conservative stance than Cecil on this issue. My reply would be a very cautious yes. Selected states only. The rest would have to wait.”

  That startled Ben. He stared at the former president of the United States, at one time, the most liberal president ever elected.

  Homer said, “It is my opinion that the cost in Rebel lives would be too great.”

  Ben cut his eyes to Cecil. “And you, Cec?”

  Cecil nodded his head in at least partial agreement with Blanton. “Homer and I did agree that the final decision should be yours, Ben. I’ve already sensed that you want to start a clean-up. But do it slowly and stay out of Simon Border’s territory. Let’s don’t try to bring any more states into the SUSA, but just prop up the ones east of the river and see if they can stand alone. During that time, we’ll be finishing up getting our own house in order and keeping a careful eye to the west.”

  Ben slowly nodded his head. “All right. It’s ago, then. But I want you both to realize that it is going to take two or three years.”

  “Or longer,” Cecil said.

  “And during that restoration period,” Homer said, “I can be spending some time in Europe, strengthening our ties over there. We just might have to ask for their help, for a change.”

  Ben said, “China remains an unknown. So does Russia.” He paused and smiled a soldier’s smile. “Israel has taken care of the militant Arab movement. At least that part of the world is relatively quiet.”

  “The grave usually is,” Homer said, very, very drily. “But we all knew that was coming.”

  Ben said, “When I heard what had taken place over there, it reminded me of a bumper sticker I saw some years back: Nuke their ass and take the gas.”

  “And they did.” Cecil put an end to that.

  “Cecil has something else to say to you, Ben,” Homer said, cutting his eyes to Cecil.

  “Oh?”

  Cecil said, “I know you’ll never leave the field, Ben. And I also know that my dream of getting back into the field was just a dream. My job is here. But I will keep my 22 Batt intact, here. As other Rebels get hurt or have to retire from the field, I’ll use them as replacements for 22 Batt. It’s a strange way to run an army, but, hell, the Rebels aren’t known for doing things the conventional way.”

  “Give some thought to this, gentlemen,” Ben said. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to deal with Bruno Bottger. Simon Border is an asshole, true enough. But Bottger is the real threat to world stability. We know now that he controls the entire southern half of Africa. His factories, manufacturing the machinery of war, are running around the clock, seven days a week.” Ben again smiled, but this time it was a savage curving of the lips. “However, I have a plan to slow h
im down; drop a few flies in his ointment, so to speak.”

  Both Homer and Cecil leaned forward, Homer asking, “Want to share it with us?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  In a very remote corner of Base Camp One, carefully guarded from any unwelcome eyes, three hundred African-American volunteers from the Rebel army were going back to school. They were going to learn some of the languages and dialects, customs and dress of their ancestors. They were studying the topographies of Africa. When they “graduated,” so to speak, they were also going to be experts in the use of explosives, sabotage, all manner of weapons, guerrilla warfare, and the politics of democracy.

  Every mission had to have a code name to work under. A black company commander who had volunteered for the assignment, and who also possessed a wicked sense of humor, came up with a suggestion: Ebony.

  Project Ebony was born.

  From Kentucky to the Carolina coast, the Rebels were poised to start the push north. Ben had lined them up numerically, with his 1 Batt in far western Kentucky, and Buck Taylor’s 15 Batt’s right flank overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Ben had placed Therm’s 19 Batt in the center of the line, about two miles to the rear, right behind Pat O’Shea’s 10 Batt. Therm’s short battalion, which would be the central hub of all communications and logistics, was protected by two full companies of combat-hardened Rebels, beefed up by tanks and helicopter gunships.

  Finally Ben had, after giving the matter a lot of thought, named Emil Hite as recreational director of the SUSA.

  “What the hell is a recreational director supposed to do, Ben?” Cecil had asked.

  “He’s going to inspect playground equipment all over the SUSA.”

  “Do you know how long it’s going to take Emil to figure out this is a bullshit job?”

  “Long enough for me to get several hundred miles to the north,” Ben replied. “I hope.”

  “And in the meantime, I’m stuck with him.”

  Ben laughed. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Seems like we did this once before,” Ben muttered, just moments before push-off time. “I wonder how many more times we’ll have to do it?”

  Corrie knew he did not expect a reply.

  Ben glanced at his watch. 0557.

  Everyone except Corrie was in the wagon. She stood by Ben’s side, ready to radio the orders to move out.

  0558.

  The air was filled with the stink of fumes from rumbling engines.

  The Rebels waited.

  0559.

  “Far Eyes reports no opposition for twenty-five miles straight in,” Corrie reported. “South to north and west to east.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. “Let’s do it, Corrie.”

  “What they found were fires,” Corrie said softly.

  Ben looked at her. “Say again?”

  “Fires, boss. The retreating punks are setting everything they can on fire.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Ben cussed. “Corrie, get every available plane and chopper we have up here ASAP. Odd-numbered battalions strip down to shelter tarps, light arms, field rations, and all the ammo they can stagger with. We’ve got to get behind those punks. The armor assigned to those battalions will make the push with the even-numbered battalions . . . and not ahead of them. Get cracking, Corrie.”

  Ben looked at Jersey, sitting in the wagon. “How do you feel about jumping, Jersey?” he kidded her, knowing full well how much she disliked it.

  “Shit!” Jersey said.

  The push-off was delayed until noon, when all odd-numbered battalions, or portions of them, could be boarded and in the air. As many as possible of those Rebels who were jump-qualified (and that was just about all of them) chuted up and made ready to go out the door, while smaller planes flew ahead and dropped ground controllers and pathfinders to set up the DZs and secure them.

  Back at the various staging areas, which in Ben’s case had been moved south to an old military base, it was organized chaos. The officers were yelling at the sergeants and the sergeants yelled at everybody, including the officers.

  “It’s President Jefferys on the blower for you, Boss,” Corrie yelled at Ben. She had to yell to be heard over the roar of plane engines.

  “Tell him I don’t have the time right now. I’ll get back to him in about two hours.” Ben smiled. “By that time we’ll be on the ground,” he muttered.

  “President Jefferys says if you jump in with your battalion, he’s going to have you court-martialed,” Corrie shouted.

  “Tell him to go shit in his hat!” Ben yelled. “Come on, Corrie. Get your gear on and let’s go!”

  “I’m going to tell the President to go shit in his hat?” Corrie muttered. “Yeah. Sure I am.”

  Once airborne, it did not take long to reach the DZ.

  Equipment checked and static lines hooked, Ben moved toward the open door, waiting for the light to pop on. The rush of cold air quickly dried the sweat on his body.

  Ben looked at Jersey, standing right behind him. He grinned at her. She solemnly nodded her head. Jersey was not at all thrilled about jumping out of airplanes.

  Ben knew he was getting just a bit too old for this. And he was well aware that once a person reached forty years of age, there were only two kinds of jumps: those that hurt a little and those that hurt a lot.

  The red light blinked on.

  “Stand in the door!” the jumpmaster yelled.

  Ben shuffled to the open door. He would be the first one out.

  Seconds ticked past. The green light blinked on.

  The jumpmaster slapped Ben on the leg. “Go, General!”

  Ben stepped out into a thousand or so feet of big empty. The static line jerked his chute out and Ben grunted from the opening shock. He looked up to see if his chute was full and no panels blown. The ground was coming up fast. Seemed to him back when he made his first jump, the ground didn’t come up at him this fast. He had time for a quick smile. Of course, that had been thirty years back. He spilled a little air to avoid landing in trees, and with his feet together he let his equipment bag drop from the fifteen-foot tether and then made contact with the ground, relaxing and rolling. It had been a perfect drop. He still hurt. He was getting too damn old for this. He popped his harness and was on his feet, working fast to gather up his chute and then get his gear together.

  As he almost always did when weight was a factor, Ben had left his old Thompson behind and was carrying an M-16—a CAR. The weapon was lighter and so was the ammo, so he could carry more of it.

  Ben looked all around him. Everyone was down and appeared to be OK.

  The Combat Control Team, or Ground Controllers (still called pathfinders by some) had come out of hiding and joined up with the main body.

  “Find the enemy and let’s get this dance started,” Ben said to Corrie.

  Corrie radioed the orders and the Combat Control Team and Scouts took off at a trot.

  “Goddamnit, Jersey!” Cooper yelled. “Hold still. I’m trying to get you untangled.”

  Ben looked at the scene a dozen yards away and laughed. Jersey was on the ground, all tangled up in the silk, the shroud cords and the risers, cussing a blue streak.

  Ben helped clear Jersey and get the tiny Rebel to her boots. “Shit!” Jersey hollered. “I hate jumpin’ out of airplanes!”

  “Gather around me!” Ben shouted. “Corrie, tell that platoon leader if he doesn’t stop blowing that goddamn whistle the only way he’s going to be able to blow it is when he farts!”

  Corrie relayed the orders, changing the terminology just a little bit.

  The whistle stopped. Abruptly.

  “Anybody hurt?” Ben yelled.

  A few scratches, a few bruises, one sore back (he landed out of position, feet wide apart), and one twisted ankle.

  “Pilots reporting the enemy about four miles south of our position,” Corrie said. “A large group in various types of vehicles. Traveling northeast, heading our way on Highwa
y 45 and the old parkway. What was left of Mayfield is burning.”

  Ben looked at a map. “They won’t try to invade Missouri, and they can’t cross the river at Cairo or Paducah; those bridges are out.” He placed a finger on the map. “That’s where they’ll try to cross. We need as many of those vehicles as we can salvage, so let’s do this ambush right.”

  The terrain was perfect, rolling hills and brush that had not been cut back in years. The battalion got into place, with snipers carefully positioned to take out the drivers first.

  “This bunch is led by a woman,” Scouts radioed. “We grabbed a couple of stragglers and they were more than willing to talk to us.”

  “I just bet they were,” Ben muttered. He did not ask if the stragglers were still alive.

  “Name is Carrie Walker.” The Scout began winding down his verbal report. “And she is a bad one. ETA your position is two minutes.”

  In the cold impersonal words of a written report, the ambush would be: Highly successful with maximum casualties inflicted upon enemy with minimum injuries to Rebel forces.

  In other words, the Rebels shot the shit out of the punks.

  The punks and thugs and street slime had not seen the planes as they approached the DZ, for the pilots had flown miles out of their way to avoid flying over the area controlled by Carrie Walker’s gang, coming up to the DZ from the west, instead of the south. The punks saw a couple of planes returning, but that meant nothing to them.

  They drove unsuspecting into a deadly ambush.

  The Rebels took out the drivers first, and when the punks began jumping out of the cars and trucks in a wild panic, the Rebels cut them down, coldly and efficiently. For the most part, the Rebels finished it, then and there. They did not have the medical people nor supplies to adequately treat many wounded—other than their own—so it was much more humane to end it permanently rather than let any mortally wounded linger for hours in terrible pain.

  Carrie Walker was only slightly injured, when her driver had his brains splattered all over the upholstery, the car had slewed off the road and into a ditch. Carrie’s head had hit the dashboard, cutting her forehead and knocking her goofy for a few minutes.