Battle in the Ashes Read online

  Oh, yes. The Rebels knew the type well.

  Ben leaned back in the chair and closed his tired eyes for a moment. He wished there was a place he could take his Rebels and to hell with everybody else. A place where they could live and prosper in peace.

  But he knew there was no such place.

  He knew that wherever they went, they would have to fight for their right to exist. He smiled at that. Our right? he thought. Let’s don’t be hypocritical, Ben. Don’t start sounding like all those protesters of years back, demanding this and that. What you and the Rebels are doing is attempting to rebuild a nation. Moral issues can be hashed out later.

  Ben opened his eyes. “If those groups out there, which we all know comprise hundreds of thousands of people, would put aside their hate for one another and band together, they’d have a damn good chance of defeating us.”

  “They won’t do that,” Tina told him. “They hate each other more than they hate us. Our best hope is that they wind up killing each other.”

  Ben stared at the Rebels crowded into the room. “We’re not going to wait for Hoffman and his goose-steppers to get a firm toehold in America. Corrie, order all units to immediately launch a full-scale guerrilla action against the Blackshirts. Coast to coast. Get geared up, people. We’re taking the attack to them!”

  General Payon, the commander of all Mexican forces, ordered teams of skilled guerrilla fighters to head back into Mexico, swing around, and attack the Black-shirts from the rear, stinging them and then quickly withdrawing.

  From Texas to California, all along the border, Ben’s Rebels began quietly getting into place to raise some hell with Hoffman’s Blackshirts.

  “Lovely night,” a Blackshirt commander said, stepping out of the abandoned house along the New Mexico border. “I love this climate here.” He smiled and breathed deeply. “I shall ask to be permanently assigned here once we have defeated Raines’ Rebels.”

  Those were the last words he would ever say as three fire-frag grenades bounced on the patio and blew, spreading him and two others all over the rear of the house.

  His personnel ran onto the blood-slick patio and began firing wildly in all directions. They hit nothing. The dark shadows melted into the night.

  In a once lovely home just south of Tucson, along Interstate 19, two squads of top-notch battle-hardened Blackshirts had just finished their supper. Their last supper. They were looking forward to a group of ladies coming over for a little entertainment. The “ladies” were from a Ben Raines-hating group who called themselves CRAPO. The Committee for the Removal of All Political Opposition. The ladies would come over, but the two squads of Blackshirts would be in no condition to entertain them. Not after three rockets from Armbrusts tore into the house and blew it to bloody bits.

  Fifteen miles away, a ten-man Blackshirt patrol in two trucks pulled up behind a man working on his old pickup truck along the side of the highway.

  “What’s the problem, friend?” the team leader asked.

  “Worn out,” the man replied. “Everything is just worn out.” He smiled at the men, his teeth flashing in the night. “Forgive. I forget my manners. I have fresh fruit in the back. Apples and oranges and melons. I would be honored if you would take my small offering.”

  “We couldn’t take your food, senor.”

  “Please. I would be offended. Nothing is too good for the people who would finally relieve us of the yoke of oppression placed on our necks by that damnable Ben Raines and his filthy followers.”

  Hiding in the ditches alongside the highway, the battalion commander of Thirteen Battalion, Raul Gomez, stifled a groan. Amelio was a natural born ham and on this night he was really putting on quite a show.

  “Ah,” the Blackshirt team leader said. “We were told this area had a lot of people who were sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Oh, my, yes, patron. Many, many of us welcome your coming. Words cannot express my true feelings,” Amelio added with just a touch of irony.

  The Blackshirts slung their weapons and flipped back the tarp over the bed of the truck. They stood dumbfounded, for the bed was empty. They looked for Amelio. He was gone. The last thing they would experience on this earth was the pain as bullets from M-16s ripped into their bodies.

  The Rebels took their weapons and what uniforms could be patched up, tossed the weapons in the Black-shirt trucks, and headed out into the desert, leaving the bodies for the buzzards.

  It was only the beginning of what was to be a very, very bloody night.

  THREE

  When the news of the night’s work reached Jesus Hoffman early the next morning, the man very nearly lost his composure. He forced himself to be civil to the messenger and sat back down at his table, looking at his breakfast. He pushed it from him; his appetite was gone.

  They had not yet penetrated forty miles into North America and already the losses were unacceptable. And casualty reports from the bloody night just past were still coming in.

  It was impossible, but yet it was happening. Then Herr Hoffman said what people had been saying for years about the commander of the Rebel Army. “I hate that goddamn Ben Raines!”

  Hoffman bathed and shaved and splashed on cologne. He dressed in a field uniform, tan pants, and black shirt, and stepped out of his trailer to face his most senior commanders, gathered at his orders. He had prepared a speech in his mind, but looking at his commanders, found the speech not what he really wanted to say. He waved his people to follow him to where a large canvas had been stretched to offer protection from the elements; it was open on all sides. Under the canvas, he turned to face his people. Following a decidedly discouraged sigh, he began to speak.

  “You all know that Raines’ Rebels struck last night. Reports are still coming in. Many of our most forward units have been virtually wiped out or bloodied badly. I have ordered those still functioning to bunker in until further orders. Now then, certainly none of us expected the taking of North America to be easy. But none of us ever dreamt the offensive, would start on such a dour note.” Jesus Hoffman paused for a moment, then blurted, “Gentlemen, I am open for suggestions.”

  The hundreds of small teams of Rebels scattered all over the country didn’t need any suggestions. They knew what to do: Kill Blackshirts and anyone who supported them, overtly or covertly. And those many hundreds of citizens who were on the side of Hoffman learned this very quickly and vacated Texas posthaste. They knew better than to waste time trying to explain to the roaming Rebel patrols why they chose to support Hoffman and his Blackshirts. The Rebels were not interested. The Rebels had a nasty habit of hanging or shooting collaborators. On the spot. They also knew all the ways of extracting information from recalcitrant suspects. The Rebels did not use physical torture—under physical torture, the suspect will tell his or her questioners anything to stop the pain. Instead, the Rebels used polygraphs, Psychological Stress Evaluators, drugs, and hypnosis. It was unpleasant.

  John Masters was the leader of one such group of people who dreamed of the day Ben Raines would die and the Blackshirts would rule. He fantasized of a world free of blacks. And free of Ben Raines and his goddamn Rebels. John believed that everything bad that had happened to him and America could be traced right back to blacks. His followers numbered just about ten thousand and they lived in a town in North Texas.

  Luis Carrero was of Spanish descent (although he was fourth generation American), and Luis dreamed of a world free of everyone except Spanish speaking peoples. He hated people like Ben Raines. And he hated the Rebels. Everyone around him hated Ben Raines and the Rebels. Luis’s followers numbered about ten thousand. And Luis dreamed of the day Jesus Hoffman and his Blackshirts would take power.

  Moi Sambura hated everyone who was not black. Moi (real name Charles Washington) held sway over a following of about ten thousand spread over several counties in what used to be Eastern Mississippi and Western Alabama. Moi and his followers had caused no trouble and managed to stay clear of the Rebels over the years, e
ven though they were well aware the Rebels knew of their presence. General Cecil Jefferys, himself a black man and second-in-command of all Rebel forces, detested Moi and everything he and his followers stood for. Cecil had bluntly stated for years that someday the Rebels would have to go in and wipe that bunch from the face of the earth. Ben had held him back.

  “They’re not causing any trouble, Cec,” Ben had cautioned.

  “The hell they’re not,” Cecil would reply. “They’ve either run off or killed every white person in eight counties. They’re in a constant squabble with Wink Payne and that bunch of white trash that follow him.”

  “We’ll get to them all in time, Cec,” Ben would say.

  Now was that time.

  “General Jefferys on the horn,” Corrie told Ben. “He sounds unhappy about something.”

  “Moi Sambura and Wink Payne,” Ben said, walking across the living room of the house in Texas, about seventy-five miles north of Hoffman’s command post. “He’s found out they both have linked up with Hoffman’s Blackshirts. God, what an unholy alliance that must be.”

  “Go, Cec.”

  “Ben, we’ve got to move against Moi and Wink. They’ve both linked up with Hoffman—for totally different reasons—and having them at your back is unacceptable.”

  “And what do you propose, Cec?”

  “Leading my forces against them. All-out ground and air assault and wipe them clean once and for all.”

  “Cec,” Ben said patiently. “You are still recovering from heart surgery. How many pacemakers do you want installed in your chest? And even if you were a hundred percent, your pulling out would leave Base Camp One unprotected. No. We’ll deal with these splinter groups when the time comes.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Cecil warned.

  “Cec, we’re spread too thin as it is. I’ve got eyes and ears on Moi and John Masters and Wink and Luis. And that silly-assed CRAPO bunch in Arizona. They’re a threat, but not much of one. They all have high numbers of followers, but they’re all too lightly armed to pose much of a threat. We’ve got our hands full dealing with Hoffman.”

  “All right, Ben. It’s your show. That was good work last night.”

  “We made him bleed, for sure. How are you feeling?” Cecil had undergone emergency heart surgery just a few months back.

  “I’ll be one hundred percent in a few weeks, Ben.”

  Ben knew that was bull and so did everyone else. But they also knew that Cecil would push it to the limit unless Ben kept a tight rein on him.

  “You do what the doctors tell you to do, Cec,” Ben warned. “I need you right where you are.”

  “That’s ten-four, Eagle. Out.”

  And Ben knew Cecil would follow orders. He might not like it, but he was a soldier’s soldier. And Ben knew too, that Cecil was irritated at not being able to get into the field. But Ben needed Cecil right where he was.

  To the south of Ben, Hoffman sat behind his desk looking at General Hans Brodermann. Brodermann stood before him, in full dress uniform, but not the uniform of the regular army. Brodermann was dressed all in black, with the silver death’s head insignia of the old Nazi SS on his collar and cap. If there was a crueler man anywhere in the world, Jesus Hoffman was not aware of it. Hans detested everything about America, for it was the American army, fifty years back, who had hanged his grandfather, who was one of Mengele’s assistants at the death camps. And Hans’s mother and father had never let him forget that fact. Hans, unlike Field Marshal Hoffman, had no Spanish blood in him. He was aryan. Pure aryan, he chose to think. And while he had many nationalities serving under his command, his personal detachment of soldiers were all Germanic . . . or at least gave that appearance.

  Hans was one of the select few who knew that once North America was taken, many now serving faithfully in Hoffman’s Blackshirts would be disposed of. Especially the Arabic, Oriental, and Negro . . . the fate of any others was negotiable.

  Hans smiled at Hoffman. It was not a condescending smile, for Hans truly admired and liked the young field marshal, some fifteen or so years Hans’s junior. Hans had studied Ben Raines extensively over the years, as had every officer in Hoffman’s army, and knew that he and Ben were about the same age, and very nearly the same height and weight. He also admired General Raines. He detested him, but he admired him as well. “So you have decided to pit me against General Raines, mein Field Marshal?”

  “Ja, Hans,” Jesus momentarily slipped into German. “Your SS division will spearhead the America invasion, Hans. Crush everything in your path. Bring any resistance to their knees, and strike fear in the hearts of anyone who even remotely believes in the Rebels.”

  Hans clicked the heels of his polished riding boots in reply.

  Hoffman stood up and walked to a huge map of the United States, secured to the wall of his trailer office. With his back to Brodermann, he thumped his fist against Texas. “I want this place secured, Hans. I don’t care if the ground is so soggy with American blood it slops under my boots. Secure it!”

  Again, the click of heels.

  Jesus turned, a cold look in his black eyes. “How you do that is of no consequence to me, Hans.”

  “Carte blanche, Field Marshal?”

  “Exactly.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Forty-eight hours.” He gave the Nazi stiff armed salute. “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” Hans shouted, then spun around and walked out of the trailer.

  Ben sat silently in his chair for a long time, staring out the window, or where the window used to be. He was alone in the room and had given orders he was not to be disturbed for anything short of a nuclear strike. He doodled on scraps of paper, drummed his fingertips on the table, paced the room and cursed and prayed. When he made up his mind, and it was only after the most agonizing hour of his life, he stood up and called for Corrie and the rest of his team to come in.

  “Corrie, do we know the frequencies of the known groups aligned with Hoffman and is it possible to jam them for any length of time?”

  “Yes, sir. Those people aren’t really that smart to begin with. They don’t know that we’ve broken every code they’ve ever devised within a hour of their transmitting it. They could easily be jammed. For however long you wanted it.”

  Buddy and Tina were in the general vicinity, and General Georgi Striganov had radioed that he was on the way in.

  “I want the rest of the batt coms here ASAP,” Ben said. “Transmit that by burst and tell them to get here fastest means possible. I will not make this decision alone.”

  Four hours later, the fifteen battalion commanders, including Ben, were seated in the large room. They had all looked at and studied the clear plastic covered U.S. map on the wall. Ben had drawn a line east to west, from the Virginia coast clear over to the California coast.

  Ben sat on the edge of the heavy old table, staring at his commanders. “I will not make this decision alone, people.” He pointed to the map. “The thirty-sixth parallel. If possible we’re going to contain Hoffman’s people below it. Above it will be all those who, while they might not agree with our philosophy, at least are not aligned against us.”

  “A mass evacuation, Ben?” Georgi asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That leaves Cecil with his ass hangin’ out in the wind, boy,” Ike drawled.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ben spoke very softly. “For only we have the antidote to the gas our scientists perfected.”

  Pat O’Shea, the Wild Irishman, as he had promptly been dubbed, whistled. “And if the winds were right . . .” he trailed off.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “Hoffman’s people would die by the thousands. So the entire state of what used to be known as Louisiana will be a neutral zone. We have antidotes for every type of gas Hoffman has, and he knows it. We have nuclear weapons, and he knows it. Bet that Hoffman and his top people have studied me extensively. They know I’ll use both if pushed to it.”

  “And any who refuse to go
north?” Jackie Malone, commander of Twelve Battalion, asked. She and Tina were the only female batt coms. Not that there weren’t more females qualified, the Rebels just didn’t have the personnel to field any more battalions . . . yet.

  “We cannot guarantee their safety, and neither can we guarantee that we won’t shoot them on sight, mistaking them for the enemy or enemy sympathizers.”

  “I like it,” West, the mercenary, said. “It would certainly give us a wide-open field of fire, so to speak.”

  The others nodded their heads in agreement. Danjou, the French Canadian and commander of Seven Battalion, said, “The evacuation would have to be started immediately. I mean, like this evening.”

  “Yes. Provided we are all in agreement on this plan. Let me see a show of hands.”

  Every hand went up.

  “All right, that’s it. I don’t know that we can contain them at the thirty-sixth parallel. I only know that we’d better give it our best shot.”

  “I hate to be the one to throw cold water on this plan, father,” Buddy spoke up. All heads turned to him. “But there is no way we’re going to evacuate all innocent people out of hundreds of thousands of square miles. It is, simply put, impossible.”

  “I agree,” Ben said. “But what choice do we have, son, except to try? Hoffman has not yet turned his mad dog loose. But it’s only a matter of time before he does. General Payon says that General Hans Brodermann is a monster. Totally ruthless. He will kill anything or anybody who gets in his way. Brodermann commands a full-size division. He has more men in that one division than we do in our entire army. Payon, who by the way could not attend this meeting because he is . . . ah, busy this afternoon . . .”

  Everybody laughed at that. They knew that Payon and his teams were harassing the hell out of pockets of Blackshirts.