Betrayal in the Ashes Read online

  “How do you want to work the picking of troops to assist you against this Bottger nut?”

  “You’re certain about this, Billy? Be sure. I want to know that you understand Bottger’s ultimate goals. He wants to wipe out the black race.”

  “General, I don’t want to live with niggers. But that doesn’t mean I want to see an entire race destroyed. We’re all God’s children, made, more or less, in His image. But even God could and did make mistakes. We have no way of knowing how many times God tried to make man in His own image and failed. Do you get my drift, General?”

  “Oh, yes, Billy,” Ben said drily. “Loud and clear.”

  “Bruno Bottger is playing God, General Raines. And no human has the right to do that. He must be stopped. Now, as to the troops from my army . . .”

  “You pick them, Billy.”

  “You’d trust me to do that?”

  “Yes. But Billy, try to put moderates in command. For if they mix it up with my people, there will be a bloodbath.”

  “I am fully aware of that, General. I will personally be in command. Is that all right with you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll get transport planes on the move as soon as we’re finished. Where do you want them to land?”

  The two men quickly worked out the details. Ben turned from the radio and looked at the three reporters. “Do any of you think those people around Blanton who are opposed to this will leak it to the press?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Cassie said.

  Nils nodded his head in agreement. “Are you kidding, General Raines? A liberal President just agreed to an all-white state. You bet it will be leaked.”

  “If it hasn’t already been leaked,” Frank Service added.

  “File your stories,” Ben told them.

  But much to the chagrin of Rita Rivers, Immaculate Crapums, and their counterparts in Congress, no great hue and cry of alarm or dismay came from many sections of the battered country when the news broke the next day.

  The residents of the SUSA—of all colors—shrugged it off and went right on living, as did many of the people who lived outside of the SUSA. Those who lived in the SUSA knew that it was people, not governments, who must live together. They also knew that if one group of people did not wish to live with another, no government on the face of the earth could pass enough legislation to make those groups like each other and, ultimately, it wouldn’t work. Legislation alone cannot give birth to understanding and compassion. It takes people who are willing to give it everything they’ve got to make it work. It takes laws that a solid majority agree with and abide by—not some 51/49 percent split—and those laws must be administrated and enforced fairly and equally to all, regardless of social or economic status. It takes people of all colors and creeds and religion, each willing to go out of their way to respect the rights of the other, and not go whining and complaining to this or that group that it was society’s fault because Jimmy or Jane or Leroy or José or Bubba or Billy Bob embarked on a crime spree.

  Governments can’t do it. But people can.

  Transport planes began flying into Missouri just hours after Ben spoke with Smithson; and true to his word, Smithson had troops waiting on the tarmac, ready to go.

  “How are they dressed?” Ben radioed.

  “Standard BDUs, General.”

  “You were expecting them to be dressed in Confederate gray, maybe?” Chase asked, sitting by Ben’s desk, drinking a cup of hot tea.

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me.” Ben sat down and rolled a cigarette, conscious of the doctor frowning at him. But this time Chase let it slide without one of his acid comments about Ben’s smoking.

  The big transport planes being used to bring Smithson’s people in were capable of carrying several hundred men and their equipment, and they would be flying night and day.

  Ben’s Batt Coms were coming in for another meeting since the Rebels were going to be re-positioned. Ben opened a map case and stared at the map. He shook his head. “This is going to be one hell of a front, Lamar.”

  It sure was. Just over 800 kilometers in length.

  Ben would have over fifty thousand troops under his command against Bottger’s several hundred thousand troops. Ben had been busy revamping his battalions. He was now adding a short company to each battalion, about half-strength, making that Headquarters Company. Thermopolis’ people could no longer handle the strain of thousands of troops. Ben had named Thermopolis’ command to be a highly modified Division HQ of the Rebels. The resistance fighters would be 2nd Division; Smithson’s troops, 3rd Division; and Colonel Flanders’ men, a regimental combat team. Ben worked the rest of the afternoon positioning troops and then went to bed.

  Ben threw a pencil on the desk. “Damn, I hate paperwork!”

  “I’ll trade my job for yours,” Thermopolis said, walking in the room. “I want a frontline command, Ben.”

  “You’re too good at what you do to be replaced,” Ben said. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

  The hippie-turned-warrior poured a mug of coffee and sat down. “I don’t do jack-crap, Ben. That’s my wife that does all the tracking and plotting and detail work. Rosebud, not me.”

  Ben shook his head. “I need you where you are, Therm.”

  Thermopolis muttered under his breath and then resigned himself to the fact that Ben was not going to move him up front.

  The Batt Coms began drifting in, coming from all over western Europe, greeting Ben and Therm and pouring coffee and finding seats.

  “The first of Smithson’s troops have landed,” Ike said. “I was told they look pretty good. I just talked to Mike Richards. Most of the troops are between twenty-five and forty. Solid and steady.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  The Russian Bear, General Georgi Striganov strolled in, waved at everybody, pulled a mug of coffee, and sat down. Ben’s kids, Buddy and Tina, were the last Batt Coms in. Tina sat beside West, the ex-mercenary and commander of Fourth batt. Tina and West were unofficially engaged to be married, someday, when the wars were over. Buddy looked like he ate Jeeps for breakfast. The young man literally did not know his own strength.

  Ben made certain that René Seaux and General Matthies were seated on opposite sides of the large room, as far apart as possible, and then tapped on his desk with a ruler, bringing the room to silence.

  “Bruno Bottger knows all about the additional troops arriving. He’s known ever since President Blanton and I agreed to this plan. So he’s got people in deep. Why he hasn’t made a move against us before we get beefed up is anyone’s guess. I’m just glad he waited.” He picked up a pointer and turned to face a huge wall map. “The Rebels First Division will be stretched out from here, at Besancon, all the way down to the Mediterranean Sea. Second Division, made up of the Resistance Groups and Colonel Flanders’ regimental combat team, will be in the middle, from Luxembourg to Besancon. Billy Smithson’s troops, which are designated as Third Division, will stretch out from Luxembourg north to Nijmwegen. General Matthies, your people will be at the northernmost point of your sector, René Seaux and his people at the southernmost edge. Now then, I would like you all to meet Colonel Wajda of the Polish Brigade.” A stocky man in a brown beret stood up and nodded at the group.

  “Pleased, I am sure,” the colonel said, then sat down.

  “He and his people came out of Bottger’s occupied territory a few days ago to join with us.” Ben smiled. “I wish Colonel Wajda did have a full brigade, but he did bring a battalion-sized force with him. Colonel Wajda and his men have been waging a guerrilla war against Bottger’s troops for over a year. A very successful campaign, I might add. Glad to have you with us, Colonel. All right, I have queried all the leaders of the resistance groups and they have agreed to an overall commander. And that is going to be General Georgi Striganov . . .”

  “Chief.” Corrie stuck her head into the room. “Billy Smithson is here.”

  “Show him in, Corrie.”

  All the Amer
icans present knew the man on sight for he had been one of the most successful and popular TV ministers for years before the Great War. Billy Smithson was a man of average height and average built, with iron gray hair; but there was something about him, an aura, that commanded respect. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, his bearing erect. He had distinguished himself in combat during the Vietnam War as a company commander and was no stranger to bloody conflict or solid leadership.

  His thousands and thousands of devoted followers were testimony to his ability to gather and keep supporters.

  Ben guessed the man to be about his own age.

  Ben left the raised platform and walked up to Billy, sticking out his hand. “Is it Mister, General, or Billy?”

  Smithson smiled as he shook Ben’s hand. “Just Billy, General Raines.”

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you all around. But I don’t expect you to remember all the names the first go-around.”

  Introductions over, Billy walked to the large wall map and stood staring at it for a moment. “This is the longest front I ever saw in my life, General. My people are designated Third Division?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we will defend the northernmost section.” Statement, not a question.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And we will be facing approximately how many enemy troops?”

  “Between seventy-five thousand and a hundred thousand.”

  Billy studied the map, reading the unit names on the many tiny blue, red, and black pin-flags on the west side of the front. Bottger’s forces were marked with yellow flags. “There was really no need to separate my division from yours, General. We are fighting a common enemy. My people are under orders not to start any trouble with your people. Anyone who started a fight would be dealt with most severely. The subject of race will not be brought up by any of my people.”

  “But it might be by mine,” Ben countered. “Even though I have issued comparable orders. People don’t like to be told they are inferior to others because of the color of their skin.”

  “Just as long as we know where we stand, General.”

  “Oh, I think we both understand that perfectly.”

  “Quite,” Billy said, then turned away from the map and took a seat.

  Bruno Bottger was furious. He had stomped and cursed around his field headquarters until he was out of breath. He finally sat down and pointed a trembling finger at one of his senior officers. “Billy Smith-son, an avowed racist, a man who purged his own state of niggers, now shows up over here, fighting alongside Ben Raines, against me! The man should be over here on this side of the line, fighting with me, not against me.”

  “Billy Smithson is not a racist, General,” the officer told Bruno. “He is a separatist.”

  “What the hell is the difference? Semantics, that’s all. Nothing more than that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If the goddamn Jews weren’t busy fighting the goddamn Arabs, they’d be over here with Ben Raines. I suppose I should be thankful for that. What is the matter with this Billy Smithson? I’m trying to purify the races to make this world a better place. I was under the impression that’s exactly what he wanted. Ben Raines promised him one lousy, crummy state. I could give him an entire country!”

  The senior officer kept his mouth shut for he didn’t understand it either.

  Now somewhat calmed, Bruno stood up and studied a wall map. “A pity. A real pity. I could have used a man like Billy Smithson in America. Well, no matter. I’ll destroy him just like I’ll destroy Ben Raines.”

  “We should strike now,” the senior officer urged. “Before all the troops get into place.”

  But Bruno was not listening. He was thinking of the latest reports from his laboratory in Poland. The latest run had looked so promising . . . but it had failed the last few tests, breaking down after only a few minutes’ exposure to air. His scientists had promised him better results the next time. They were so close, so close.

  He turned to face the senior officer. “Let’s see how well Billy Smithson’s men fight, Wilhelm. Order our troops to push past Aachen and take the ground between Maastricht and Liege. This should be amusing. But let’s be sporting about it. Let Smithson’s men get into place. After all, we are gentlemen, are we not?” He laughed. “And let’s use what remains of those detestable street gangs to spearhead. No point in getting our own good soldiers killed and wounded. Besides, when Smithson’s men are overrun by the dredges of society, those that remain will be clamoring to go back home.”

  * * *

  Ben got Billy on the horn. “Bottger’s troops are coming dead at you, Billy. They know how we fight; now they’re going to test you.”

  Rebel advisors had worked furiously around the clock instructing Smithson’s men in the use of long-range artillery, but that was not something that could be taught in a matter of a few days. Smithson’s men were expert in the use of mortars, but had practically no expertise with long-range artillery or tanks. Ben had been forced to send some of his own people in to handle the tanks and artillery. And he had had to be very careful in picking the crews.

  “This is going to be a real pain in the ass before it’s all over,” he bitched.

  Finally, the blacks in the artillery and tanks crews picked a spokesperson to go see Ben.

  “Hell, General,” the man said, “why not just send the crews in as is? There is nothing that Smithson’s men can say to us that we haven’t heard ten thousand times before. We’ll just ignore it and do our jobs. Besides,” he added with a grin, “it will give us a great deal of pleasure to have Smithson’s people depending on us for their lives . . . since we are supposed to be so inferior.”

  Ben returned the smile. “All right, Captain I’ll send the crews in as is. Good luck.”

  Both Bottger and Smithson were about to learn something about the fighting abilities of Rebels . . . of all colors.

  FIVE

  Bottger’s men were full of spirit as they left Aachen. When they hit the main bridge Ben had left intact at Maastricht, they died in bloody heaps and piles before they could get fifty feet across. They were piled up as high as the pedestrian guard railing before the commander realized he had made a terrible blunder.

  The Rebel advisors with Smithson’s men offered no comments or suggestions. Ben had told them to observe Smithson’s tactics and to keep their mouths shut unless they were asked to comment. The Rebels watched with approval as Smithson’s men quickly shifted their heavy machine guns to different locations before the men of the MEF could bring mortar and tank guns to bear on them.

  “They’re pretty good,” a Rebel sergeant observed.

  “One of the company commanders told me they’ve been studying our tactics for years,” his friend replied.

  “That explains it.”

  Bottger threw another attacking force at Smith-son’s men holding at a small town just south of Maastricht. Smithson’s men not only held, but chased the MEF off the bridge and put them into a complete rout.

  “I think we can go back to our units,” one of the advisors said.

  Ben was pleased by the field reports. “We can stop worrying about Billy’s troops. They’re fighters.”

  Bottger was busy putting together an air force, but he was not getting very far with it. Technology was again moving forward rapidly, but was still a long way from being what it was just prior to the Great War—due in no small part to the Rebels. Certain elements used to toughen steel and for the manufacture of high-speed aircraft could now only be found in certain areas of the country—and they were controlled, for the most part, by the Rebels or by countries or states who supported the Rebel movement. Vanadium, which used to come from South Africa, was, due to the violent clime in that part of the world and the collapse of South Africa’s industries, no longer available in any quantities . . . but due to Ben Raines’ farsightedness, the Rebels had stockpiled vanadium and titanium. The Rebels also controlled most of the major oil fields in N
orth America and were friends with many countries south of the border who had huge oil reserves.

  The Rebels possessed large quantities of raw materials and crude oil. Bottger had been forced to stockpile for years, and every gallon of fuel was precious. He did have oil fields in those countries he overran, but the equipment was old and constantly breaking down and most of the workers were solidly opposed to Bottger and his MEF. Bottger sometimes had to take harsh measures to make them work.

  Bottger often said to his close inner circle that being a benevolent dictator was terribly hard work and awfully trying.

  After Smithson’s men stopped the MEF cold at the bridges, Ben knew that testing time was nearly at an end. Bottger would soon be throwing everything he had at them, and Ben felt beyond a doubt that his people would not be as lucky this time around.

  At the last minute, the remaining gangs of street punks had dragged their feet getting to the battle sites, arriving late, arriving just in time to see the troops of the MEF slaughtered at the bridges.

  “They learned their lessons the hard way,” Beth said.

  “So will Bottger’s troops,” Ben replied. “If they haven’t already. Now it turns slow and mean and ugly . . . for both sides.”

  Rivers separated the Rebels from the MEF in many areas, but meadows, open ground, and forests also lay between the two, a deadly no-man’s land.

  It would be deadly for the Rebels if they were caught in the open, since Bottger’s snipers were as good as any Rebel sniper. But the open meadows and dark forests would soon turn into a hideous killing field for Bottger’s men, for the Rebels had laid out thousands of mines of all varieties.

  Both sides now waited for the command to move out.

  “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Ike, second in command of all Rebel forces, told Ben. “I’ve been up and down the line from Besancon to Nijmwegen, Ben. We’re standin’ tall.”