Standoff in the Ashes Page 5

  “The Federals put the first team in,” Ben muttered. “Now it gets interesting.”

  Ben heard gunfire off to the west. Some Rebels were mixing it up with the Feds. But Ben’s Rebels were badly outnumbered in this fight, and fighting troops just about as experienced. This particular contingent of Rebels was in for a very bad time of it.

  And so am I, Ben thought, if I don’t move my butt and get the hell out of here!

  Ben rose from a kneeling position and turned just as a Fed was walking up behind him. The man had been tracking him, and for a few seconds his eyes were on the ground.

  Ben jumped him before he could get off a round, and the two of them rolled on the ground for a few seconds. Ben was a good twenty years older, but taller and heavier. He was also the far more experienced gutter fighter.

  The Fed got in one good punch to the side of Ben’s head that brightened his world for a few seconds. Ben got a better grip on the merc and jammed his stiffened fingers into the man’s eyes and put a hard knee into his crotch. As the Fed convulsed in pain, Ben bent the man’s head back and gave him the knife edge of his right hand to the throat. Ben felt it all give way, and the man’s mouth suddenly filled with blood as the mercenary began gasping in vain for breath. Ben rolled off the Fed as he convulsed on the ground. He left the man’s weapons, took his bandoleer filled with .223 magazines, tore his rucksack from him, and left him dying on the ground. Then he hauled his ass away from there.

  As he walked, Ben looked inside the rucksack. Several containers of field rats, three grenades, and two pairs of clean socks. He could use the food and the grenades, and the socks looked as though they would fit him.

  Ben continued moving southeast at a good pace. He figured his team and the majority of the troops who were stationed at the outpost were a good thirty minutes ahead of him. Maybe more than that, for they were younger and could move a lot faster for a longer time.

  Ben was not an old man, wouldn’t be for a while, but he damn sure was no spring chicken. He had to rest often to conserve his legs.

  The men of the Tennessee Home Guard had plans of their own as to where to bug out, and Ben had not made any attempt to countermand those plans. They had a better chance of survival than anyone else. This was their country.

  Walking up a hill, Ben paused for another look around. It was not at all encouraging. Federals appeared to be all around him. Somehow they had gotten in front of him and cut off his planned escape route.

  “All right,” Ben whispered to the wind as dusk began closing in all around him. “So I’ll head straight east. At least for a while.” He knew that not too many miles ahead of him, straight east, he would be blocked by lakes and the Cumberland River. He had no choice in the matter—it was the only direction left open to him.

  Ben checked his compass heading and started walking. With the exception of a few bruises from being knocked down a couple of times by incoming shell concussion, he felt pretty good.

  He walked for half an hour, then paused to rest and check his handy-talkie. There was no chatter coming through. He was either out of range, or the damn thing was busted.

  Just as he was about to get up and resume his trek Ben heard voices coming from his right, which was south. He perked up and listened.

  “We’ve got to take him alive. The bastard’s worth a million bucks.”

  “I’m not sure that reward applies to us,” a second man said.

  “It does. I got that straight before we left. Military or civilian, whoever brings him in gets a million.”

  “Good enough. But how the hell can you be sure he’s heading in this direction?”

  “He’s got no choice. He damn sure can’t go north. South and west are blocked off. This is the only way open to him.”

  “Not for long,” a third voice spoke. “The river is only a few miles away.”

  “That’s what I mean. He’s cut off. All we have to do is be patient.”

  “And wait right here?”

  “Why not? We’re ahead of him. The last sighting proved that. The bastard is not a young man. He can’t cover a lot of ground in a hurry. North is thick brush and ravines. South is our people. We’ve got him. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Ben did not want to fire and risk giving away his position. Besides, he wasn’t sure all three were close enough together for one burst to take them all out. Hell, he wasn’t even sure of their exact location.

  Too many ifs.

  Ben waited in the brush. It was almost as thick as the darkness that had fallen.

  Finally he heard the sounds of the Federals moving away, toward the east. Ben waited for a few more minutes, then left cover and headed first south for several hundred yards, then gradually cut east. He moved slowly and carefully, stopping every few meters to listen to the night.

  And hour later he could smell and sense the river.

  Ben stopped and slipped down into a wash and rested. The Cumberland was no small creek; he’d never get across it without a boat. If he stayed put he’d eventually get captured or killed in a shoot-out. If he headed in any direction, the odds were a little bit better, but not all that much.

  “Oh, the hell with it,” Ben muttered. He climbed out of the wash and began making his way south.

  Several times during the next hour he spotted Federal patrols in time to avoid contact. However, luck has a nasty habit of running out if one starts to depend on it, and Ben knew that only too well.

  Before long he would need rest and a few hours sleep, but he knew there was little chance for either. Any place suitable for rest and sleep would be carefully looked at by the Feds. Ben would just have to keep going and hope for the best.

  Something came out of the brush and hit him hard, knocking him sprawling. Ben lost his grip on the CAR and rolled away, just as his attacker took a vicious kick at his head. Ben grabbed the man’s boot and twisted just as hard as his position would allow.

  The man grunted in pain and fell backward, landing hard on his butt. That was all the opportunity Ben needed. He pulled his boot knife and struck hard with it. The blade drove deep into the man’s thigh, and the attacker yelped in pain. Ben jerked the blade out and struck again, this time higher up. The blade sliced deep into the man’s belly and Ben twisted upward, feeling the sharp blade cut into and through vital organs. Ben clamped one big hand on the man’s throat and squeezed, cutting off any scream.

  Ben held on as the Fed twisted and thrashed on the ground. Horrible choking sounds made their way out of the tortured throat. Ben squeezed even harder and drove the knife deep into the man’s chest. The Fed convulsed once, and then was still as life swiftly left him.

  Ben released his grip and pulled out his knife. Shaky from the sudden expense of energy, he crawled to his knees and rested there, the dead man cooling on the ground.

  Ben wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s pants leg and sheathed it. He found his CAR and wiped the dust from it, then took two grenades from the dead man and several full magazines of .223’s. There was nothing else on the man that Ben could use. He rested for a few more minutes and then moved out, heading south.

  Ben had heard the very faint sounds of a lot of gunfire since leaving the Rebel outpost. The Feds and the Rebels had locked horns a number of times. He had no way of knowing which side had been victorious, but he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was not his Rebels.

  He continued walking.

  Ben caught a few hours sleep from about 3:00 A.M. until six. Then he was on the move once more. It had been a restless sleep, for the sounds of helicopters had awakened him a dozen times. Just as daylight was spreading over the land, he climbed a low hill and took a look around. What he saw was not at all encouraging.

  He was surrounded. There appeared to be no way out for him, and the Federal troops all seemed to be facing in his direction. They had him pinpointed.

  Ben backed up and looked around, finding some good size rocks and several small logs. He tugged and rolled the rocks and logs into a makeshift barricade, occasionally looking around. The Feds were all moving in his direction.

  Ben took his handy-talkie from the pouch and keyed the mic. “This is the Eagle. Anybody listening?”

  Corrie’s familiar voice touched his ear. “Right here, Boss.”

  “Are you secure, Corrie?”

  “Ten-four, Boss. We’re in Rebel territory and holding.”

  “Can you tape this?”

  “Affirmative, Boss. Taping.”

  “Tell Ike he’s in charge of it all. I’ve had it. I’ve got maybe three or four hundred Feds moving in on me, and probably more on the way. I’m not sure exactly where I am. For the Rebels to try any type of rescue would be nothing but a suicide mission. Don’t try it. Understood?”

  “Affirmative, Boss.”

  “I’m going to give them one hell of a fight, but there is no way I can win. You copy all that?”

  After a short pause, Corrie said in a choked voice, “Affirmative, Boss.”

  “I’m not going to be taken alive. Not if I can help it. And I don’t have time to get maudlin here. The SUSA forever. Let that be your battle cry. Understood?”

  “Ten-four, Boss.”

  “Is the team all right?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Anna?”

  “She’s OK, Boss. None of us were hit.”

  “Not much else to say, Gang. The Feds are at the base of the hill and moving in on me. The SUSA forever. Forever!”

  Corrie was crying.

  “Affirmative, Boss.”

  “Good luck to you all. Eagle out.”

  SIX

  Ben chunked a grenade over the edge of the hill and smiled when it exploded.

  The Feds opened fire from all sides, the lead howling and ric
ocheting all around him.

  “Come and get me, you miserable socialistic assholes,” Ben muttered. “But, goddamn you all, when you do I’ll take some of you with me.”

  Several Feds on the north side of the hill charged Ben’s position. When they reached the crest they were met with half a magazine of .223 rounds. Scratch four Feds.

  After half an hour of give and take, the Federal fire abruptly ceased.

  “Now what?” Ben said to the cloudy sky and the increasing winds.

  A shout reached Ben. “General Raines! This is General Berman. Give this up, Raines. You can’t get off that hill. There is no escape for you.”

  “Berman, you mercenary prick!” Ben said. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Come and get me!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Ben!” Berman shouted. “Give it up.”

  “So Madam President Osterman can hang me? I’d rather go out with a bullet right here on this hill.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen. We’re going to take you alive, I promise you that. You might be banged up some, but I can guarantee you will be alive. Think about that before we begin the assault.”

  Tear gas or pepper gas, Ben thought. That’s what they’re going to use.

  And a gas mask was something Ben did not have.

  Ben wriggled around in his small shelter and took a quick look in all directions. He sighed as he ducked back down. Must be at least three hundred Feds surrounding the small hill.

  No thoughts of surrender entered Ben’s mind. The Feds might overpower him, but it would be only after a fight.

  Then Ben heard the unmistakable pop of a gas canister launcher. “Here we go,” he muttered.

  He quickly wet a handkerchief and placed it over his face just as the canister hit the top of the hill and the gas began spreading. After that there must have been a dozen more pops in a very brief time. The air became choked with fumes, and in a few seconds Ben was unable to see.

  “Shit!” he coughed out just as he heard bootsteps running toward him. Something slammed into the front of his head, and Ben’s world turned to darkness.

  When he awakened he found himself cuffed and chained, the metal bonds around his wrists and ankles. He did not have to open his eyes to know he was on the floor of a plane, a big prop job—four engine, Ben figured, from the sound of it. C-130, probably.

  He did not know how long he’d been out, but it seemed as though it had been hours. He concluded the blow on the head had been followed by some sort of chemical injection to ensure his staying unconscious.

  He cracked his eyelids and was not surprised to find boots filling his vision—a long row of them. Berman was taking no chances. Ben was under heavy guard. He felt his left shirtsleeve jerked up, and the lash of a needle. Seconds later, he was once again enveloped in darkness.

  When he woke again, it was quiet. Daylight was streaming through a window set high up off the floor. Ben moved his hands and feet. The chains were gone. He tried to sit up, but did not have the strength to make it. He moved his head and blinked his eyes. Well, at least he could do that much.

  Then he realized he was in a bed.

  He shook his head, and that hurt! He summoned all his strength and managed to sit up, his feet on the floor. His bare feet. No boots, no socks. He looked down at his legs. His BDUs were gone. He was dressed in pajamas. Green ones.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, he looked around the room. One window, too far off the floor for him to see out of. A very sturdy looking door—closed, and locked, Ben figured. A metal, three drawer dresser set against one wall. A sink, also metal. A commode, metal.

  Sure as hell not a luxury hotel.

  He inspected the walls and ceiling. Bare. No mirrors and no camera to monitor his moves.

  Ben decided to try to stand. He failed the first try and fell back on the bed, made it on the second try. He stood for a moment, swaying until he got his balance. Then he tried to walk, and fell down hard on the floor.

  Ben lay on the cold tile for a moment, silently cussing. He forced himself to his knees, then managed to get to his feet and stay there. Damn, but he was weak.

  He took a couple of hesitant steps and did not fall. “Wonderful,” Ben muttered. “I am certainly making progress.”

  He walked back to the bed and sat down, resting for a couple of minutes. During that time he again visually inspected his surroundings, looking for anything he might use as a weapon. There was nothing.

  He walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water. Bathing his face several times, he felt better. Then he cupped his hands and drank deeply.

  He stared at the window longingly, wishing he could see out, get some idea where he was. He gave that up. Might as well wish for . . . what? Well, at least he was still alive, and not dangling from the end of a rope. That would come soon enough. Osterman would probably personally tighten the noose herself, smiling all the while. Miserable bitch!

  Ben began slowly walking around and around the interior of the small room, feeling his strength slowly return. He still didn’t feel like running any foot races, but he was getting better.

  And hungry. Damn, but he was hungry. Then he knew he was getting better, thinking about food. He instinctively glanced down at his watch—or where it used to be. It was gone, of course.

  He drank some more water and felt better, glanced upward out the high-set window. The sun didn’t seem as bright, but it was high in the heavens. Not as strong, rather than not as bright. Ben suddenly got the impression he was a long way from Tennessee.

  North! The word jumped into his brain. He was far north. Somehow he was sure of that.

  Ben heard a key clink in the lock. He turned just as the door opened. Several men stood there, one of them General Walt Berman.

  “You do get around, don’t you?” Ben said.

  Berman smiled. “Yes, I do. How do you feel?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent yet. But getting there.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, we brought you a tray of food. It’s nothing fancy, but it is good food. And we eat the same thing, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Where am I being held?”

  Berman stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I can’t see where that would hurt anything, Ben. You damn sure can’t get out. You’re in upstate New York. This facility used to be a state hospital for the insane. Insane probably isn’t a politically correct term, but I’m not much into that liberal crap.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About noon. Lunchtime. Here is your food. Enjoy the meal.”

  A tray was brought in, placed on the dresser. The guard carefully backed out. Berman gave Ben a mock salute and closed the door.

  Ben heard the lock click with a very secure sound.

  He carried his tray over to the bunk and looked at the food. Thick portions of ham (already cut up into bite-size pieces), generous helpings of mashed sweet potatoes and corn (in separate compartments), two slices of bread, two pats of butter (probably oleo) a piece of apple pie, a large mug of coffee, two packets of sugar, a packet of instant creamer.

  “Not bad,” Ben muttered, picking up the plastic fork and digging in.

  The food was good, and Ben ate every bite and then drank the coffee. He wished he had a cigarette to go with it. “Wonder if I’ll get a smoke before they hang me,” he muttered.

  Ben took the tray and walked over to the door. He tapped on it. “I’m finished. You want the tray?”

  “Back away from the door,” a man ordered. “I’ll lower the flap in the center of the door.”

  Ben backed away. “I’m back. Still holding the tray.”

  The flap banged open. “Put the tray on the flap.”

  “You got a cigarette?” Ben asked, placing the tray on the metal flap.

  “Sure. I’ll have to light it for you.”

  “No problem. I appreciate it.”

  “Back up, away from the door.”

  Ben again backed up, and watched as a lighted cigarette was placed on the flap.

  “OK. Pick it up.”

  Ben snagged the smoke and backed up. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Ben sat on the floor, his back to a wall, and smoked the cigarette. He enjoyed every puff. While he smoked he visually inspected the ceiling and walls. He could detect no sign of hidden cameras or microphones. There was no mirror in the room, so that let out a two-way.