Warriors from the Ashes Page 6

  “The only thing I can think is you must have run over a sailboat too small to show up on radar and fouled the propellers and rudders,” he said to a skeptical Johnson.

  “What do we do now, Captain?” Johnson asked.

  Fitz shrugged. “We’ll just have to radio for assistance and hope we don’t drift all the way to Cuba before it gets here.”

  “But, Captain, there ain’t no way they’re gonna be able to fix our rudders and props at sea,” Johnson said.

  Fitz frowned. “I know. It looks like we may have to be towed all the way to Mexico.”

  “But the port at Corpus Christi is closer.”

  Fitzpatrick glared at the seaman. “You really want us to make port at Corpus Christi fully loaded with war matériel for an army they’re at war with?”

  “Uh, I guess not,” Johnson replied.

  “Good, then get on the horn to Claire Osterman’s office and tell them what’s happened. If they want this shit delivered, they’ll just have to get someone out here to tow us the rest of the way.”

  SEVEN

  Claire Osterman was in bed with Herb Knoff when her phone rang. She reached across his body to pick it up.

  “This better be damned important!” she said harshly into the mouthpiece.

  After listening a moment, she fairly screamed, “That son of a bitch Raines is behind this, I know it!”

  She listened another few seconds, then slammed the phone down.

  Herb, his breathing slowing a bit from the exertion of a few minutes earlier, asked, “What’s wrong, Claire?”

  “Our freighter to Mexico has been sabotaged,” she answered. “It’s drifting dead in the water toward Cuba.”

  “Raines?”

  She stared at him for a second, then shook her head. “The captain says not. He thinks they ran over a sailboat and damaged his rudders and propellers.”

  Herb’s eyebrows knitted. “That doesn’t sound very likely, does it?”

  “No. I’m sure as hell that Raines had something to do with this, but without proof, it won’t do any good to argue about it.”

  “So what now?”

  She shrugged as she pulled on a robe to cover her nakedness. “I guess we’ll have to hire another boat to go and pull him the rest of the way to Mexico.”

  Herb frowned. “That’s gonna be kinda expensive, isn’t it? I thought the treasury was down to nothing.”

  She gave an evil smile. “It is.”

  “But, you’ve already promised Captain Fitzpatrick fifty grand to take the stuff there.”

  “Who says he’s going to live to collect any of it? I cabled Perro Loco yesterday and told him he could have the freighter for his own use after it docks. All he has to do is . . . convince Captain Fitzpatrick he has no further use for it.”

  “How’s he gonna do that?”

  “At the point of a gun, I suspect.” She left the room and headed for her desk to make the necessary calls to get someone to tow the freighter to Mexcio.

  Herb shook his head and lay back on his pillow. Damn if she’s not the meanest bitch I’ve ever known, he thought. He glanced down at his privates. Better not ever let her down, big guy, he whispered, or she’ll have you in a jar on her shelf.

  The Boeing V-22 Osprey dropped through the clouds over Columbus, Ohio, like a stone. Inside, Otis Warner and General Joe Winter held their breath, certain the plane was going to crash.

  “Take it easy back there,” Captain Joe Gonzales called on the intercom. “We’re just trying to get below their radar as fast as we can.”

  Once the Osprey fell below five hundred feet, Gonzales leveled off, rotated the twin turboprop engines to the vertical arrangement, and the craft operated like a helicopter.

  It dropped as easily as a bird settling to the ground with hardly a jolt.

  “Are we there?” Otis asked, unbuckling his seat belt.

  Winter glanced out the window. “Yeah, looks like.”

  “Here we are, gentlemen,” Gonzales said as he strolled down the aisle. “Right where you asked to be delivered.”

  “Clinton Army Base?” Winter asked.

  “Yeah. Intel says it’s been abandoned since you guys took over from Osterman last year. Word is she hasn’t gotten around to restaffing it yet.”

  Winter and Warner hurried between the seats to the door as Gonzales opened it and extended the ladder to the ground.

  “I can give you half an hour to get your people and your gear unloaded. Any more than that would be pushing our luck,” he said.

  Ben Raines had supplied Winter and Warner with fifty thousand dollars in gold coin, a staff of ten men and women from the intel division to help them recruit and train guerrillas to take back the government from Osterman, and assorted communications and weapons supplies to use until they could steal or buy more of their own. Ben and Mike Post had picked the location of the U.S. rebels’ new headquarters near Columbus, Ohio. It was near enough to Osterman’s base camp at Indianapolis to be of use, but not so close they’d be noticed.

  Once Warner and Winter’s crew and supplies were unloaded, the Osprey took off again. To escape notice, Gonzales kept it under five hundred feet until it was miles away from Clinton Army Base, and then pointed the nose at the sky and took off like a shot.

  Otis Warner wasted no time. He appropriated the commanding officer’s office in the base headquarters, and had his people begin setting up the long-range radio and other equipment in the adjacent offices. They patched into nearby phone lines, using the SUSA’s newest technology so their lines wouldn’t be detected or traced.

  General Winter, meanwhile, was consulting his files for friendly names to contact to begin building a guerrilla force to combat Osterman’s Armed Forces. He had over two thousand names of men and women who’d been supportive of their own short-lived government and the peace process they’d started before Osterman seized back control of the government last year.

  As he combed his files, he made marks next to the men and women he would contact first, people who had contacts in Osterman’s Armed Forces. It would be important to have men on their side who could keep them informed of Claire’s plans and warn them if she became aware of their activities.

  The new war for freedom was just beginning.

  EIGHT

  Harley Reno and his team strolled back into the mercs’ camp, as if they’d been out for a walk in the jungle. Sergei Bergman was in his office reading over their resumes when Sergeant Herman Bundt stuck his head in the door.

  “Hey, Boss, you gotta see this.”

  Bergman glanced up. “I’m kind’a busy here, Herman.”

  “I’m telling you, you don’t want to miss this,” Bundt persisted.

  Bergman threw his pencil down and got to his feet. When he walked out the door, he saw Harley’s team depositing armfuls of weapons in a pile in the center of the camp.

  “Reno, what the hell’s going on?” Bergman asked, striding over to the big man.

  Harley grinned. “We figured these were easier to carry than the men themselves,” he answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your men are all out there in the jungle, tied up and waiting for you to send someone to cut them loose.”

  “You mean you killed them all?” Bergman asked, an astonished tone in his voice.

  “No,” Hammer answered, stepping up next to Harley. “We captured all of them. They weren’t good enough for us to have to kill them.”

  Bergman shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “They were my best scouts.”

  “If they were your best men, sir,” Coop said, “then you’re in a world of hurt.”

  Bergman looked over his shoulder at Herman Bundt. “Herman, send some men to pick ’em up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bundt answered, a grin on his face. It seemed he appreciated the audacity of this new group of recruits more than Bergman did.

  Bergman stood there, face-to-face with Harley Reno. Bergman was almost as tall as Reno, but his sh
oulders were narrower and his muscles were leaner, like a long-distance runner’s. With short-cropped blond hair and blue eyes over a fair complexion, Bergman looked like a poster-child for the Aryan ideal of Bottger’s New World Order.

  “All right,” Bergman finally said, his hands on his hips and his eyes boring into Reno’s. “I can see you people are good at tactics. How are you at hand-to-hand combat?”

  Harley shrugged. “Try us and see.”

  “I will.” Bergman whirled around and walked over to a cleared area used for hand-to-hand combat training. There was a large circular area of mulched soil surrounded by bleacher-like stands for others to watch. The rest of the mercs were already gathering to see what the newcomers had.

  Bergman glanced over the crowd until he spied one of his drill sergeants. He gestured to him to come forward.

  A huge man, over six feet four inches in height and heavily muscled, stepped forward. He had the face of a bulldog, with heavy brows over a nose that looked as if it’d been broken more times than it’d been fixed.

  “This is Helmut Gundarson,” Bergman said. “He’s my combat instructor in martial arts.”

  Harley looked at Helmut and shook his head. “Is this the best you’ve got?” he asked, a sneer in his voice.

  “Yes,” Bergman answered. “I think he’d make a fitting opponent for you. You two are about the same size.”

  “It ain’t about size, sir,” Harley said. He looked at his team. “Jersey, you want to take a shot at this one?”

  “Sure, Harley,” she answered as she stepped up to the man. Her head barely came to the level of his chest and he outweighed her by two hundred pounds.

  Helmut grunted and glanced at Bergman. “Sir,” he said, his German accent thick, “I would not want to hurt this small one.”

  “Are you sure this is the one you want to fight Helmut?” Bergman asked skeptically.

  Harley nodded. “How far are we going with this? Is it a fight to the death?” he asked seriously.

  Bergman looked surprised at the question. “Uh, no, just tell her to try to win the fight.”

  Harley called to Jersey. “Jersey, try not to kill this one, okay?”

  She looked disappointed. “Is it okay if I break him up a little?” she asked, her face innocent.

  Helmut growled. “You will be the one broken, bitch.”

  Jersey wagged her finger in his face. “Now, don’t try and make this personal, Helmut baby,” she cooed in a soft, feminine voice. “The first rule of combat is to keep your cool. Otherwise you get your fat ass kicked.”

  Helmut’s face flamed red as the soldiers around all laughed at Jersey’s comments at his expense. He ripped off his belt and holster and walked to the center of the circle, flexing his massive muscles as he stretched and paced the area.

  “Better give me your K-Bar, Jerse,” Coop said, holding out his hand. “Wouldn’t want your reflexes to take over and have you gut the bastard.”

  Jersey took out her K-Bar assault knife and flipped it end over end to land stuck in the ground millimeters from Coop’s foot.

  She glanced at Bergman. “You want this over fast, or do you want a show for the boys in the back row?”

  Now even Bergman had to grin at the audacity of this small woman. “Oh, by all means, dear girl, give us a show,” he answered as he joined the others around the edge of the circle of combat to watch.

  Jersey bent and untied, then slipped out of, her heavy combat boots, before walking barefoot to the center of the circle.

  Helmut crouched in the classic martial-arts stance, his feet apart with his left foot slightly forward, his hands held up before him with index and middle fingers extended.

  “Hah!” he grunted, shaking his arms in the typical greeting before combat.

  “Oh, Jesus, Helmut,” Jersey said, standing flat-footed, her hands at her sides, “cut the crap and let’s get it on.”

  Helmut’s face blazed even redder and he began to dance around her on his toes, waving his arms up and down slowly, like snakes weaving before striking.

  Jersey just stood there, letting her eyes follow him without moving her body at all. She looked completely unprepared for an attack.

  From the edge of the circle, Coop called, “Any bets? I’m giving two to one on the little lady.”

  At least twenty of the men crowded around him, holding out wads of currency and shouting out they’d take his bet.

  In the circle, Helmut suddenly leaned to the side with his weight on his left leg, and his right leg flashed out in a sidekick aimed at Jersey’s head.

  It flashed by, missing her by inches as she leaned slightly to the right and let the leg pass harmlessly by.

  Helmut continued his spin and swung a stiffened right arm backward at her.

  Jersey again leaned her head back, allowing the blow to miss her by less than an inch. As Helmut’s face came around after his arm, she took a short, quick step forward and her right hand shot out, palm first.

  The base of her palm hit Helmut flush on the nose, flattening it and sending a shower of blood and mucus spraying outward as his head snapped back and he grunted in pain, tears flooding his eyes.

  Jersey didn’t follow up her advantage, but stood there, her hands again at her side as she grinned at Helmut.

  “Had enough, big guy?” she asked. “From now on, all you have to look forward to is more pain.”

  Helmut sleeved blood off his face, his eyes glittering hatred. “You bitch!” he growled.

  Jersey’s face darkened. “I told you not to get personal, Helmut. You don’t know me well enough to call me bitch,” she said calmly.

  Helmut raised his hands and danced forward on his toes, just as Jersey dropped onto her outstretched right hand and swung her left leg in a sweeping arc at Helmut’s feet, knocking them from under him.

  Without slowing her movements, Jersey bent her leg at the knee and imbedded her heel in Helmut’s chest as he went down. Everyone in the crowd heard the crack as one of his ribs snapped and he screamed.

  When they rolled to their feet, Helmut was bent slightly to the left, favoring his aching rib, while Jersey stood there watching him.

  “I could take your eye next,” she said, an appraising look on her face, “but that would make you useless to Mr. Bergman. So, I think I’ll just take part of your left ear instead.”

  Helmut’s eyes widened for a second, before Jersey stepped in, dodged his chopping right hand by letting it slip off her shoulder, and buried her left fist in his solar plexus just below his sternum.

  Helmut doubled over and Jersey slashed at the side of his head with a flattened right hand in a move so quick only a few of the bystanders saw it.

  Helmut grunted again and jerked his head back. His left ear was hanging, partially torn off at the top, blood spurting down the side of his face.

  Jersey turned to look at Bergman. “Have you seen enough? I really don’t want to cripple the big guy.”

  Helmut yelled in anger and jumped at her exposed back, his arms outstretched to strangle her.

  Without looking, Jersey ducked and backed into his charge, grabbing his right wrist as it passed her head and yanking down on it, catching his right elbow on her shoulder and breaking it with a loud snap.

  Helmut didn’t scream this tune. He faulted from the shock and pain of his broken arm, slipping quietly to his knees, then toppling over onto his face, out cold.

  The men watching the exhibition were silent. All too many of them had been manhandled by Helmut in their combat training, and they knew he was no easy mark. Yet this small woman had made him look like a clumsy oaf.

  Coop held up the wad of money in his hand. “Thanks, gents. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Bergman walked out to stand over Helmut, shaking his head. “Herman, get two or three men to carry Helmut to the medical tent and have the doc look at that arm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bundt said, winking at Jersey as he pointed to a couple of men to come and help him w
ith Helmut.

  Jersey wasn’t even breathing hard, and had barely broken a sweat when Bergman spoke to her.

  “You made that look easy,” he said.

  She shrugged. “He made the mistake of judging me by my size,” she said. “In combat, it’s not size that counts, it’s ability, and the easiest way I know to get killed is to underestimate the ability of your opponent.”

  Bergman nodded. “Very well said, Jersey.”

  He turned and waved at Harley. “Bring your team into my office after lunch. We need to talk.”

  As Harley and the others moved toward the mess tent, Harley spoke in low tones. “Spread out while we eat and try to get some of the others to talk. We need to find out who’s ramrodding this outfit and just how dangerous they really are. Concentrate on amounts and types of weapons and matériel, as well as strength and training of the other troops.”

  “From what I’ve seen so far, they don’t look all that dangerous,” Coop said.

  “Don’t judge them all by what we’ve seen here,” Hammer said. “This is just the training ground for the new recruits. There’s no telling what kind of troops have already passed through here.”

  “Yeah,” Anna said. “There can’t be more than a few hundred men here at this camp. We need to find out the strength of the rest of this army, ’cause I know Claire Osterman wouldn’t be asking this group for help unless there are a hell of a lot more of them somewhere else.”

  They filed into the mess tent and went through the line to pick up their trays, then dispersed to sit among the other trainees and gather what intel they could through casual conversation.

  When Jersey got to the end of the line with her tray, men at several tables stood up, all trying to get her to sit with them. Anna received a similar reception from the men.

  Coop snorted through his nose. “Huh, guess it’s been a while since these guys had any female company.”

  Harley grinned. “Yeah, an’ the ones they got here don’t exactly set a man’s loins on fire either,” he said, inclining his head at some of the other women mercs in the room, all of whom had faces that would stop clocks.