Triumph in the Ashes Page 9

  “Hello, Ben. You have any trouble getting here?” Michaels asked.

  Ben’s eyes clouded. “Just the first night. We were attacked by some native forces, and we lost Coop and Jersey.”

  Michaels threw his head back and stared upward. “Shit!” He shook his head, “That’s too bad. Confirmed kills?”

  “No. So I plan to leave a small force of men, including paramedics, here for at least a week in case they make it this far.”

  Michaels nodded. “Will do. I’ll arrange it with Doc Lamar. We’ll leave some Scouts to protect the medics, and a couple of gunships with crew. That way, if they make it they can join us down south later.”

  “What have you found out while waiting for us to get here? Any news?”

  “Plenty. Come on over to my CP tent and I’ll fill you in.”

  Ben turned to Corrie. “See that the team gets food, and any medical attention they need. We’ll bivouac here tonight and get some rest before proceeding.”

  Michaels had a map spread out on a folding table when Ben entered his tent.

  He pointed to the northern half of Angola, on the eastern coast. “I sent some P-40s and P-51s on recon flights to see what’s going on south of us.”

  He looked up into Ben’s eyes. “The pilots all report the same thing. There is very little sign of life in the whole of Angola. Thousands and thousands of bodies—human, animal—practically all warm-blooded mammals have been affected.”

  “What does Doc Chase say?”

  Michaels shrugged. “He says he can’t be sure, but it looks like some sort of bacterial warfare agent, anthrax probably. He says if it was gas it would have killed all life—birds, insects, everything. If it was viral it would not have affected both animal and human species, so that pretty much leaves anthrax or something like it, the doc says.”

  Ben nodded. “No sign of hostiles?”

  “Ben, I’m tellin’ you, nothing bigger than a lizard is alive in the entire country, at least as far as the southern edge of the desert. That’s as far as my planes could get and return without refueling.”

  “What do you hear from the other brigade commanders?”

  “They all seem to have made better time than we have. Ike McGowen and 502 is already on the Angola-Zambia border, almost to Botswana. The rest are spread out across the continent.”

  Ben’s forehead wrinkled and he looked puzzled. “But why has it been so easy?”

  “I don’t know, but most of the other commanders say their only resistance has been native troops. It’s as if Bottger has pulled his army all the way back to South Africa, leaving only the dregs of his African troops to hold us up.”

  Ben struck the table with his fist. “But he knows we’ll blow right through them. Hell, even his seasoned troops and mercs couldn’t stop us.”

  Ben thought for a moment, then said, “Let me see those aerial photos again.”

  As he looked at the thousands of dead bodies, he begin to smile a tight-lipped smile. “Of course. He used the bacterial agents, not knowing we’d already been vaccinated against them. He hoped to let the bacteria decimate our troops, then form a counter-offensive after we’d been weakened by the African troops and his bacterial agents.”

  Ben looked up at Michaels. “The fool has made a fatal error, John. We’re here on his doorstep, and we’re at practically full strength, converging on him rapidly instead of being strung out across half the continent.”

  Ben laughed. “If his Intelligence is any good, the bastard’s probably sweating blood right about now.”

  John nodded, smiling. “I bet you’re right, Ben. We’ll be in the asshole’s face within a week.”

  Ben stretched. “How about some grub? My team hasn’t eaten since this morning.”

  “The mess tent’s set up and ready. Then you and your people can get some sleep, and we’ll make our plans in the morning.”

  “Right. By the way, does Soyo have an airfield that can handle C-130s?”

  “Sure, why?”

  Ben grinned, but there was no mirth in it. “Because I don’t plan to waste any time slogging our way across Angola or risk some infection that Dr. Chase hadn’t planned for. I want those transport planes here as soon as you can get them here. We’re gonna cross Angola in style, at twenty thousand feet. We’ll land just past the Angolan desert, then roll on into Namibia and Botswana at the same time the other battalions do.”

  Ben walked to the door of the tent and paused. “We’ll present our friend Bottger with a line of troops and matériel stretching all the way across Africa, and we’ll push his butt into the sea.”

  “Or crush him where he stands,” Michaels added.

  “You got that right, partner. Now, where did you say that mess tent was?” Ben laughed. “Suddenly, my appetite is much better.”

  TWELVE

  General Mabota had his mixed-blood Bantu tribesmen spread out along the banks of the Zambezi River in Zambia, more than three hundred of his best fighters, armed with Soviet-made AK47 rifles, mortars, grenade launchers, and hand-held Russian rocket launchers.

  Word had come to Bottger from one of his New World Order mobil command posts in central Zaire that the clever Rebel general, Ben Raines, was pulling battalions back toward the sea coast. The Nazis had no idea what sort of bizarre strategy was behind this move by Raines and his Rebel army. It did not seem to make any sense.

  But one thing Bottger had learned from his previous encounters with Ben Raines was caution, for it seemed General Raines was always able to second-guess moves made by the Nazis and their paid assassins and mercenary groups in Africa.

  Bruno Bottger prided himself on his knowledge of military strategy and guerilla tactics, yet it seemed he was one step behind this American Rebel general in virtually every engagement the two armies had. Raines had some sort of uncanny ability to predict where Bottger would attack him, and the Rebels’ ability to move through jungles and high plateaus, crossing rivers like the Zambezi with relative ease and unbelievable speed, made it difficult, if not impossible, to corner him, even with a force far superior to his in number.

  Almost all the Rebel brigades had the same knack for eluding pursuit, even by warlords commanding jungle tribesmen from the regions where these battles were being fought.

  This was troubling news when Bottger hired Mabota to recruit new fighting men from the hundreds of Bantu tribes spread across the Republic of Zambia and neighboring Zaire.

  Word had spread quickly through the jungles about how many tribesmen had been killed by forces under the command of General Raines in northern Africa, and now, as Raines appeared to be concentrating his forces in the central and southern part of the continent, tribal elders were counseling their young fighting men to decline the money Bottger and his Nazis were offering to join the war on their side, a thing called The New World Order.

  However, the money Bottger offered was too much for Mabota and his tribesmen to ignore, even after the Nazi commander told him all these things about the Rebel Army and how difficult they were to fight.

  Bottger said they came from some part of the old United States, called The SUSA, and they were friendly toward the new country formed after the final war—The Southern United States of America with a president frequently seen on television worldwide, Cecil Jefferys. That Jefferys was a black man made no difference to Mabota. He had been betrayed by black leaders in Africa before, and knew that the color of a man’s skin meant little if his heart were in the wrong place.

  These things were already known to Mabota when he was contacted by Bruno Bottger to join the fight to drive the Rebel armies out of Africa. But things had not gone well. The commander of the Rebel armies outwitted Bottger too often, and often out-fought his soldiers.

  Mabota smiled inwardly. All this would change now, with his army of mercenaries and experienced jungle warriors joining the fight. This General Raines, whoever he was, was about to be taught a lesson in real jungle guerilla warfare when one of his prize brigades tried to cross th
e Zambezi River here—if Mabota’s Intelligence was correct, he was certain of victory.

  The jungle river bottom was quiet, save for the occasional call of wild animals echoing through the rain forest. Elephants and hippos could be found all along the length of the Zambezi River, but Mabota knew they were relatively harmless, unless you managed to get between a mother and her calf, or disturb them during mating season.

  Mabota spoke to Binda, his most trusted lead scout.

  “You are sure this is where they will cross? We have been waiting for so long.”

  Binda nodded. “This is the only place where the tanks and heavy trucks will not be swept downriver on their portable floating bridges. The current is not strong here, and the river is narrower.”

  An ebony-skinned tribesman came running along the riverbank with his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. He kept to the shadows below leafy palms to keep from being seen, to keep the light from the sun reflecting off his gun barrel from warning enemy scouts of his presence. He wore a camouflage shirt and sandals, an odd combination of the Western World and Nazi dress along with his native garb.

  But what did it matter what a seasoned soldier wore? Mabota asked himself. How many of the enemy could he kill with his AK47 and other Russian materiel? This was what Bruno Bottger was paying for with his mercenary money . . . the very highest death toll possible to the Rebels. The head of the Nazis wanted General Mabota’s men to kill them all, leaving no survivors.

  “They come now,” Binda said. “Lozo is running to bring us the news.”

  “Spread the word. Tell everyone to wait until they begin to set up their floating bridge. Then I will give the signal. The mortars will pound their tanks and trucks to pieces. This will be a short fight. The rockets will destroy their flying helicopter gunships. Bruno Bottger and his government will be most pleased.”

  As he said this he heard a noise from the skies.

  Off in the distance the hammer of a helicopter gun-ship’s blades reached Mabota.

  “Here come the helicopters,” he said, turning east. “Let our Zulu mercenaries train their rocket launchers on these Rebel metal birds, but only after the engineers try to set up the bridge.”

  “We have our mortars and launchers well hidden in the forest canopy,” Binda said. “The Zulus from Zanzibar were trained by Bottger’s best men. They will not miss.”

  Mabota, the self-styled general of a group of bandits and raiders from Zambia, plus half a hundred or so Zulu mercenaries, were good at their specific jobs.

  He had every confidence his army would easily defeat this force. But as he thought about what he’d heard regarding this General Ben Raines and his 501 Brigade, he had experienced some doubts.

  Engaging 501 of the Rebel Army was Bruno Bottger’s responsibility, and the money being paid to Mabota and his Bantu people was to eliminate only those attempting to cross Mabota’s territory.

  The hammering of the gunships grew louder. “They are near us now,” Binda said.

  Lozo trotted up to the edge of the riverbank where Mabota and Binda were watching the predicted crossing place.

  “They come. The singing birds made of metal are in the sky as we speak . . . you can hear them.”

  “Take your position,” Mabota snapped, training his field glasses on the rain forest skies, where the sounds of helicopters could be heard.

  “Only three of the chopper gunships,” he said to Binda, adjusting focus with his thumb and forefinger. “We could shoot them down easily now, but we must wait for the tanks and the trucks. We do not wish to turn this army back into the jungle, or to the high country plateaus. It is very important that we crush this brigade and destroy it completely. Bottger says that bunch has been nipping at his flank for many months.”

  “They come,” Lozo promised, taking off into the jungle.

  Mabota thought about what he knew regarding The SUSA—eleven states in the former United States who banded together and sent forth this Rebel army to put down the Nazi movement—their focus now on Africa, where Bruno Bottger commanded forces loyal to The New World Order.

  Things had gone well, according to news broadcasts on television and radio, until General Ben Raines showed up in various regions with his Rebel army. They were good fighters, well trained, heavily armed, and determined. It was no wonder they’d been able to defeat so many tribal warlords in other African states so easily.

  Of course, Mabota thought, those other warlords were not as good as I am. Most of them knew little of modern weapons, thinking the old rifles they had were adequate to the task of defeating Ben Raines and his troops.

  But that would soon change, Bruno had promised, now that he had new equipment and helicopter gun-ships from the Soviets, and more modern tanks. Some were on their way to Zambia now, along with officers to train Mabota’s men how to use them.

  “The battle will soon begin,” he said to Binda. “We will be victorious. We will quickly earn the money Bottger has offered us to eliminate this nuisance.”

  The first thundering blast of mortar fire and the hiss of a rocket launcher announced the attack on the Rebels.

  A huge helicopter gunship, hovering above the river, was struck by a Soviet-made missile from a hand-held launcher. The helicopter exploded with a mighty roar, becoming a ball of flame, an inferno ablaze in the sky until it came apart in pieces, surrounded by a fireball so large it reached from one side of the Zambezi River to the other, igniting palm leaves and limbs as its highly explosive fuel sprayed the forest canopy when the tanks ruptured.

  “Yes,” Mabota whispered, watching from his camouflage net where he directed his men in the attack on the elusive enemies of The New World Order. This was going to be simple, as easy as he’d told Bottger it would be if he paid him the right amount of money for his brave jungle warriors to join the fight.

  Now the tanks were coming. The huge, canvas-backed trucks began to unload sections of the portable bridge even as one of the Rebel force’s helicopters was shot down. Mabota could hear the clank of steel tracks moving through the jungle toward the river. The Rebel soldiers were firing back into the forests beside the river, but they had no targets, were simply spraying bullets in all directions.

  They were fools, not the good soldiers Bottger said they were, continuing with their bridge building as if they could cross over any time they wished. Their Intelligence was very poor, for they did not know Mabota’s army was hidden all around them now, waiting until he gave the order to launch a full-scale attack.

  “Give the signal for the mortars to fire,” he said to Binda.

  Binda spoke softly into the walkie-talkie, speaking in Swahili so the enemy would not understand even if they somehow could scan their radio transmissions. “They have their bridge completed, and now the tanks will try to cross.”

  A mortar sent a shell speeding into the turret and steel tracks of a tank midway across the floating bridge crossing the Zambezi. The tank burst into flame. Then its payload of shells exploded, blasting the bridge sections into fragments. Flying steel ripped through the jungle undergrowth, shredding everything in its wake just as the tank’s fuel caught fire.

  “You see?” Mabota said to Binda.

  “Yes. Our plan is working.”

  Mabota smiled broadly. “And because I was expecting them to send scouts ahead to see if all was clear, our deception was perfect. We let their scouts think the way was open, when our Zulus could easily have ambushed them in the jungle.”

  “You are a great general indeed, Mabota. All of Zambia will soon know of our glorious victory over the Rebels.”

  A sudden burst of automatic weapons fire came from behind them, from the wrong place.

  Mabota jerked his head around to see where the shooting was coming from.

  “What was that?”

  Binda was just as puzzled. “I do not know, General. We have no warriors there. . . .”

  Seconds later a chorus of heavy bore automatic rifles burst to life in the jungle. Men were screami
ng in agony, and fear, as the gunfire continued.

  Mabota frowned. “Something is wrong. Go and see what it is, and who is doing the shooting.”

  Binda was clearly frightened. “It must be a group of the Rebels. How did they slip up behind us?”

  Mabota wheeled on Binda. “That was your responsibility, to see this did not happen. You were ordered to post lookouts at our rear and our flanks.”

  “But I did, General. They are good men. . . .”

  “Not good enough,” Mabota snapped. “Those are the cries of our wounded.”

  “But it cannot be,” Binda protested as he watched Lozo and his younger brother, Miloa, stagger from a stand of trees clutching their bleeding bellies without their weapons.

  Mabota tasted fear on his tongue. “The Rebels have tricked us,” he said. “This is not possible!” he screamed, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Shadows moved all around Mabota’s command post now, and he knew they did not belong to his warriors. His heart was pounding, and sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes. He could smell his own fear-sweat, and then he heard the mortars slow their rhythmic firing toward the enemy. And another sound came from the skies, more of the deadly helicopter gun-ships approaching the river.

  Mabota turned again to Binda. “Your carelessness may get all of us killed,” he yelled, jerking his 9mm pistol from its holster. “I trusted you to make certain no enemy soldiers could get behind us! You betrayed my trust!”

  He aimed for a spot between Binda’s dark brown eyes and pulled the trigger of his automatic Steyer. Seven shots barked in rapid succession from the muzzle, hard to hear above the thumping of the helicopter gunship’s blades as he screamed, “You betrayed me, Binda! You betrayed all of us!”

  The back of Binda’s skull was torn apart as the bullets passed through his brain. Bits of hair, bone, and brain tissue flew away from his head as he was lifted off his feet, landing limply on the jungle floor below the camouflage netting covering the command post.

  “Traitor!” Mabota cried, ejecting the spent clip from his pistol. He felt no remorse for having killed his longtime scout and friend. Mabota felt nothing at all. The general of an army could not afford emotions when he uncovered a traitor in his midst.