Danger in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hang tough, kid. We’re rolling.” Ike waved his columns forward. He muttered, “Knew I should have brought some artillery.”

  The two teams of Rebels rendezvoused in fifteen minutes.

  “Lose any people?”

  “Two,” Tina told him. “They were killed instantly.”

  “Have you tried radio contact with the hostiles?”

  “Negative. I don’t even know who they are.”

  “Let’s give it a whirl. We’ll try them on the CB. That’s probably what they’re using.”

  He was right; they were on channel 25. They listened.

  “We shore kicked their ass, didn’t we, Butch?”

  “Yeah. By God, people’s gonna learn that this is our territory.”

  “Two-bit warlords,” Ike muttered. “Punks, by the sounds of them. But smart punks . . . if there is such a thing.”

  “How do you mean, Ike?”

  “They knew enough to teach themselves the nomenclature of machine guns and mortars and reloading equipment. They gotta have a smelter for the heavy stuff. They may be assholes, but they ain’t stupid.”

  He waited until all traffic was gone on the channel and keyed the mic. “This is Ike McGowan of Raines Rebels. We’re not here to claim any of your territory. All we want is safe passage through and then we’ll be gone. How about it, boys?”

  “Fuck you, McGoo!”

  Tina almost laughed at the expression on Ike’s face. “Boy,” he muttered, “if I had the time, I’d kick your punk ass all over this area.”

  “Did you hear me, McGoo?” the voice popped out of the speaker.

  “Yeah, I heard it. And the name is McGowan.”

  “I’ll just call you fuck-head!”

  “That does it. Major Broadhurst?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “First platoon left, second platoon right. You stay with the third platoon in reserve, I’ll take the Scouts and the fourth platoon and go nose-to-nose with the punks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Radio when all platoons are in position. Pass the word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ham handed Ike a slip of paper. “Coordinates, sir.”

  “Thank you, Ham.” He turned to a sergeant. “Get the 81s set up. I want twelve-pounders, every other round WP. When I tell you, you pound the everloving shit out of that area.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, sir,” Ham said. “The bridge? . . .”

  “I don’t give a damn about the bridge. Should have just hooked up with Seventy back yonder and to hell with this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ike laughed and slapped Ham on the back. “Didn’t mean to snap at you, Ham. But I never did like punks.”

  “I never would have guessed, sir.”

  Fifteen minutes passed before the first reports came in by radio. “First platoon in position, sir. Have the enemy in sight. About a hundred of them, give or take twenty-five.”

  “Second platoon in position, sir. That estimate is just about right.”

  Ike acknowledged the reports and told them to sit tight. He glanced at Tina. “We’re going to have to be resupplied at Crossville. We’re burning a lot of ammo.”

  “My thoughts, too, Ike.”

  Ike lifted his walkie talkie. “Mortar crews commence firing for range. Forward platoons call in adjustments.”

  The twelve-pounders began fluttering out of the tubes, humming their dirges. Ike received and relayed adjustments and the gunners went to work with a vengeance.

  “Let’s go!” he ordered.

  The Scouts and the fourth platoon moved out under the umbrella of mortar rounds. When the battle area was in smoky sight, Ike ordered the mortars to cease.

  “First and second platoons in! Let’s go, people!”

  The Rebels were all over the followers of the unknown warlord, and the Rebels fought with a savagery the undisciplined thugs and punks and creeps had never known and most would never live to see again.

  And it came as quite a surprise for the outlaws, for a very brief time, to learn that the Rebels did not believe in taking prisoners.

  Ike walked through the bloody carnage, his CAR-15 cradled at the ready. “Take all weapons and ammo,” he ordered. “Pile the bodies and burn them.”

  “What about the wounded, general?”

  “Treat those you think have a chance of making it. Hell with the rest.”

  Dr. Ling opened his mouth to protest.

  Ike quickly closed it. “That’s an order, doctor. Carry it out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To say that the Rebels were hard-nosed would be like saying a wasp stings. No need to belabor the obvious.

  The Rebels were not always this harsh. This approach had been adopted only after one hard lesson followed another. Ben had finally ordered the rules of the Geneva Convention to be tossed aside.

  Ike stood over a punk who’d been shot in both legs. “Who’s in charge of this shit-outfit, boy?”

  “Butch.” The young man groaned his reply.

  “Where is he?”

  “Over yonder.” The young man cut his eyes. “Propped up agin that tree. He’s gut-shot.”

  Butch turned frightened eyes up at the stocky man with the black beret covering his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m McGowan, punk. You got anything you want to say to me you better say it quick. ’Cause you don’t have much time left you.”

  “Help me!”

  “Sorry, boy, I’m not the Red Cross.”

  “You a damned . . . hard ol’ fucker, ain’t you?” Butch managed to gasp.

  “That’s right, boy.”

  “It hurts!”

  “That’s your problem. You started this dance, not us.”

  “Ain’t you got no pity a-tall for me?”

  “Do I look like the ACLU, boy?”

  “The whut?”

  “Never mind.” Before he could say anything else, Butch had closed his eyes and had slipped into unconsciousness.

  Ike turned away and found Ham. “Send some people under the bridge, Ham. Inspect it for damages. I want us to be at the Crossville airport by nightfall.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tina walked up. “We’ve got about twenty-odd who just threw down their weapons and started squalling and blubbering. Couldn’t shoot them. Now what the hell do we do with them?”

  “Line them up.”

  “General Ike. . . .”

  “Line . . . them . . . up!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  All looked to be in their early to mid-twenties, and they were a sorry-looking bunch. Some of them looked like throwbacks to the Peace and Love days, with some of the wildest looking hairstyles and manner of dress any of the Rebels had ever seen.

  “I ought to shoot every goddamn one of you!” Ike yelled at them.

  “Oh, Lard, Lard!” one young man squalled, falling to his knees, hands clasped. “Oh, Sweet Jesus!”

  “You’re calling on Jesus, punk?” Ike asked him. “You ambushed us, murdered two of my people — good people, not scum like you — and you have the nerve to call for divine help? Boy, you’re nuts!”

  Ham ran up to him. “Get up on your goddamn feet, asshole! Nobody told you to rest. GetupGetupGetup!”

  The young man scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and frightened.

  Ham turned and winked at Ike. Ike fought to contain his smile. Little military indoctrination never hurt anybody.

  “Now you hear me,” Ike shouted. “Listen up, meatheads. I’m taking your weapons. All of them. And I don’t ever want to see any of your ugly faces again. For if I do, I’m going to kill you. I will not hesitate; I’ll just shoot you. I want you headed that way.” He pointed west. “Straight down this highway. About a mile back, you’ll find another contingent of Rebels. Don’t fuck with them. Just keep marching and don’t you ever come back. Now, move!”

  They left, carrying their wounded, moving as swiftly as possible.

  Only the moaning of the badly wounded c
ould be heard.

  Ike shook his head and looked at Dr. Ling. “Oh, hell, Doc. Give them something to ease the pain.”

  Ling turned away so Ike could not see his smile. Nobody is ever as hard as they claim to be.

  “Are you ready for this, Cec?” Ben asked.

  “Hell, no. But we may as well get it over with.”

  They had stalled as long as they could.

  “Get in the back, Captain Dubois,” Ben said.

  She scrambled in.

  “Do you know where the headquarters of this movement is, Cec?”

  “Yes. In the boat factory building. John Simmons and Richmond Harris will meet us there.”

  “That’s a good idea. Since they’ll be running this place when we pull out.”

  “Believe me, that day cannot come too quickly to suit me.”

  Ben laughed at the dour expression on the man’s face.

  “Permission to speak,” Patrice said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why all the flap about these people? What have they done?”

  “Nothing yet,” Ben told her. “But they’re talking about killing all the honkys and taking over. Patrice, if this country is ever to pull itself out of the ashes, it will be only when people of all races work together. Can you see that?”

  “Yes, sir. But is that plan feasible?”

  “We think so,” Cecil said. “One way or the other,” he added grimly.

  “You want black people to be like white people,” Patrice blurted, then braced herself.

  “That’s horseshit, captain!” Cecil fired back. “You don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about. And until you do, I would suggest you keep your mouth closed.”

  Hell of a way to start a love affair, Ben thought, hiding his smile. But he and Gale had started out just about the same way.

  “Would the generals prefer I not accompany them?” Patrice asked tightly.

  “No, the generals would not prefer that.” Cecil did not look around. “You might learn something by staying.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were silent as Ben drove the rest of the way, pulling in at a huge building that bore a sign reading: NEW AFRICA MOVEMENT.

  “Wonderful,” Cecil muttered, as his eyes found several men, all dressed in robes and turbans. “Instead of moving forward, they’re regressing.”

  “What a racist remark!” Patrice said.

  Ben got out of the Jeep and walked toward John and Richmond before Cec and Patrice started slugging each other. Unlike Cec, Ben didn’t mind robes and turbans. Dress had never been that important to him. But he did understand Cecil’s resentment.

  Cecil had once remarked, only half jokingly, that he had too much education for his own good. He said that because whites accepted him much more easily than did blacks.

  It had surprised Ben to learn that back before the Great War, there had been a lot of prejudice among blacks against other blacks. A lot of blacks who were truly black in color distrusted many blacks of lighter color, equating a lighter color with easier access to success.

  Black people, Ben had realized, had a hard row to hoe.

  And there was no greater insult among the black race than for one black to call another a nigger.

  And John Simmons, Ben recalled, had a dim view of many of his own people. But, hell! Ben thought. Don’t I have a dim view of many of my own people?

  “I am not a racist, captain!” Ben heard Cecil say, considerable heat in his tone. “And I resent the hell out of your implying that I am.”

  Ben tuned them out, greeting John and Richmond.

  “Who’s the fine-looking lady, Ben?” John asked.

  “That’s Cecil’s new girlfriend.”

  John looked dubious. “What do they do for an encore? Back off ten paces and start shooting at each other?”

  “They’re just having a little spat.”

  “Halt!” one of the robed and turbaned men shouted. “You are on the sacred land of Islam. Come no further.”

  Ben ignored him. “Who the hell is that?” he asked John.

  “His name is Randy Jones. But he calls himself Duju Kokuma.”

  “Randy Jones. Why is that name familiar?”

  “Oh, hell, Ben. You remember him. He’s spent more time in jail than out. Burglary, assault, car stealin’. You remember him.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Leave our temple area immediately!” Randy/Duju shouted.

  “Shut up, fool!” John told him.

  “Are they sincere in their conversion to Islam?” Ben asked.

  “Why, hell no! Not this bunch. I know some who are, but they won’t have anything to do with Randy and Lamumba. They farm out in the parish. Get along with everybody. They’re glad to see you come in. You have Muslims in your ranks, don’t you, Ben?”

  “Oh, yes. Hell, John, I’ve got a little bit of everything in this army.” He looked at Randy/Duju. “My name is Ben Raines. I would like to speak with Lamumba.”

  “He does not wish to speak with you. He has nothing to say to white devils.”

  “If they all hate whites so much,” John whispered, “ask Randy why he’s always running around trying to put the hustle on white girls.”

  “I heard that, Simmons. Nothing out of your mouth is to be taken seriously. You are now and always have been a white man’s nigger.”

  “I think I’ll just kick his ass.”

  Ben physically restrained the man. “Easy, John. Let’s try to get along here.”

  “That, Ben, is going to be impossible. I’m telling you flat-out.”

  Ben looked back at Cecil. He and Patrice were busy standing by the Jeep, in a quiet but intense argument. “I knew I’d end up doing this myself,” Ben muttered. He pointed a finger at Randy/Duju. “Get Lamumba out here. Right now!”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I can have about five thousand combat-ready troops in here in twenty minutes. And there is a fully prepared Rebel platoon right there!” He pointed to the end of the street. And the troops were there. Waiting. “Your move, Randy.”

  The front door to the building opened, another robed and turbaned man stepping out. “My name is Lamumba,” he called. “What do you want?”

  “I would like to speak with you.”

  “About living under your rules, Ben Raines?”

  “About living and working together in peace.”

  “Pretty words.”

  “I am not a patient man, Lamumba. We can do this easy or hard, it’s all up to you. Do we talk here or inside?”

  “Infidels are not permitted inside the temple.”

  “Wonderful. Would you like to come over to my office?”

  “No.”

  “We’re here to stay, Lamumba. Get used to the idea.”

  “That sounds like a threat to me, Ben Raines. I do not like threats.”

  “Take it any way you want to take it.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  Lamumba broke the silence. “I shall be at your offices just after noon.”

  “Fine.”

  He stepped back into the building and closed the door.

  Ben walked over to Cecil and Patrice. “Thanks, Cec. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  ELEVEN

  Buddy and his platoon stopped at the edge of the small city, just outside of a shopping center.

  “Five teams of ten,” Buddy said. “One team of twelve. That will be you and I, James.”

  The big sergeant major nodded his head.

  “Stay in radio contact at all times. We’ll clean out this place first, then use it for our base and HQ. Pull the vehicles inside at dark. It will probably take us the rest of the day to secure this place. So let’s do it.”

  Buddy left one team with the vehicles, to guard not only the Jeeps and trucks, but their supplies. He ordered two teams to split up and mount machine gun emplacements at staggered intervals around the huge complex.

  “When we go in, and the Night Pe
ople see what we’re doing, I think they’d rather brave the light than face us. Don’t allow any to escape.” He looked at his people, men and women. “It isn’t going to be pleasant. But it’s something that has to be done. And I suspect Father is going to assign this job to me permanently.” He smiled grimly. “His way of keeping me out of trouble.”

  The Rebels laughed at that.

  “Let’s go.”

  And the grisly job began.

  “That is the most infuriating and stubborn woman I have ever encountered!” Cec told Ben.

  Ben smiled and let him rant.

  “She has a head like a rock.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But she’s done a marvelous job of educating herself.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But I believe she is totally loyal to us.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “A person does have a right to hold differing opinions, you know.”

  “Absolutely. No doubt about it.”

  “But I believe she’s wasting her time on the close-combat range.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’m going to pull her in and introduce her to the problems of logistics.”

  “You do need an assistant.”

  “I’m glad you agree, Ben.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you, Ben?”

  “Me? Nothing is the matter with me. I’m just agreeing with you, that’s all.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s wrong.”

  “You need an assistant. I’ve told you that for months. So have an assistant.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure! I’m sure!”

  “Well, I’m glad you see my point.”

  “Are you going to be here when I meet with Lamumba?”

  “Ah . . . no! I thought it best if Patrice and I got right down to work; start right after lunch.”

  “Old nose to the grindstone, hey?”

  “Absolutely, Ben.”

  “Well, don’t work too hard, Cec.”

  “See you, Ben.”

  Cec ran into the door facing on his way out.

  Ben sat down and laughed until tears were running out of his eyes. “I don’t believe it!” he said. “The man’s in love!”

  Hiram was strangely silent after the services. But all that knew him could see the raw hate shining out of his eyes. The hate directed at Ben Raines.