Danger in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  He turned to Tina. “Get some of your Scouts out, Tina. But don’t range too far off the post. Tell them quiet is the word and to keep their heads down.”

  “I’ll take a team out now, Ike.”

  “No, you won’t.” He stopped her cold. “I need you here. We’ve got about three hundred and fifty people, Tina. And I got a hunch we’re going to be heavily outnumbered. Take the south end. Move!”

  She was off at a run, shouting orders.

  Ike glanced at the sky. “Two, maybe three hours of good light left,” he muttered. “Then all hell is gonna break loose.” He grabbed a running Rebel and spun her around. “Lou, get me some boys to tote those flame throwers up here. I wanna start juicin’ them up. Go, girl!”

  Ike grabbed another Rebel. “Get several six-bys and tow those goddamned tanks into position, Lutty. All I need is the electrical system working so we can swing the turrets. Go, boy!”

  Ike’s walkie talkie crackled. “How many of these goddamned old bastard brutes do you want, general?” Sid asked.

  “How many do you have down there, Sid?”

  “Ten.”

  “All of them. Are the port-firing 5.56s still intact?”

  “They’re inside. I can mount ’em.”

  “Get on it. We’ll stagger the tank positions to give the gunners something to shoot at.”

  “Ten-four. Rolling.”

  The twenty-ton behemoths were dragged into place while Sid’s crews were still working on the giants, struggling to replace batteries and get the 500-horsepower Cummins VTA-903s running. The firepower of the tank was enormous; inside the tank were: 900 rounds of 25mm cannon shells, 3150 rounds of 7.62 ammo, 6720 rounds of 5.56 ammo, 7 TOW/Dragon missiles, and 3 LAW.

  “You, Ham!” Ike yelled. “Get some trucks and round up all the fifty-five gallon drums you can find. We’ll fill them with dirt and sand and gasoline; use them for light tonight. We can make Foo-gas bombs out of the others!”

  “Yes, sir.” And Ham was off and running.

  “Sid! Check those turrets. They’re supposed to traverse three hundred sixty degrees continuous.”

  Sid looked at him in disgust. “Yeah, I know, general.”

  Ike grinned at him. “Sorry, Sid.”

  Sid grinned and gave Ike the thumbs-up signal, then disappeared into the tank.

  Ike looked around him; things were beginning to take shape very quickly. If he set this up right — and he fully intended to do just that — his three hundred fifty-odd force would stand off a force five times greater.

  And he had a hunch just about that many would be coming at them at full dark.

  He began walking the egg-shaped perimeters. Bunkers were being quickly built, dug deep and fortified with anything the Rebels could find that would stop a round. Mortar pits were dug and were being bagged. Then he heard the sounds of tanks being snorted and farted into life. But they were not Bradleys. The tanks rounded a bend and Ike began smiling. Old Dusters. M-42s. He hadn’t seen one in a long time. The Dusters rumbled to a halt.

  “Where the hell did you find these?” Ike shouted over the rumble.

  “Over yonder,” Ham said, waving a hand. “We were looking for fifty-five gallon drums. There’s eight more Dusters where these came from. I figure about half of them will run. I got an idea, general.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  Ham climbed down. He and Ike walked away from the rumbling. “We pull these Dusters well outside the perimeter area. God knows, there’s enough ammo in the tunnels to refight the war. We tuck ’em in close to buildings, and if we’re lucky, we can catch the enemy in a crossfire.”

  “All right, but strip some gun shields and mount some .60s up there. Good idea, Ham. Get moving on it.”

  Ike stopped a Rebel. “Pass the word, son: any ammo taken out of the tunnels be sure and check for corrosion. We can’t afford any jammed-up weapons tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir!” A runner from communications panted up. “The Scouts have advanced as far as the Interstate.”

  “What the fuck are they doin’ rangin’ that far out? Goddamnit, you tell them to get the fuck back here on this fuckin’ reservation and to stay here!” Ike roared. “And you can quote me on that!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The runner turned and Ike grabbed him by the seat of his field pants, turning him around.

  “Did you have any message for me other than that?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Fine. You tell the Scouts that the attack is probably not going to come from that direction, anyway. You tell the lookouts in the airport towers to start using Starlites at dusk and to keep an eye on the Garden State Parkway.” He pointed. “That’s over yonder, son.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Move.”

  Ike grinned as the young Rebel sprinted toward the communications van. He had a hunch the attack — if one was coming, and he felt it was — would be coming at them through the old Naval Air Station. And there was no point in trying to lay Claymores anywhere other than in proximity to their perimeters. The post was just too damned big.

  And Ike did not expect much in the way of artillery, with the exception of perhaps mortars; too much equipment was rusting around the post. The enemy — as yet, unknown — either did not know how to operate it, or felt it useless. Either way, that made them less formidable, and probably meant a ground attack . . . human waves.

  He continued his walking of the garrison’s perimeters, correcting this, okaying that, lending a hand here and there.

  “I want every post to have plenty of flares,” he ordered. “You people sure you know how to operate those flame-tossers? All right. Good. Looks like it’s goin’ to be a great night for a cookout.”

  He walked on, inspecting the machine-gun posts and the mortar pits. “Lots of Willie Peter, boys and girls.” White Phosphorous. “One of the greatest mortar rounds ever invented. Give the Night Crawlers something to think about.”

  Ike knew he should eat, but he hadn’t gotten his appetite back after that crack Tina had made about the sandwiches.

  He rinsed his mouth out with water from his canteen. And that reminded him of fresh water. He looked around and spotted Tina, and walked over to her.

  She noticed the canteen in his hand and said, “We’re bringing up water now from the base supply. It tested all right. But we’re still running it through purifiers just to be on the safe side. Heard my Scouts got a little carried away.”

  “I told them to carry their asses back here.” He looked around him. “Light is going to be a problem tonight.”

  “I got an idea, Ike.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “If Sid’s bunch could get that road-scraping equipment running, we could cut trenches in the earth around our perimeters. While that’s being done, have some people start gathering up scrap wood and fill the trenches, then douse it with gasoline. It would serve two purposes.”

  “Right. Give us some light plus burn the shit out of the creepies. I’ll get on it.” He checked the sky. “Have the people start eating in shifts, Tina.”

  “Right.” She smiled. “I’m kinda hungry myself.” She dug in the pockets of her field pants and handed Ike something wrapped in a paper napkin. “I’ll share with you.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks, Tina. I guess I could eat. What is it?”

  “A ham sandwich from down the road.” Then she whirled and took off, running as fast as she could.

  She still couldn’t escape Ike’s cussing.

  SIXTEEN

  “Traffic on the parkway,” the lookouts reported from the airport towers. “And a hell of a lot of it, too.”

  “Get out of there and get the hell back here!” Ike ordered.

  “Yes, sir! With pleasure.”

  “Ham?”

  “Here.”

  “You got your Dusters in position?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Do not. Repeat: Do not fire until I give the order. You copy that?”


  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want you people giving away your positions until you absolutely have to. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All Dusters outside the perimeters test-crank your engines.”

  One failed.

  “Sid!”

  “I’m going, I’m going!”

  “And don’t run into a goddamned Claymore, either!” Ike ordered.

  “I will absolutely, positively do my dead level best to comply with your orders, general, sir.”

  The problem solved, Sid and his crew raced back inside the compound and took up their positions.

  Ike glanced at his watch: eight-thirty.

  “It’s going to be a motherfucker, people,” he said, speaking into his walkie talkie. “No one gets an itchy finger; no one fires until I give the order. All posts acknowledge that.”

  All posts ten-foured the order. The garrison lay still and quiet. Now the sounds of the many vehicles could be heard. Then the engines were cut off. The night lay silent as death around the Rebels.

  “There will be a mighty big bang any second now,” Ike muttered. “Just a little closer, you creepy cannibals.”

  Claymores began sending out their deadly cargo of ball-bearings, shredding the life out of any in its KZ. Hideous screaming echoed in the night.

  “Hold your fire,” Ike whispered into his walkie talkie. “Hold your fire. Let them come on.”

  The point people of the still-unseen enemy ran into Claymores all around the little garrison’s perimeters. The night rocked first with blasts and then with the howling and shrieking of the mauled and dying.

  “They’ve reached the first of the ditches we scraped out, general,” Ike was informed by a Rebel standing close to him, a headset covering her ears.

  “Do not ignite the gasoline. Negative on firing the gasoline, Jersey. Pass it down.”

  She whispered the orders down the line and they were acknowledged.

  The advancing enemy were so many, so thickly crowded together, the Rebels could now smell the stink of their unwashed bodies as they advanced closer.

  “Yukk!” Ike whispered.

  Jersey turned to Ike. “Major Broadhurst says they’re so close he can see the snot dripping from their noses, general.”

  “Well, let’s wipe their noses with some lead, Jersey. Outside tanks do not fire. Outside Dusters, Do Not Fire. All others . . . fire!”

  The ground literally shook as the Rebels opened up with rifles, machine guns, rocket launchers, mortars, and 40mm cannon. The night was illuminated as Rebels released the thickened gas in the tanks of the flamethrowers, the fuel setting clothing on fire and sending robed men and women running into the night, moving, shrieking balls of fire, until they fell, their brains cooking, eyeballs turned to liquid, running down charred faces. Burning dots littered the battleground, allowing the Rebels to see the hundreds of men and women who faced them outside the smoky perimeters.

  “Not yet, Ham,” Ike said into his walkie talkie. “We’ll save you people until last. Acknowledge.”

  “Ten-four,” Ham whispered. “Some crews are reporting Night People crawling all over their Dusters. They’re unaware anyone is inside.”

  “Ten-four. Stand tough, Duster crews.”

  Beside him, Little Jersey, all four feet, ten inches of her, stood steady as a rock, relaying orders and receiving acknowledgments, passing them on to Ike.

  Ike grinned down at her. “Hangin’ in, Jersey?” he shouted over the din of battle.

  “It’s better than a kick in the ass, sir!” she returned the shout, grinning.

  Ike laughed, the sound lost amid the barrage.

  Jersey listened for a moment, then turned to Ike, shouting in his ear, “Ham reports a larger force moving up, sir. Not Night People. Ham reckons battalion size.”

  “What type of weapons, Jersey?”

  She asked. Ike bent down so she could reach his ear. “Light weapons and machine guns, sir. None of the Duster crews report any sign of mortars or artillery.”

  “Tell Ham to crank up and fire when he’s ready, Jersey. See if they can drive them toward us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The rattle of twin-mounted .60s joined the head-splitting din. Twin 40mm guns added their crashing to the night battle.

  “Heads down in the compound until the Dusters turn the enemy toward us, Jersey.”

  She nodded and relayed the orders.

  The retreating Night People ran into the advancing forces, creating havoc in the night.

  “Flares up!” Ike ordered.

  The night turned surreal with starbursts.

  “Compound snipers pick your targets.”

  Jersey relayed the orders.

  “Mortar crews adjust. Free-fire past the Dusters.”

  Those who were coming up behind the Dusters felt the sting and lash of Willie Peter rounds as they exploded in a shower of flesh-searing shards.

  “Bradleys pick up the gap between the Dusters,” Ike ordered. “Keep the sky bright, flare crews.”

  Jersey relayed the orders and the night was white-bright as the flares exploded, 25mm cannon fire and 7.62 machine gun fire roaring and hammering and disintegrating the now-confused and disoriented enemy, who found they had no place to run.

  With the 25mm cannon ten feet off the ground, the Bradley’s gunners were able to pinpoint fire over the heads of those in the compound and literally blow the enemy to bloody rags of once-human beings.

  Outside the compound, in the darker areas of the immediate post, but well outside of the free-fire zone, the crews of the Dusters wheeled and clanked and crushed to death any enemy who happened to be unlucky enough to come into view in the flare-filled night. The massive steel treads mangled and mauled human flesh, leaving bloody indentations in the ground, splattered with bits of human flesh and bone.

  “They’re running, general!” Ham radioed to Jersey. “Do we pursue?”

  “Only for a short distance,” Ike ordered. “They’ll be back as soon as they regroup and map out a plan. Finish off what you can and then get back inside the trenches.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Cease firing!” Ike yelled. “Cease firing!”

  The firing gradually waned into silence.

  “Machine gunners, rake those piles of wounded. Scraper operators, stand by to push the bodies into the trenches and douse with gasoline; they’ll give us a few more minutes of light when we need it.”

  “Disarm the Claymores at compound point, Jersey. Remine outside the trenches. Leave the Dusters room to get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check for wounded, Jersey.”

  Ten hit, none seriously.

  Ike patted a Rebel on the shoulder. “Start here. Every other Rebel stand down for fifteen minutes. If you want to smoke, move back from the main perimeter. Pass it along. Let’s go, Jersey.”

  The little Rebel with the backpack radio walked with Ike as he made his way through the shell-casing-littered compound.

  Ike stopped by Major Tom Broadhurst’s position. “Did you wipe their noses, Tom?”

  “Damn sure did, Ike!”

  Ike patted him on the shoulder and walked on, coming to Tina’s position. He looked at the body-littered field in front of her position. Stinking bodies were piled up like scattered firewood. “You a mean motor-scooter, kid.”

  “I don’t like these people, Uncle Ike.”

  “No kidding! I never would have guessed.”

  Ike and Jersey circled the camp, stopping every few meters to chat with his people. Ham and his Dusters were clanking back into the outer compound, wheeling around, guns facing the darkness.

  The treads were dark and slick with blood.

  The scrapers were shoving the bodies into the trenches around the outer edges, touching the dark unknown. Following the earth-moving equipment were Rebels with containers of gasoline, dousing the bodies that were piled up on the scrap wood in the trenches.

  I
ke turned to Jersey and the little Rebel held up a small hand, signaling for silence as she listened intently through her earphones. She looked up at Ike.

  “What’s up, Jersey?”

  “The jamming has stopped, Ike. I think we can get through now.”

  “How many casualties did you sustain, Ike?” Ben asked.

  “Ten. None serious. We lucked out, Ben; caught them by surprise and really creamed them. Hit them hard. I’d guess we offed between six hundred and seven hundred fifty. I think they’re through for this night.”

  “I think I wasted my time coming up here, Ike. Scouts report this Monte person’s troops are pulling out as quickly as they can slip through. I’m thinking, Ike, that this was a diversion action to suck us up here so we wouldn’t be able to come to your rescue. And I’ll be willing to bet you a bag of tobacco that this Joe MacKintosh does not exist. It was just reported to me that the area where they were supposed to be is deserted. How about them apples, buddy!”

  “Yeah, it looks like you’ve been had. What’s next, Ben?”

  “Can you hold, Ike?”

  “For how long, Ben?”

  “Until I can get some people on a plane and get over there. How long will it take you to clear a runway?”

  “Give us a couple of days at least, Ben. The runways looked pretty bad to me. But we really haven’t had the time to check them out.”

  “Ten-four to that, Ike. I’ve got to get Chase up here, anyway. I promised the old goat we’d enter New York City together.”

  “Ben? I think we’d better save Manhattan for last. We’d be defeating our purpose to go in there first. We’d better secure the areas surrounding it first.”