The tension was, as the saying goes, thick enough to cut with a knife.
Ben sat in his CP, alone with Jerre, who had been given the job of figuring out how long their existing supplies would last, and it wasn’t a job she was particularly thrilled with. She made that clear by muttering under her breath from time to time.
Ben looked up from a city map. Jersey and Beth and Cooper were in another office, the door closed. The silent but stinging vibrations—mostly bad—that had been bouncing around between Ben and Jerre had gotten too much for them to take.
“Jerre, if you don’t like that job, give it to someone else to do. But please stop with the mumbling.”
Silence from the outer office.
“That’s better. Thank you.” Ben returned to the studying of the maps. The George Washington Bridge could not be used. So that meant that Khamsin—if he crossed over onto the island—would have to go all the way up to the Tappan Zee Bridge, or come all the way down to Staten Island and cross over into Brooklyn, then use one of the three bridges at the lower end of Manhattan.
And Ben didn’t want that. He wanted Khamsin to come in from the north.
But how to get him to do that?
Mutter, mumble from the other room.
With a sigh, Ben pushed back from the desk and walked to the open door. “Why don’t you just give me a ball-park figure as to supplies, Jerre?”
She looked up for a few seconds, then read from a legal pad. “About twenty-five thousand rounds of ammo for each Rebel. Several hundred grenades per Rebel. Enough food to last for approximately a year. Approximately twenty thousand AK47s taken from the dead creepies, and half a million rounds of ammo.” She plopped the pad onto a desk. “You want more?”
“No, that will do. That pretty well matches up with the first report.”
She glared at him. “You mean . . . you already had these figures?”
“Of course. I always have someone do a second report. That cuts down on the chance for error.”
Another round of low muttering while Ben stood and smiled at her.
Dan entered the offices and almost took a step back as the vibrations from the man and woman struck him. “We found what you requested, General. Some of them are a bit rat-chewed, but most are in good shape.”
“Very good, Dan.” He looked at his watch. Plenty of time. “Let’s start getting them up and flying. That should really set the Hot Wind to puffing and blowing.”
From Castle Clinton in Battery Park, all the way up to the Bronx County line, flags began going up. American flags, Canadian flags, and Russian flags. Dan had sent people over to the UN building and found enough flags for the duration. The entire waterfront began to resemble a Tri-Country flag day celebration as the multicolored banners fluttered in the cold wind.
On the New Jersey side, this was pointed out to an already highly irritated Khamsin. It did nothing to improve his dark mood.
Ben had asked Thermopolis to write a song, and he had swiftly composed a little ditty that, if the countries still existed, would have done absolutely nothing to improve relations between America and the Arab world, since the song was about several past Arab leaders and compared them to what normally falls behind certain disagreeable pack animals of the desert.
Then Ben set up broadcasting equipment and Thermopolis, strumming a guitar, began serenading Khamsin and the troops of the Hot Wind.
Since Khamsin’s idols were such wonderfully noble and deeply religious people as the Ayatollah Khomeini, Muammar al-Qaddafi, and other terrorists, and since Thermopolis used words that were somewhat less than complimentary in describing those people, Khamsin almost had a stroke when Thermopolis’s voice blasted out of the speakers.
Khamsin immediately ordered all radios to be turned down and ordered all troops into prayer, beseeching Allah to strike Ben Raines dead on the spot. Please?
Allah must have been taking a nap that day, for Ben Raines remained very much alive and well in Manhattan and was thoroughly enjoying sticking the needle to Khamsin.
Even Jerre’s mood improved as she listened to Thermopolis sing his songs, many times making them up as he went along. Emil wrote a little ditty about Khamsin, and he and Thermopolis joined voices and words. Then everybody started writing songs about Khamsin, and the airwaves were filled with song. Not a whole lot of talent, but everybody seemed to have a good time. On the Manhattan side of the Hudson, that is.
Ben ordered that the songs be taped so they could be played around the clock.
“Get Khamsin on the horn, Beth,” he requested.
But the Hot Wind was so angry he refused to speak with Ben.
“Just as well,” Ben said. “Beth, how about you and some of the others getting together and serenading the Hot Wind and his troops with some happy Jewish songs. That ought to really set his cork to popping.”
Upon hearing Beth and other Jewish Rebels singing songs in that hated language, drifting across the cold waters through massive speakers set up along the waterfront, Khamsin ordered his people to pull back, out of range of the concert speakers.
Khamsin went to sleep that night with the unholy melodies still rambling around in his brain. He ground his teeth together and cursed Ben Raines in his fitful and restless slumber.
But not all the Rebels took part in the serenading of Khamsin and his army. Many worked through the day and night reinforcing positions, mining bridges, and laying electronically detonated charges all around the city, smiling and humming as they worked.
Ben went to sleep that night smiling. And not even the ever-present image of Jerre before his eyes could erase the smile on his lips.
He awakened abruptly as the sharp stink of Night People filled his nostrils. In the darkness, Ben rose and quickly dressed, buckling his body armor in place. He picked up his Thompson, clicked it off safety, and slipped into the anteroom. The smell faded as he left his office. He looked around at the sleeping forms. Ben touched Buddy on the shoulder and the young man came awake instantly.
Ben knelt down and whispered, “Slip into my office and take a good whiff.”
Buddy was back in a few seconds. He sat on the edge of his cot and pulled on his boots. “Creepies in the building for sure,” he whispered. “I think they’ve managed to work their way into the closed-up rooms next to your office.”
“Probably scaled the building.” Ben woke the others and alerted them with soft whispered words. “Heads up, gang. We got creepies in the building.”
Before everyone could dress, one entire wall of Ben’s office blew out in front of a massive, almost deafening explosion. Had Ben not awakened, he would have certainly been killed.
The explosion knocked everyone sprawling as small items became lethal objects, hurled in front of the blast.
Ben was knocked through the closed hall door and found himself sprawled on his back in the dark hallway. He had lost his grip on his Thompson.
As dark shapes moved toward him, their body odor leading the way, Ben shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and clawed out his locked and loaded .45. He emptied the weapon into the knot of creepies, then jerked a grenade from his battle harness, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade toward the far end of the hall.
He scrambled on his hands and knees back into his debris-filled office and found his Thompson just as the grenade blew. Screaming bounced around the dark and deadly hallway as automatic-weapons fire cut through the bloody gloom.
Ben found Beth, frantically trying to contact somebody by walkie-talkie. “Big radio took a chunk of something, General. It’s out.”
Ben listened for a moment; it seemed that gunfire was all around them, from the street level up. “It’s a full-scale attack, Beth. The creepies are throwing every thing they’ve got at us. And it’s considerable. Tell the people to stand and hold.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anybody hurt?” Ben asked, looking around him, trying to see through the murk.
“A few cuts and bruises, is all,” Cooper said.
>
Before Ben could reply, another hard explosion shattered the night and the roof fell in on top of those in Ben’s CP.
SEVENTEEN
Ben was driven to his knees when a chunk of debris hit him on the back. It knocked him off balance more than hurt him, and it pissed him off that the creepies could still manage to penetrate Rebel security. And his Thompson was buried somewhere under all the rubble. He grabbed up an M14 and an ammo pouch—the ammo hopefully for the old Thunder Lizard—and swung the muzzle around just as a horde of black-robes came running through the ruined wall of his office.
“The woman!” one shouted. “Get the bastard’s woman.”
Ben leveled the M14 and held the trigger back, filling his shattered office with .308 slugs and knocking creepies in all directions.
“Jerre!” he shouted, over the rattle of weapons.
No reply.
“She’s over there, Father,” came Buddy’s calm voice. “Buried under all this crap. She seems to be all right. Just knocked out.”
“Grenades,” Ben ordered, pulling an HE grenade from his battle harness and jerking the pin just as Buddy and Cooper were doing the same. Jersey and Beth were covering what was left of the doorway leading to the hall, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot left of the hall.
The grenades blew, and the screaming that followed told the Rebels they had landed right on the mark. Buddy sprayed the darkness with .45 slugs and ended the screaming.
“It’s happening all over the city, General,” Beth told him, as her walkie-talkie ceased its transmission. “Scattered, but very intense.”
Flames were spreading from two rooms over as Ben found his Thompson and slung it. He crawled over to Jerre, who was sitting up with the aid of Jersey. “Get her out of here,” Ben told some Rebels who materialized in the shattered doorway. “Take her to Doctor Chase. And don’t leave her side for any reason. That is a direct order.”
“Yes, sir!” One slung Jerre over his shoulder and they were gone.
“Grab whatever you can salvage,” Ben said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
Working as quickly as they could in all the rubble, the Rebels grabbed up whatever they could find and left the building just as the flames were spreading all around them. They hit the street and ran right into a firefight.
They darted away from the burning building, and Ben spread his thin line of Rebels out behind vehicles. Lying on the frozen snow, the Rebels went to work.
“Here they come, gang!” Ben yelled, as he shouldered the butt of the M14 and let it rock and roll.
“Stand firm!” Thermopolis yelled, bringing his M16 to his shoulder. He grimaced, knowing he was beginning to sound like Ben Raines.
“Oh, Blomm!” Emil yelled. “Hear our pleas and strike these heathen dead!”
A wall of a long-abandoned building chose that time to give it up, collapsing on a dozen or more creepies, burying them under tons of brick and stone.
Rosebud looked at Thermopolis, questions in her eyes. He lowered the M16 and shrugged a “who the hell knows” gesture.
Then none of them had time to think about Blomm or anything else except survival as the creepies swarmed all over their position.
Rosebud smacked a creepie in the face with the butt of her Mini-14, and her husband shot him in the chest as he was falling backward.
Brother Sonny clubbed one on the noggin, and Sister Susie buried a camp axe into his skull. “Filthy Godless bastard!” she said.
Emil was rolling around on the dirty floor with a night crawler, both of them screaming like deranged banshees. Emil finally rolled on top of the stinking crud, a brick in his hand, and clubbed him into unconsciousness. He grabbed up his M16 and crawled back to his position just in time to have another creepie hurl himself through the broken window and land right on top of Emil, sending them both rolling around on the floor.
“Ye Gods!” Emil squalled. He jammed his fingers into the creature’s eyes and then drove the stiffened fingers of his other hand into the man’s throat. The night crawler fell to one side, choking and gasping for breath. Emil grabbed up his M16 and ended the gagging sounds.
“One more time,” he muttered darkly, returning to his position, wary of anything that might be lurking out in the darkness, waiting to leap at him.
Emil turned to look into the eyes of a dark-haired French Canadian girl who had been cut off from her unit.
ZING!
With lead flying all around them, the screaming of the dying filling the cold night, death all around them, Emil fell in love.
“This building is cleared, General!” Dan called from across the snowy, body-littered street. “Lay down a covering fire for the general’s party!” Dan yelled to his Scouts. “Come on, General!”
While the Scouts laid down covering fire, Ben and his people zigzagged and slipped and slid and almost fell down crossing the icy street. They made it intact to the dark and somewhat warmer ground floor of the old building.
“You got a radio that works, Dan?” Ben panted.
“Here, sir,” Dan’s operator called.
Staying low, Ben made his way over to the Rebel and took the mike. “This is Eagle. All units give me a report.”
“Northernmost unit under heavy attack but holding, sir,” the strange female voice, slightly accented, came out of the speaker.
“Who is this?” Ben asked.
“Michelle Jarnot, General. Part of Major Danjou’s unit. I got cut off.”
“It’s love, love, love!” Ben heard someone shout.
He looked at Beth. “Someone is yelling that they’re in love.”
All heads turned to look at him.
“Did you say love, sir?” Dan asked.
Ben listened as someone began singing “Love Me Tender.” Fans of Elvis had no cause for alarm.
“Yes. Love. Michelle, do you have any wounded or dead up there?”
Whoever it was up there smitten with Cupid’s arrows began singing “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
Ben flipped the toggle switch from earphones to speaker.
“Not in this unit, General. But there is going to be someone with a fat lip if they don’t keep their hands off of me!”
All heads turned toward the radio.
“Somebody kindly keep their eyes to the front,” Ben said. “We do have creepies out there, people.”
A man’s voice came out of the speaker. “This is Thermopolis, Ben Raines. Creepies are withdrawing. Our situation has stabilized. Which is more than I can say for Emil,” he added.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s in love!”
“Ten-four, Thermopolis,” Ben said with a chuckle. “The situation here has also calmed. Good luck with Emil.”
“Thank you, General.”
Ben checked his watch. About three hours until dawn. He looked at Dan’s radioman. “Check with all units. I want a status report from each.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben made his way back to the front of the building. “I believe it’s over. But stay alert. Fires at the rear of the building only. Take shifts warming up.”
The last dark hours of morning passed slowly, with only an occasional shot blasting the darkness. From their position in the storefront, the Rebels could see the bodies of Night People sprawled in death on the bloody, trampled snow.
Dan counted heads. “Where is Miss Hunter?”
“In the hospital. I don’t think she’s badly hurt. When the roof caved in on us she got a bump on the head that knocked her out.” Ben explained what had taken place in his office.
“Last-ditch desperation attack on their part,” Dan said. “I don’t think they’ve got the people to do it again.”
“Nor do I. I think from now on it’ll be minor skirmishes. But,” he added, “we’ve said that before.”
“Quite right.”
As the first fingers of gray dawn began tearing away the night, the Rebels began moving stiffly out of their positions, some of them joggi
ng in place to warm up cold-tightened muscles and get the heart rate up and the blood surging.
“Well, I guess I look for a new CP,” Ben said. He turned to Beth, who had scrounged around and found another radio. “Advise Doctor Chase to get ready to move, Beth. Tell him to move everything down to the old NYC Medical Center on the East River.” He turned to Dan. “Make damn sure the Brooklyn Bridge, the Williamsburg Bridge, and the Manhattan Bridge appear to be disabled, from ground and air. Khamsin has got to come at us from the north. Once he’s committed his people, we throw up a line at Eighty-sixth Street. And that’s where we hold him, Dan.”
“Yes, sir. Your CP?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would suggest somewhere around the old UN Headquarters, General. I can guarantee that area is free of creepies.”
“All right, Dan. Find me a place. With windows,” he added, smiling.
“Yes, sir. I already have one picked out, cleared, and set up for you.”
Ben’s new CP was in an office building one block over from the UN Plaza. It was on the second floor, facing Second Avenue, with a good broad view. Ben inspected the windows and found they had been replaced with bulletproof glass. Obviously, Dan had had this place in mind for some time.
On the morning of the second day in his new CP, Ben looked up as Jerre appeared in the doorway.
“Did Chase release you or did you run away?”
“He released me. I’m all right. I don’t even have a headache.” She looked around. “Nice place.”
Ben pointed to her right. “Your office is right there. You’ll be helping me mark locations of our units as we begin to shift them.”
“All right, Ben.”
“Chase get moved?”
“He’s almost finished. He approves of the new choice. Is it about to hit the fan, Ben?”
“A few more days. I’d say five days at the most. Intell states there is a lot of activity over Khamsin’s way.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Khamsin is moving his people north, so it looks like he’s taking the bait without us having to taunt him any further.”
Trapped in the Ashes Page 12
