Trapped in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Jerre looked into her opened field-ration packet. “What is this crap?”

  “I do not have the vaguest idea. And to tell you the truth, I’m afraid to ask Chase. He might tell me.”

  It was at times like these that Ben felt a closeness to Jerre. More on his part than hers, he knew. But a feeling that he enjoyed; more than this was something that he knew could never be and would never be.

  Then why wouldn’t he accept that? I have, the other side of his brain countered. I have for years, and gone right on living, so what’s the problem, brain?

  A simple yet complex emotion called Love, you dummy! the other side fired back.

  Ben stilled the arguing sides of his brain when he became conscious of Jerre staring at him through the dim lantern light in the CP.

  The others of his personal team were resting, after having endured the blandness of their field rations. Except for Beth, who was sitting far across the room, cleaning her M16, making ready for tomorrow’s fight. She was certainly doing her part to right what she felt was a two-thousand-year-old wrong against her people.

  “Thinking up more brilliant tactical moves to use against Khamsin, Ben?” Jerre asked in a soft voice.

  “’Fraid not, kid. I’m about tacticaled out for this day.”

  “Tacticaled? Is there such a word?”

  “I don’t think so. Call it poetic license.”

  “What would you be doing right now, Ben, if the Great War had not occurred?”

  Ben was thoughtful for a few seconds. “Probably getting drunk, listening to classical music.”

  “Did you drink a lot back then, Ben?”

  “I wasn’t an alcoholic, but I probably drank more than I should.”

  “Why?”

  “A question I often asked myself, Jerre. Back then.”

  “And the answer, Ben . . . ?”

  “I never came up with one that satisfied me.”

  “There was no special lady in your life that day the bombs came?”

  Ben shook his head. “No. I guess I spent a lot of years just waiting for the right one to come along, instead of going out and looking for her.”

  “And she never did come along.”

  “Not back then, Jerre. Maybe we just better drop the subject before you think I’m leading you into or up to something.”

  “I don’t think that. What were you looking for in a woman, Ben?”

  “I’m not even sure. After I got snakebit—in a manner of speaking—more than a few times, I think I just resigned myself to the fact that I would live alone; that that would probably be best all the way around.”

  “That’s a pretty dismal thought, Ben.”

  “Yes, it is. But have you fared any better, Jerre?”

  “You shoot from the hip, don’t you, Ben?” It was her turn to be thoughtful for a few seconds. “I guess I haven’t, Ben. But at least I can say I’ve been trying.”

  “And have you succeeded in finding your ideal soul-mate?”

  “Obviously not.” A touch of ice in her reply.

  “Whatever happened to . . . what was his name? Matt.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I heard he was killed.”

  No reply.

  “How many more after that?”

  “And you’ve been chaste, I suppose?” she came back at him, a surprising amount of heat in her voice.

  “Oh, hell, no! There have probably been more women in my life during the past five years than in all the time before Tri-States.”

  “Which is symptomatic of . . . ?”

  “Symptomatic? Hell, I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “You’re lying, Ben.”

  “That make you feel proud?”

  “I didn’t do anything, Ben.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “This conversation is going around in circles.”

  “As always.”

  “Good night, Ben.” She stood up and walked over to her bedroll.

  Ben picked up his M14 and walked outside. As usual, they were so close, yet worlds apart. He rolled a cigarette and blew smoke to the cold breeze.

  “Everything all right, General?” a sentry asked, passing by.

  Ben smiled despite his tangled inner feelings. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”

  Ben, very quietly and with prior notice, moved his troops up three blocks several hours before dawn, knowing it was a risky move that could well backfire on them all. Just before dawn, Khamsin ordered the Rebel lines shelled.

  Khamsin’s light artillery hammered away for over an hour, and then he ordered his troops to advance.

  The Libyan troops walked a half a block and came face-to-face with hard-eyed Rebels, who turned the cold morning into a steamy bloodbath. The slaughter took less than ten minutes; then the Rebels were fading back toward the south, moving like white-shrouded ghosts, leaving behind them an area bloodstained and littered with the bodies of the Hot Wind’s troops.

  Sister Voleta, Monte, and Ashley sat over in New Jersey and monitored radio traffic. Ben was not using translators except for the most important communications.

  “Brilliant,” Ashley said. “I hate the bastard, but I have to concede his daring in warfare.”

  Monte didn’t know what in the hell Ashley was talking about.

  Sister Voleta remained, for the most part, silent. She still had not been able to figure out where Ben Raines was going once he got off the island of Manhattan. But she knew one thing: Ben Raines was slaughtering the Libyan’s troops, almost as if he were playing with them.

  She thought of something, rejecting it almost as soon as it popped into her head. Not even Ben Raines would try something that stupid.

  Or would he?

  No, she concluded, throwing the idea onto her mental junkpile.

  “I hate to bring this up, “Ashley said. “But we only have food for about two more weeks. After that, we’re going to have to start rationing or do a lot of hunting. We have a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “It will be over on the island in about a week,” Sister Voleta predicted. “There is no way that Khamsin can hold out any longer than that.”

  “I agree with that,” Monte said. “He must have lost a full quarter of his people in the last twenty-four, thirty-six hours.”

  “I disagree,” Ashley objected. “The battles will go on much longer than a week.”

  Sister Voleta looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Khamsin has learned a hard lesson. From now on, there will be no more head-to-head confrontations. At least not from Khamsin’s side. I think Khamsin will be forced to resort to guerrilla tactics. If he can pull it off. He knows, now, that Ben outguns him. He’ll have sense enough to see—I hope—that Ben has deliberately set up clearly defined fronts, and that if Khamsin continues his present method of fighting, Ben will slowly but surely pound him into the concrete.”

  Sister Voleta grunted.

  “You pretty brilliant yourself,” Monte said. “I knew I done right in makin’ you second in command.”

  Ashley glowed under the warm light of verbal praise. Even coming from a near-cretin like Monte.

  “But Khamsin cannot hope to defeat Ben Raines using guerrilla warfare,” Voleta said. “The Rebels are masters at that.”

  “He knows it,” Ashley replied. “But he’s willing to die in order to kill Ben.”

  Siter Voleta rose and walked out of the room.

  Ashley’s eyes followed the woman. “And so is she, Monte. Remember that. She’s a fanatic. We must be careful not to let ourselves be sucked into a death trap.”

  “Whatever you say, Ashley. You’re runnin’ the show, partner.”

  Khamsin looked at the reports from his commanders and winced at the totals.

  A full twenty-five percent of his army had been destroyed. Estimates were that less than twenty of the Rebels had died; maybe that many more were wounded.

  And they were trapped on this miserable island. Trapped, except for the
bridges at the south end, which, Khamsin concluded, Ben Raines intended to use as his escape route.

  He studied a map of the city and felt hopelessness settle in the pit of his stomach. There was no way he could get sappers down that far without being detected. And what was the point of blowing those bridges? That would seal his own fate as well as Raines’s.

  But wasn’t that what he wanted? Hadn’t he made his boast that Ben Raines would die even if he had to die along with him?

  Yes, if that was the only way. Yes. He would willingly die. “If Allah wills it,” he muttered. “Allah be praised.”

  “What’s the word from Khamsin’s lines?” Ben asked Chuck.

  “Forward teams report nothing, sir. No movement of any kind.”

  “He’s probably had it for today. Now I have to put myself in his boots and try to figure out what I’d do.”

  Ben had shifted his battle lines once again, moving them all down to 155th Street. For the remainder of that day, he had his people booby-trapping the ground floors of buildings and laying claymores in alleys. Ben was giving Khamsin a half a dozen blocks, but they would be very dangerous blocks, and with each explosion, the morale of the Hot Wind’s troops would sag.

  And after that? Ben thought. What would Khamsin do? I have him outgunned with artillery; I have heavier tanks. So putting myself in his boots, what would I do?

  Hit and run. Guerrilla warfare. Sure. The man was trained as a terrorist.

  “Chuck?” Ben called across the room. The young man looked up. “Alert all units to be heads up for sneak attacks; hit-and-run guerrilla warfare.”

  “Yes, sir.” He glanced up at the door, then took his radio and went outside; he could always say it was for better reception.

  Ben noticed and turned his head, meeting the level gaze of Jerre. “So it’s getting down to your type of warfare, huh, Ben?”

  “That’s what the Rebels are famous for, Jerre. If that’s what Khamsin wants, we’ll sure oblige him.”

  “The others might not realize it, Ben, but I know you’ve been taking a lot of chances. Not just you personally, but with the others. Why?”

  “I want this over with, Jerre. I want to get the hell off this island and back to Base Camp One and just rest for a time. I’m not a young buck anymore.”

  “You’re not that old, Ben.”

  “Thanks. But calendars don’t lie.”

  “Mind if I tag along back to Louisiana with you?”

  “What would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. Nothing at all.”

  “Giving up on me, Ben?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “Comes a time, Jerre, when a man, or woman, has to say it’s over. With us, it never got started. And it never will.”

  “And we can’t be friends?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “This sounds an awful lot like goodbye.”

  “I guess it is, Jerre. I’ve got a war to run, and we took a lot more wounded than I’ve let on. Chase needs some help—desperately. You can either volunteer, or I’ll order you down.”

  “At least I can get a hot bath down there. When do you want me to leave?”

  “I can have Cooper run you down there now.”

  “Suits the shit out of me, Ben.” There was enough ice in her tone to freeze a side of beef.

  “See you around, kid.”

  She turned her back to him and left without another word.

  SEVEN

  Beth and Jersey and Cooper gave him the cold shoulder the rest of that day. Chuck didn’t know what the hell was going on, so he was bewildered by it all.

  “It’s not you, Chuck,” Ben assured him. “Relax. My team is a little miffed at me.”

  “About Miss Hunter?”

  “Yes. You’re very astute.”

  “I know what that means, General. And I’m not. Hell, sir, the whole camp knows about you and Jerre. But you got to do what you think is right for the both of you. And I reckon you done it.”

  Ben smiled, then laughed. “Yes, Chuck, I reckon I did.”

  Ben went to bed early that night. There were no booming explosions during the night to awaken him, so he reasoned that Khamsin had not yet begun his move south.

  He dressed and stepped out of the CP long before dawn, walking across the snow-covered street to Dan’s billet. There had been no more snowfall, but it was bitterly cold, his boots crunching on the frozen snow.

  He saw faint candlelight in Dan’s quarters and knocked on the door. “Up, Dan?”

  “Come on in, General. I was just brewing some tea. Would you like some?”

  “Yes, I would.” Ben sat down. “I gather there were no surprises last night.”

  “Not a peep out of them. And our Tall Eyes reports nothing is moving over in New Jersey.”

  “They’re waiting for the outcome of this. Then they’ll move.” Ben accepted a cup of tea and sipped. “Have you opened your breakfast packet yet?”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “Well,” Ben sighed, digging in his pocket. “No time like the present, I suppose.”

  Dan grimaced as Ben opened the packet. “What in the world is that stuff?”

  “It’s guaranteed to be highly nutritious and as good for you as mother’s milk.”

  Dan opened his food packet, took a small bite of whatever the inert lump was, and grimaced. “I have a small bottle of hot sauce I would be happy to share.”

  “Thank you. Where is it?”

  After breakfast, Dan asked, “What’s up for today, General?”

  “We pull back. Khamsin will think we’re closing with our people south of us.”

  Dan looked at the man in the dim, flickering candlelight. He saw the smile on Ben’s face and knew there was more to come.

  “I’m going to order Ike’s unit to start the pull-out to Brooklyn.”

  Dan waited.

  “And not to be furtive about it. I want Khamsin to come busting down here after us. I want to see what those over in New Jersey will do, and I want to end this damn war and get off the island. It’s like a big, ugly, festering boil, Dan. Let’s bring it to a head.”

  Dan looked at his crumpled-up food packet. “The sooner we do, the sooner we can stop dining on this totally unpalatable goop.”

  “That in itself is a good enough reason.”

  Before the grayness of dawn touched the eastern skies, Ben was on the radio to Ike. Until Ike could pack it up and get moving, the transmissions would be scrambled.

  “You know the drill, Ike. Get moving and get things ready to receive on the docks.”

  “Ten-four, Ben. Shark out.”

  Ben stood up. “Let’s take a ride, people.”

  They drove through the predawn light to Chase’s hospital without seeing a single living thing or having a shot fired at them.

  “Eerie,” Jersey muttered. “It’s like we’re on another planet.”

  “Two more generations would have had to seek life on another planet if the Great War had not come when it did,” Ben said.

  Cooper cut his eyes. “Why, sir?”

  “The Greenhouse Effect, Coop. This planet was in serious trouble. We were deliberately destroying it because of man’s greed and stupidity. Some scientists predicted that by the year Twenty-one Hundred, the Earth would have been almost uninhabitable. So the war did some good after all.”

  “Smoke and other crap from cars and trucks and factories was causing it, right, General?” Jersey asked from the backseat.

  “That’s right. That’s why in a few years, Base Camp One will be a model town, using solar energy to heat— among other things—and very nearly pollution-free. If the government had thrown its time and money toward solar power instead of wasting billions of dollars on nuclear power . . . well, hell, it’s a moot point now. But we’ll do it, people. We’ll rebuild out of the ashes; hell, we are rebuilding! We just have to keep plugging. . . and fighting.”

  In the hospital, B
en located Chase and dropped the news on him.

  “Get everyone ready to ride, Lamar. You’ll be going across with Ike; probably late this afternoon. I’m ordering flybys of JFK Airport to check for creepies. But I’m pretty well convinced they’ve bugged out. I’ll have people clearing a few thousand feet; just enough for our birds to get in and out so you and the badly wounded can be flown back to Base Camp One.”

  “The wounded can go,” the doctor told him. “I’m staying.”

  “I won’t argue with you, Lamar. You want to stay, fine. Just start packing up and get ready to move out quickly.” He smiled at the man. “I’ll see you over in Brooklyn, Lamar.”

  “Watch your butt, Ben. I’m tired of picking lead out of you.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll do that.”

  Ben saw Jerre in the hall as he was leaving. They stared at each other for a moment; then she turned her back to him without speaking.

  “When this is over,” Ben muttered, “I think I’ll look up Emil and we’ll get drunk. We do have at least one thing in common.”

  “Sir?” Jersey asked.

  “Nothing, Jersey. Just muttering to myself. Let’s go see Ike.”

  Ike wasn’t wasting any time. His sector was packing up and clearing out fast. As Ike’s people left, Cecil and his bunch were swinging over from the park to link up with Striganov’s team, who were also spreading out to cover the gap left by Ike’s leaving.

  “Put the wounded in the middle of your column, Ike. They’ll meet you at the Manhattan Bridge this afternoon. Assign part of your people to clearing a runway at JFK so the wounded can be flown back to Base Camp One. You know what else has to be done. You’re going to run into a few creepies over there. But predictions are not many of them are left. Of course,” Ben added dryly, “we’ve all said that before—about two dozen times.”

  “Who goes next, Ben?”

  “Cecil, probably. Although he’ll bitch and fuss about that.”

  The two old friends shook hands. “I’ll have everything set up for you, Ben.” He looked hard at the man. “Who is gonna be the last to leave the island?”