Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

“Good. Green eggs and ham was wonderful in book form. It isn’t worth a damn at four o’clock in the morning.”

  “You are belaboring the point, Raines. Shut up about it. And where did you get that sombrero you’ve plopped on your head? You look like Hoot Gibson.”

  “Who the hell is Hoot Gibson?” Jersey whispered to Cooper.

  “He’s taking a hell of a chance,” Thermopolis spoke to a few of his staff members at one of their communications and HQ bunkers deep in the Arkansas mountains. “This could backfire on him. But I can see why he’s doing it.”

  Emil Hite, the little ex-conman turned loyal Rebel, was not his usual joking self. He was serious as he studied the big board, denoting the positions of all the Rebels, all around the shattered land that was once called the United States. Someone was constantly changing the board.

  “But if Hoffman continues to fall for it,” Emil said, “he’ll be in one hell of a bind, once the General starts attacking from all sides.”

  “Big ‘ifs,’ Emil,” Therm said softly. “Real big ‘ifs.’”

  Ike, Dan Gray, and West were moving east, staying on secondary roads and keeping Scouts ranging far out front at all times.

  Leadfoot and Wanda had cleared their sector of Hoffman’s Blackshirts and all the collaborators they could find and were now barreling west. They had taken the southernmost route across Louisiana, staying in the bayou country, and had crossed into Texas on what remained of old I-90. The ex-outlaw bikers had picked up dozens of other bikers who wanted to be a part of Raines’ Rebels, and it was an awesome sight as the several hundred strong bikers, all heavily armed, came roaring westward on their choppers and custom motorcycles. In the old Sam Houston National Forest, they pulled in and made contact with Ben’s HQ.

  “Leadfoot on the horn, sir,” Corrie said.

  Ben took the mic. “Go, Leadfoot.”

  “Got nearly four hundred bikers now, Eagle,” Leadfoot radioed. “We’re in the southernmost trees named after one of the commanders at the Alamo. You ten-four that?”

  “Sam Houston National Park,” Beth said, lowering a map.

  “I copy that, Leadfoot. Straight west of you is a MASH unit. You know their frequency. Head there and await orders.”

  “That’s a big ten-four, Eagle. Give ’em hell. Wolf Pack out.”

  “Hoffman and Brodermann just think they’ve seen unconventional warfare,” Ben said with a smile. “Wait until they tangle with that bunch of outlaws.”

  “You have done well, Hans,” Hoffman said, beaming with satisfaction at the seemingly endless trail of discarded equipment left behind by the “fleeing Rebels.” “I am now certain we shall be in full control of Texas in a week’s time. After that, it’s just a matter of tracking down the retreating Rebels and disposing of them. Do try to take General Raines alive. Colonel Barlach is so looking forward to interrogating the good General Raines.”

  “I shall do my best, sir.”

  “I know you will.”

  Dr. Chase had moved his MASH units about a hundred miles north, to Ballinger on old Highway 83, and to Hillsboro on 35. Ben and his Rebels carried on with their systematic destroying of towns and cities and the blowing of major bridges.

  If at all possible, Ben intended to hold Hoffman south of I-20. But with the massive firepower of the man, he didn’t know if that was possible.

  Like the mule, all he could do was try.

  “It’s time to pull the plug on Hoffman’s advance,” he told his team. “We’ve got to knock out some of his tanks. Once that’s done, we can uncork our own tanks and meet his on a equal basis. Our tanks are far superior. They’re better armored, have heavier firepower, and are faster. What are the latest reports?”

  “Hoffman has committed eight divisions north of the border,” Beth said. “He has four divisions in reserve.”

  Ben shook his head. He had been stunned when he had heard the rumor of the revised figures of Hoffman’s strength. He had been shocked when he found out they were true. “Twelve full divisions,” Ben said softly. “Approximately two hundred thousand men. Minus about fifteen thousand that our little ragtag bunch of boys and girls have managed to send to that great Nazi heaven in the skies.”

  Ben walked to a map. “The arrogant bastard has spread himself over three hundred miles of territory, committing a full division up eight routes. Look at what’s he’s done. We’ve stopped him dead bang cold on 163 just north of Barnhart by blowing those bridges. We’ve stopped him at the ruins of San Angelo. We’ve trapped him and stopped him between the Llano and the San Saba. We’ve blown every bridge on 87 and stopped him dead. Same on Highways 16, 281, 81, and 77. He’s most vulnerable on Highway 77. His people are exposed and in danger and the silly bastard can’t see that. Order Buddy, O’Shea, and the Wolfpack to start hammering at that part of the division that someone foolishly placed over here on 36. They’re cut off. We’ve blown all the bridges between 77 and 36. Get them moving, Corrie.”

  * * *

  There was nothing Hoffman could do except pace up and down as his engineers, now stretched pitifully thin along three hundred miles, worked feverishly to lay temporary bridges across rivers and creeks. None of his commanders dared approach him to point out that several battalions of his troops were cut off and dangerously exposed. Hoffman was in no mood for a critique of his strategy.

  Hoffman ordered spotter planes up; the Rebels brought them down with SAMs. Rebel long-distance shooters, armed with .50-caliber sniper rifles lay hidden along the north shores of the rivers and creeks and terrorized the Nazi engineers.

  Hoffman dared not send teams across to hunt down the snipers, not after the first few attempts. Ben had anticipated that and had Scouts and Recon teams in place to ambush the Blackshirts as they tried to circle around the snipers, who were firing from as far away as a mile and a half.

  Hoffman ordered his artillery to lay down covering fire in an attempt to kill the snipers. As long as the bombardments lasted, the snipers were quiet and his engineers could work. Once the bombardments ceased, the snipers popped up and started shooting. Hoffman’s engineers finally had to build thick shields and work behind them, which slowed them down to less than a snail’s pace.

  Hoffman’s massive army had been stopped cold.

  On the easternmost flank of the Blackshirts, Buddy, O’Shea, and the Wolfpack quietly got into place along a seventeen mile stretch and waited for the fall of darkness. The Blackshirt commander knew he was exposed, knew that he was light when it came to tanks, and suspected the Rebels would try to hit him sometimes during the night. But where? was his main concern. And how would they do it? He spread his men thin, all along the seventeen mile stretch of old highway.

  Knowing how the Rebels loved risk-taking and doing what was least suspected of them, the commander made a fatal decision and faced the bulk of his troops to the west, thinking that the Rebels would probably slip up between the two cut-off armies.

  “We’re dealin’ with a bloody fool,” O’Shea said to Buddy. “Did the man think we’d walk into a box like that?”

  “He just had to make a choice,” Buddy said. “And he made the wrong one.”

  “He’ll ne’er get another chance to choose,” the Irishman said grimly.

  “Count on that,” Buddy finished it.

  The sun slipped over the horizon and deceptive shadows began creeping and lengthening. Field Marshal Hoffman ordered all work stopped and all men to take up arms. There was a sick, tight feeling in his belly. His early supper lay like a slimy blob in his stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” General Schiller radioed, irritation evident in his voice. “My engineers are nearly finished. Another hour and we can cross.”

  “No,” Hoffman radioed his reply. “Every man behind a gun. I feel the Rebels will make a charge this night.”

  “From the front?” Schiller questioned. “That would be suicide, Field Marshall. Ben Raines would never do anything like that.”

  “Don’t question my orders!” Hoffman s
napped. “Every man on the line.”

  “Yes, sir,” his generals acknowledged. And to themselves: But if Raines does come, it won’t be from the front. We are not dealing with a fool.

  “Make them use up ammunition,” Ben told Corrie. “We’ve got them ahead of their supply trucks. Let’s wear them down. Get them shooting at shadows.”

  At full dark, the Rebels began lobbing mortar rounds in the general direction of Hoffman’s lines and the Blackshirts panicked, immediately opening fire, pouring rounds into the darkness, hitting nothing but rocks and trees and empty air. All along the three hundred miles of front lines, the Blackshirts wasted thousands of rounds of precious ammunition. The early night sparked and sang deadly songs, the ragged tune coming from the Blackshirts side of the rivers and creeks. The Rebels kept their heads down and let the lead whistle and howl.

  Buddy, O’Shea, and the Wolfpack had worked their way so close to the lines of the Blackshirts they could hear them talking. They could practically smell the fear emanating from the cut-off Blackshirts.

  “Now!” Buddy shouted.

  The Rebels slammed into the eastern side of Highway 36 with the savagery of hungry piranhas.

  The commander of the Blackshirts on the eastern edge of Hoffman’s northern push got off one short radio message. Hoffman’s face drained of blood and his stomach churned as he read the message. GOD HELP US ALL.

  ELEVEN

  The Rebels were all over the Blackshirts before they could reposition from west to east. This was bloody and brutal hand to hand fighting, something the Rebels had perfected over the long years of war. This was pistol and knife and hatchet and club warfare. Back to the raw basics.

  The Blackshirts had never, ever, encountered such savagery. The Rebels did not come screaming over the top—they came like deadly silent wraiths and it was that very silence that panicked and broke the enemy line.

  The disciplined soldiers of Hoffman’s army looked at outlaw bikers, bearded and leathered and tattooed, swinging deadly barbed lengths of chain; their female counterparts armed with silenced machine-pistols, spitting out quiet death.

  The soldiers of Hoffman broke and fled for their lives, running toward the west. Those that chose to stay and fight died. The Rebels took no prisoners.

  The Rebels smashed through the thin lines and split up, working north and south along the rutted old highway. They captured hundreds of assault rifles, fine weapons, and thousands of rounds of ammunition. They captured machine guns and light vehicles and mortars and cases and cases of mortar rounds. They captured hundreds of boxes of field rations, which to the Rebels, after years of eating their own highly nutritious but crappy-tasting goop, were like gourmet meals.

  The Blackshirts even abandoned half a dozen of their big battle tanks—the crews running off into the night. The Rebels promptly cranked them up and drove off, along with the trucks and other light vehicles, after loading them with guns, ammo, food, mortars, boots, and anything else the Rebels felt they could use.

  The Rebels did not come out of the battle unscathed. They had their dead to carry off and bury and their wounded to transport to Chase’s MASH units. But the Blackshirts suffered terrible losses. All who did not run off were killed and many of those who tried to flee were gunned down.

  It was wasn’t a matter of being callous. It was merely a question of chopping down the enemy to a more manageable size. Every Blackshirt killed now was one less the Rebels would have to someday fight.

  By the time troops from Hoffman’s Eighth Division got over to the battle site, there was nothing left but the silence of the dead.

  General Ramos Schleyer, CG of the Eighth Division, stood in the center of the carnage and was stunned speechless. The dead were sprawled everywhere. The Rebels left behind no wounded.

  “Barbarians!” Ramos hissed, finally finding his voice. “Filthy savages.” Strange words from a man who took great delight in raping young girls, violating young boys, and killing anyone who did not agree with his political views. He pointed his riding crop at an aide. “The Rebels will pay dearly for this, Hugo. Dearly, I say. Mark my words.”

  “Field Marshal Hoffman, sir,” a radioman handed the general the field phone.

  “No, sir,” Ramos said, in reply to Hoffman’s very direct question. “They were wiped out to the last man. The filthy barbarous bastards left no wounded behind.” He listened for a moment. “No, sir. The Rebels took all the equipment. Guns, vehicles, boots, food, mortars, tanks, gasoline . . . everything.” Again, he listened. “Yes, sir. I will see that our people are properly buried. I have chaplains coming in now to insure proper burials.”

  After Hoffman had broken the connection, Ramos said, “Get me General Krosen at the Second Division. We have to make plans to rid ourselves of Ben Raines. That and nothing else, must be top priority. We have to convince Field Marshal Hoffman of that. We must.”

  “We are now dirty filthy barbarians,” Corrie told Ben, who was sitting behind his desk, his stocking feet propped up.

  He smiled and lifted his mug of coffee at her. “I’m glad to hear it. Obviously, Buddy’s report was factual. What officer called us that?”

  “The CG of the Eighth Division. General Ramos Schleyer. He is furious and saying that he will have your head on a pole for this atrocity.”

  “That would be unpleasant,” Ben said. “What else?”

  “We’ve decoded some rather odd transmissions and cryptography is trying to make sense out of them now.”

  “And they all concern me, right?” Ben asked, a strange smile on his lips.

  “Yes,” Corrie said. “How did you know?”

  “Like so many others we’ve faced, Corrie, the leaders of the Blackshirts believe that if I’m killed, the Rebel movement would collapse. They just can’t see that I’m merely a part of it. I’m not the whole. But we’re going to have to be careful from now on. For if the generals convince Hoffman of their theory, assassins will be coming out of the woodwork after me.” His eyes swept the room, lingering for a moment, touching all the members of his team. “And that includes all of you. And don’t ever forget that.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, Ike oughta be storming in here at any moment,” Jersey predicted. “That ol’ mother hen will be wanting to relocate you up way up in North Canada.”

  Ben smiled. Jersey had pegged the ex-SEAL correctly. Ike was very protective of Ben. As soon as the decoding experts did their work and reported the news to all Rebel commanders, Ike would be rolling in and raising hell about Ben’s safety.

  “The Blackshirt generals are requesting a meeting with Hoffman,” Corrie called out. “They want to meet first thing in the morning at Hoffman’s First Division HQ.”

  “It’s started,” Ben said. “Fine. That will give us another day to shift troops around and make plans. I . . .”

  “General Ike on the horn, sir,” Corrie said. “He says it’s very important.”

  Ben laughed and walked to the radio. “I bet it is,” he said, taking the mic as Corrie flipped over to speaker.

  Ike was already yelling. “Goddamnit, Ben. Pack it up and get gone from there.”

  If they were not transmitting from a “fixed” base, to improve the range of communications, and to prevent the enemy from getting any accurate fix on locations, in the field the Rebels used a very upgraded version of the suitcase repeater.

  “Where would you have me go, Ike?”

  “Away from where you are,” Ike said simply, calming down.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Ben said, but not to Ike. “But we’ll do it on the Q.T.” To Ike: “No, Ike, I think we’ll just stay put for a time. But I will take your very fine suggestion under advisement.”

  Ben never said things like “taking your very fine suggestion under advisement,” and Ben knew Ike would grab the hidden message immediately.

  “No way I can convince you, huh?” Ike said, a very subtle change in his voice.

  “Not a chance, Ike.” Ben knew other Rebel communi
cations people would be monitoring the transmissions and they would put it all together.

  To insure that everybody knew what was going on, Ben and Ike began conversing in double-talk, using terms that would lead the Blackshirts—if they could unscramble the transmissions—to believe that Ben was staying in his present location.

  When they had spoken enough gobbledygook to tip off even the sleepiest of Rebel communications operators, Ben hooked the mic and said, “Pack it up, people. We’re pulling out.”

  Within minutes, the team had packed their gear and were heading out. They rolled into Dr. Chase’s HQ, a few hours later.

  “Get your MASH units down and moving,” Ben told the chief of medicine. “To just north of I-20. And don’t argue. I think Hoffman will be mounting a major offensive very soon.”

  “Me, argue?” Chase said innocently.

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Move!”

  “Most of them can move,” Chase said, becoming very serious. “I’ve got two who can’t be moved for seventy-two hours. And that’s final.”

  “All right, Lamar. It’s your show.”

  “You staying here, Ben?”

  “Until dawn.” Over coffee, he explained what he felt the Blackshirts were going to try next.

  Chase nodded his head. “That’s the way it always is, Ben. Back to playing cat and mouse.” He refilled their cups and looked hard at Ben. “The game is just about to turn deadly serious, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. We’re going to start taking casualties now. Hoffman will make fewer and fewer mistakes counting on the day when he feels we have to stand and slug it out.”

  “And will that day come, Ben?”

  “Oh, yes. It’ll come, Lamar. We can’t hit and run forever. But that time must not arrive until we’ve killed off a lot of his troops. This has got to stay a guerrilla-type action. We just don’t have the people to stand nose to nose.”

  Lamar toyed with his coffee mug for a moment. It was very late, past midnight, and the MASH tents set up around the small house Chase was using as his quarters and office were silent. The doctor lifted his eyes, looking at Ben. “Old friend, are we going to win this one?”