Tyranny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  THIRTY-TWO

  Ben Raines called his battalion leaders to meet with his team in his office to discuss the war in Mexico being waged by Perro Loco’s troops.

  General Ike McGowen sat directly across from Ben, and as usual had one of his breast pockets stuffed with cheap cigars and the other with candy bars. He was commander of the 502 Brigade, had been a Navy SEAL in his younger days, and was Ben’s oldest and best friend. Broad-chested, with an ample paunch and wide shoulders, he was a big man. Doc Chase was always after him to lose weight, but it was a losing battle. Ike had tried every diet known to man . . . all without success. The truth was he liked to eat, and he wasn’t about to deprive himself of anything he truly liked to do.

  Sitting next to Ike was Jackie Malone, the commander of the 512 Brigade. Jackie was movie-star pretty, but one of the toughest women Ben had ever known. She was strong on discipline, but never asked the men who served under her to do anything she wasn’t prepared to do herself. Any man in her brigade would gladly give his life to protect her. She’d been severely wounded a couple of years ago, but had fully recovered now, and Ben was glad to have her back.

  The man next to Jackie was Buddy Raines, Ben’s son. Ben hadn’t raised Buddy. In fact, he hadn’t known of his existence until a few years ago when Buddy showed up in a Rebel camp. Buddy’s mother, who called herself Sister Voleta, had hated Ben and eventually had become insane. In an aborted attempt on Ben’s life, she’d been killed by Ike McGowen. In his early twenties, Buddy was one of the youngest of the brigade commanders, and had charge of the 508 Brigade, which consisted mainly of Special Ops troops. He received no special treatment because he was Ben’s son, and had earned his position by hard work and an instinct for Special Ops work.

  Doc Chase and Mike Post from Intel, along with the rest of Ben’s team, sat at the back of the room, waiting to see what Ben had to say.

  “Is it too hot in here for you, Ike?” Ben asked.

  Ike shook his head, sleeving sweat from his forehead. “No, why?”

  “I notice you’re sweating.”

  “The fat bastard’s always sweating,” Doc Chase opined from the back of the room.

  Ike gave him a dirty look over his shoulder. “It must be a thyroid condition,” he said. “If our medical team was worth a shit, it would’ve already been diagnosed and treated.”

  “Thyroid condition my ass!” Chase said, laughing. “It’s called a surplus of adipose tissue, you hog. I’ve told you for years you need to shed some weight before your heart stops and you drop like a stone.”

  “Doc, I keep tellin’ you it’s not fat, it’s muscle . . .” Ike began, until Ben interrupted them both.

  “Okay, guys, save it for later. We’ve got some serious business to discuss.”

  Jackie leaned forward, her face lighting up with anticipation. “We going into Mexico, Ben?”

  Ben shuffled the papers from Intel Mike had given him. “Well, we certainly are going to need to, sooner or later. Martinez is getting his ass kicked by Perro Loco’s generals.”

  “How bad is it, Ben?” Buddy asked, unwrapping a piece of gum and sticking it in his mouth. No one on Ben’s team had ever seen him without gum in his mouth.

  “Bad. General Pena and Dominguez have taken over the base at Villahermosa as well as the Navy yard at Pariso on the coast.”

  “Villahermosa’s the largest base south of Mexico City, and the Navy yard at Pariso is the main supply route for the entire lower half of the country. That means he’s cut off all material supply routes to the southern bases,” Ike said, unconsciously reaching for a candy bar in his shirt pocket.

  Doc Chase leaned forward and whispered, “You eat that and I’ll shoot you in the back of the head.”

  Ben glanced down to hide his smile as he answered, “Yeah, and Perro Loco’s smarter than we gave him credit for. He’s not even bothering to waste his time on most of the smaller bases, which Martinez had pretty well dug in waiting for his attacks. He’s hop-skipped over them and is full-on heading for Mexico City.”

  Buddy nodded, smiling grimly. “Sure, it’s brilliant. Just like with a snake, cut off its head and the body dies. If he takes Mexico City, the other bases won’t have any leadership, and since he’s also cut off their supplies, game over.”

  “Exactly,” Ben said.

  “So, when’s Martinez going to ask for our help?” Jackie asked.

  “He’s not ready to go public with an admission that he can’t handle Perro Loco. That would be political suicide.”

  “So, political suicide is better than ending up on the end of Perro Loco’s bayonet,” Ike said, putting the candy bar back in his pocket and glaring at Doc Chase.

  “He has, however, said that if we wanted to send in a Special Ops battalion, he wouldn’t object.”

  Buddy nodded. “He’s no dummy either. If we can manage to slow Perro Loco down and keep him away from Mexico City, that’ll give Martinez time to get his southern troops organized and moving north on Perro Loco’s flanks and rear. If Martinez can catch Perro Loco’s troops in a pincer movement, far from their own lines of supply, he’s liable to win the whole shooting match and we won’t hog any of the credit.”

  Harley Reno held up his hand, like a child in school who knew the answer to a question. “Permission for Hammer and me to go along, Ben?”

  Buddy looked over his shoulder at Harley, his eyebrows raised. “Uh, I’ve pretty much got my own team . . .”

  “Why do you ask, Harley?” Ben asked.

  “We just got a shipment of new toys from an engineer friend of mine down in Corpus Christi, Texas. He’s managed to fit our Berettas and Uzis with silencers. These are some primo gadgets, and he sent two hundred of each of them as a special favor to me. If we’re gonna be doing some Special Ops exercises deep in Mexico, they might come in real handy.”

  Buddy chewed his lip in thought. “You say these silencers work well? The last batch we had wore out after only one clip. Couldn’t depend on ’em worth a damn.”

  “Not these. With these suckers all you’ll hear is the firing bolt clicking back and forth.”

  Buddy took in Harley’s six-and-a-half-foot height and broad shoulders as he considered his request to join his Special Ops team. But it was the eyes that convinced him. They looked like snake eyes, flat and cold as ice. Hammer was only a shade smaller, and looked just as deadly. Buddy nodded. “It’s okay by me, Ben, if you can spare them.”

  Jersey and Coop immediately jumped to their feet. “Hey, no fair, Ben. If Harley and Hammer go, we all go,” Jersey said, giving Harley a look. “That’s what the term team means.”

  Harley smiled and nodded. “Great,” he said.

  “Wait a minute, Ben . . .” Buddy began.

  Ben held up his hand. “Of course, Buddy, the final say-so is yours. But I want it understood, if you take the team along, they’ll be under your command, just like the rest of your Special Ops people.” He cut his eyes to Jersey and Coop. “And there will be no hotdogging or solo missions. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jersey, Coop, Anna, Beth, and Corrie all stared at Buddy, their faces blank. “Of course, Ben,” they all said at once.

  Buddy laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, right. Okay, it’s all right with me. Hell, you got the best team in the Army so I’d be a fool to turn them down.”

  “Corrie,” Ben said, “get with Mike and figure out some radio frequencies for you to monitor so he can keep you up to date on any fresh intel we have.”

  He glanced at Ike and Jackie. “You two get your units loaded and ready. We’re gonna put you right on the border with plenty of transportation for a fast move when Martinez finally realizes he can’t win this war without us.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

  “Doc,” Ben said, “get the troops loaded with whatever vaccinations they need for Mexico and load up the med teams with lomotil and antibiotics.” He smiled. “You can’t fight if you’re spending all your time in the latrines
.”

  “Why don’t you come along too, Ben?” Buddy asked.

  Ben shook his head. “I’d love to, but I can’t. One of our Army bases in Arkansas, Fort Chaffe, was just attacked by a pair of jets.”

  “What?” several of the participants in the meeting asked at once.

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. The jets were old and out of date, and it’s my guess they were sent by Claire Osterman to make us think Warner couldn’t be trusted.”

  “What’s he say?” Ike McGowen asked.

  “He says they didn’t know anything about it and he certainly didn’t authorize any attacks against us.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Yeah. I’m convinced he wants peace as bad as we do . . . worse, since they were getting the worst of it. I think Claire Osterman is behind this and until this Osterman mess is straightened out, I’m gonna need to be here to monitor the peace process and try to keep Otis Warner in control and on track up there.”

  “Is he in serious trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Our intel says he’s having some trouble with some of his bases and some of his military, but we just don’t know how deep the rot goes. And until we do, I’m gonna stay here and keep an eye on things.”

  “What if Claire regains control of the USA?” Buddy asked.

  “It’ll be bad. She won’t rest until either she wins or we do. It’ll be a fight to the death for both countries. And, to make matters worse, we’ll be fighting a war on two fronts, which no country in history has been able to do and win.”

  Ike McGowen got to his feet. “Hell, then we’ll just have to make some new history, Ben. It won’t be anything new to us.”

  Jackie stood up. “Two fronts or not, we’re not going to let you down, Ben. We’re gonna kick ass and take names.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “How’re we doin’, boys?” Claire asked.

  Herb Knoff, General Bradley Stevens, and Harlan Millard were sitting in her office for the usual breakfast staff meeting.

  Stevens answered first. “All in all, not too bad. We hit Raines’s base in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and did extensive damage before our jets were shot out of the sky.”

  “Any repercussions?”

  “Not yet. So far, Raines still believes Warner didn’t have anything to do with the raid.”

  Herb sneered. “Hell, Raines knows that chicken-shit Warner wouldn’t have the balls to do something like that.”

  Claire nodded. “I believe you’re correct, Herb. I think we’re wasting our time trying to put a wedge between Warner and Raines. We should be directing all of our energies to regaining control of the government.”

  Millard and Knoff glanced at each other, neither daring to remind Claire it’d been her idea to hit the Arkansas base in the first place.

  “So, Brad, what are your ideas on that?”

  “We’ve had no trouble recruiting personnel so far. In fact, most of the military is behind us, either overtly or covertly.”

  “So, why aren’t we in control?”

  Bradley spread his arms. “Equipment, primarily. Warner and troops loyal to him control most of the high-tech gear and weapons. About all we have besides side arms are a couple of helicopters older than I am and some half-tracks and HumVees. We don’t have any tanks, or artillery, or fighter aircraft worth a damn.”

  “Well, gentlemen, it’s about time we made our move. Perro Loco is well on his way to Mexico City, and if we’re not leading this country by the time he takes it, I’m afraid our deal may be off and he may decide to make a separate peace with the SUSA.”

  “What do you want to do, Claire,” Harlan Millard asked.

  “We need to make our presence known. Where is the largest airfield near here?”

  Bradley Stevens thought for a moment. “That’d be at Oak Ridge, just north of Knoxville. It’s got everything we need, except long-range bombers. It’s primarily a fighter squadron and helicopter repair facility, so there’s plenty of aircraft around for the taking.”

  “And how many men do we have we can absolutely count on?”

  “Between five and ten thousand, but they’re scattered over the entire state at several small bases. We’ve kept them in place so as not to draw attention to our movements.”

  “The time for stealth is over, Brad. I want to take that base and get those aircraft. Once we have the planes, we can get the other equipment by using the attack helicopters in surprise raids on other bases that have what we need.”

  “What about troops, Claire?” Millard asked.

  “I think they’ll be glad to join us when they see that we’re not going to take any shit from the SUSA or anyone else. Soldiers don’t want peace, they want war. And, by damn, I’m gonna give ’em war.”

  Johnny Roy Lumpkin glanced up from his magazine to see a HumVee approaching the gate in front of his guardhouse. He looked at his watch. Three in the morning. Who the hell could that be? he thought, stifling a yawn as he walked to the door of the vehicle.

  He saw two men in BDUs sitting in the front seat and six men in the rear.

  “What’s goin’ on, fellahs?” Johnny Roy asked, a pleasant expression on his face. “Out on night maneuvers?”

  The driver, whose name tag read King, said, “Yeah, an’ we’re told to report to the officers’ quarters. Where might that be, boy?”

  Johnny Roy frowned. “It’s right over there,” he said, pointing to a building on the edge of the base, “but I’m gonna have to see some orders ’fore I can let you on base.”

  “Sure,” the man sitting next to King said, “here are our orders.” He held his hand out and pointed a black revolver with a silencer on the barrel at Johnny Roy’s face.

  “What . . .” he said just before a .38-caliber bullet punched a hole in his forehead and blew out the back of his skull. He dropped like a stone on the concrete.

  King didn’t bother getting out of the car to raise the barricade, but accelerated the HumVee right through it, turning the steering wheel until the vehicle was pointed at the officers’ quarters building in the distance.

  Thirty minutes later, all fifteen staff and administration officers in the building were dead and King had his pistol in the back of a staff sergeant who was leading them to the pilots’ barracks.

  Unlike enlisted men’s barracks, the pilots all had individual rooms, so they had to be gathered one at a time and brought to the mess hall under guard. Once they were all there, King paced in front of them as he talked.

  “My name is Colonel James King,” he said. “I’m a member of the Blackshirt Squad, so you know I mean what I say.”

  The group of pilots, most of whom were barely out of their teens, all nodded. They’d heard of the Blackshirts and knew they were badasses it was best to stay away from.

  “We work for President Claire Osterman, who was illegally removed from office last year. The man who replaced her is a traitor named Otis Warner. Right now, he is selling out our country to the SUSA by negotiating a peace that will make us weak forever.”

  King stopped his pacing and faced the group. “We don’t intend to let that happen. We do intend to take this country back for its rightful leaders. My question to you is, will you fight with us to see that happen?”

  One of the men stood up. “If we join you, does that mean the war will start again?”

  King nodded. “Yeah, it does. So your choice is join us and fight and fly, or resist us and go back to your farms and chicken ranches and live under the rule of the SUSA the rest of your lives.”

  The man who spoke said, “That’s no choice, Colonel. We joined up to fly and fight, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s what I plan to do.”

  The remainder of the men stood up, all nodding their heads and looking at each other.

  “All right. Your first test is to help us take this base over. We need control of the aircraft and the armaments. It’ll be up to you to help us determine who we can trust to be with us on this.”

  King looked over his shoulde
r and nodded, and the men with him began handing weapons out to the pilots.

  By dawn, the base was secure and under the command of Colonel James King. Only about ten percent of the enlisted personnel had refused to go along with the change in command, and were in the brig under guard.

  King went to the communications room and had the radio operator contact Claire Osterman’s office in Gatlingburg.

  “President Osterman, Colonel James King here. Mission accomplished. The air base at Oak Ridge is under our command.”

  “Well done, Colonel King,” Claire said, glancing over her shoulder from the phone in her bedroom at Herb Knoff in bed and winking. “General Stevens will be in touch later with further orders.”

  She hung up the phone, slipped her nightgown off her shoulders, and crawled under the covers. “Herb, it’s time to celebrate.”

  Herb grinned as he reached for her. “Yes, ma’am,” he growled.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Captain Raul Benavidez steered his Apache helicopter gunship over the jungles of Chiapas. Gunner Jesus Lopez sat in the front seat, reading his targeting display.

  A Mexican military base at San Fernando was their first objective. Orders had come from Comandante Perro Loco to strike this installation quickly, taking the poorly equipped Mexican Army at San Fernando by surprise as the comandante’s ground troops began their march up the western regions of Mexico toward Mexico City before sweeping across northern Mexico to take the SUSA.

  “Do you see anything?” Raul asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Jesus replied. “No radar signals are being picked up by our sensors.”