Tyranny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Fire when you have a target locked on, Jesus,” he said into the headset. “We’ll head straight toward them.”

  “Sí, capitán,” Jesus replied, focusing his HUD on a tiny display. “I have one now.”

  “Fire a rocket,” Raul cried.

  Jesus pressed a small red button and a missile sped away from the Apache.

  “This will be one dead Mexican pilot,” Jesus said as the rocket’s vapor trail raced toward a flashing symbol on his radar targeting system.

  Seconds later, a fiery ball exploded above the treetops west of San Fernando.

  “Got him!” Jesus shouted.

  “Find the other one!” Raul demanded, keeping the Apache low, so dangerously close to the roof of the jungle Raul could see leaves and branches waving in the prop-wash of his Apache.

  “I have him,” Jesus said. “Wait until I have a fix on his position.”

  Raul watched the first Huey go down in a tangled mass of metal, crashing into the jungle surrounded by flames. “Do not wait too long, Jesus.”

  Another rocket hissed away from the Apache.

  “Adios, estupido mexicano,” Jesus said.

  The second UH-1 became a flying inferno. Pieces of the aircraft tumbled into the palm trees . . . Raul could hear the distant roar of exploding aircraft fuel as the chopper fell apart in midair.

  “Bueno,” he whispered into his microphone, glancing over his shoulder to see how many of the Hinds in his squadron had been lost.

  Only two remained in the sky behind them.

  “We will fly back over the fortress at San Fernando,” he told Jesus. “Strafe them with machine-gun fire. Make certain no one is left alive before we go down . . .”

  Bodies lay ail over the compound. Blood mingled with white caliche earth inside the walls. The Apache and a lumbering Hind occupied empty space between a pair of disabled Hueys and six armored personnel carriers.

  Captain Benavidez surveyed the carnage around him, a satisfied grin on his face.

  “We have taken San Fernando,” he said to gunner Jesus Lopez. “Radio the comandante. Tell him the good news.”

  “Should I tell him we lost four of our Soviet choppers?” Jesus asked.

  “It will not matter. Tell him we have captured two of the American Hueys and six APCs.”

  “He will not care that we lost four gunships?”

  “They were old. Out of date. We had no spare parts for them.”

  “And the men who flew them?”

  Raul chuckled. “Perro Loco has no love for mercenaries who fight only for money. He uses them, but he does not trust them. The Soviet ships were expendable, and so were the men who flew them.”

  “But isn’t it true that we all fight for the money, capitán?”

  “Of course, Jesus, but we also fight for the cause of our great leader. Comandante Perro Loco understands this. Send him the message. We have won a big victory today. I know he will be pleased.”

  A Mexican soldier lying near the door of an adobe barracks groaned, digging his fingers into a pool of blood spreading around him.

  Raul drew his Colt .45 automatic pistol and walked over to the wounded Federale.

  “Are you in pain, bastardo?” he asked, jacking a round into the firing chamber.

  The young Mexican looked up with pain-glazed eyes.

  Raul shot him in the head. The echo of his pistol filled the walled compound at San Fernando.

  Covering his progress with the pistol, he made a quick inspection of the small compound. Crates of fifty-caliber machine-gun bullets rested in an abandoned bunker. The Federale garrison was a storehouse for ammunition.

  But when he entered a shadowy warehouse he found the best news of all. Two dozen American-made rockets lay beneath a piece of canvas.

  “Now we can arm the Apaches and the Comanches,” he whispered softly. “Mexico City will be ours.”

  He strolled back out in the sunlight, ignoring the dead Federales scattered around the compound. He strode over to the Apache while Jesus was raising the comandante’s new headquarters at the Presidential Palace in Nicaragua.

  “Inform the comandante that we have captured two of the UH-1’s and thousands of rounds of machine-gun shells. But tell him the real prize is more than twenty of the American Sparrow air-to-ground rockets.”

  “More than twenty?” Jesus asked, waiting for an answer to his radio call to Belize.

  “Two dozen. With these rockets, and the other Apache and Comanche gunships, we will take Mexico City with light casualties.”

  Jesus grinned. “Perro Loco will be very happy to hear of our victory.”

  Raul nodded. “There are antiaircraft batteries to be recovered out in the jungles, and ammunition. All the Federales have fled. The only Federales left alive are the wounded. We must find them, and execute them. Those were the comandante’s orders.”

  “Sí, capitán,” Jesus said as a voice crackled on his radio. “It has been a good day, even though we lost all but one of our Russian helicopters.”

  Raul gazed at smoke coming from parts of the jungle around the compound. “I never liked Klaus Hafner anyway, or any of the other Germans. I did not trust them.”

  Jesus’s attention was drawn to the voice on the radio, a voice Raul recognized as belonging to Jim Strunk.

  “What do you have to report?” Strunk asked.

  “A victory,” Jesus replied. “The military compound at San Fernando has fallen. We captured two of the UH-1 helicopters and two dozen Sparrow rockets, along with many cases of machine-gun rounds and six armored personnel carriers.”

  “I’ll inform the comandante,” Strunk said, his voice fading when static interfered with the radio signal. “Ground troops will be there before dark to help collect the booty. Eduardo will be with them to inspect the Hueys, to make certain they can fly.”

  “Bueno,” Jesus said.

  Raul watched the crew from the remaining Hind walk toward them with drawn pistols hanging at their sides. It had been a good fight, helping the armies of Perro Loco prepare for the coming attack on Mexico City.

  A cry of pain came from the headquarters building in the center of the compound. He marched toward the sound with his pistol.

  Entering a darkened adobe room, he found a young Federale trying to reach a radio transmitter, crawling across the dirt floor leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  “Idiota,” Raul snarled, aiming for the back of the Mexican soldier’s head.

  Three loud explosions filled the room. The Federale was flipped over on his side, blood spurting from three wounds to his back.

  “No radio messages to Mexico City,” Raul told the dying soldier. “They will find out what happened here soon enough, only by then it will be too late.”

  The Federale groaned and lay still, gasping for each breath, reaching for a wound in his belly.

  “What was that?” Jesus cried, rushing through the door with his pistol drawn.

  “A fool,” Raul replied. “He was trying to make a call on the radio.”

  “He is still alive,” Jesus observed.

  “Not for long,” Raul promised, walking over to the soldier until he stood directly over him.

  He aimed down at the Federale’s head, pumping two more shots into the man’s face.

  The soldier’s foot twitched with death throes. Then he lay still.

  Raul turned to Jesus. “Have the men put fuel in the UH-1’s and the APCs. The comandante said a ground force will be here within a few hours. Everything must be ready to head northward toward Mexico City.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Colonel James King accompanied his pilots on a tour of the hangars at the Oak Ridge airfield. When they entered the main hangar, he lined the men up in front of him and sat on the edge of a table.

  “President Osterman has asked that we proceed to do what we can to help her regain control of the government that was illegally stolen from her.” He stared at the men around him, trying to gauge their reaction to his next words
.

  “That means, gentlemen, we are going to have to attack the government’s headquarters in Indianapolis.”

  He paused as the men looked at each other, some with frowns, others with what looked to be anticipation on their faces.

  “I need to know right now if any of you are going to have trouble with fighting against troops who used to be your allies and friends.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd of pilots as they spoke softly to one another. After a moment, a man with lieutenant’s bars on his collar stepped forward.

  “Permission to speak freely, Colonel.”

  “What’s your name, son?” King asked.

  “Lieutenant Hawk, sir, Robert Hawk.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m the squadron commander, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, sir, we haven’t had a lot of time to discuss this among ourselves, but it seems to me that if the present government officials took over the command illegally, that is, without a vote of the people, that’s the same as a coup.”

  King nodded.

  “And if that is the case, sir, then we have an obligation to try our best to restore the Commander in Chief to her previous command. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s exactly right, son.” King stood up, thinking this was going better than he’d hoped. “In fact, you men are in the same position as some of your great-grandfathers were in back in the 1800’s, when brother often fought against brother to insure the perseverance of the Union, of the very United States as we know it today. Those men who are fighting for the present government have been lied to from the very beginning. They’ve been told Claire Osterman is dead, when in fact those very same leaders are the ones who tried to assassinate her in order to take over the country.”

  The pilots glanced at one another and nodded, clearly believing everything King said.

  “Now, you men may or may not agree with President Osterman’s decision to continue the war against the SUSA, but until she is removed from office in a legal election, she is still your Commander in Chief, and as such you took an oath to defend her policies with your very lives if need be.”

  Several of the men stood straighter and said, “Yes, sir,” under their breaths.

  “So, are we all in agreement on the necessity for action to restore her command to her?”

  Now all the men spoke up in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. Now, Lieutenant Hawk, why don’t you and your men show me what we have available to do the job?”

  Hawk nodded and motioned for King to follow him to the area of the large hangar where a collection of helicopters were stored.

  He stood in front of four dark green helicopters off to the side by themselves. “We have four McDonnell Douglas AH-64 Apaches, sir. The Apache is the most sophisticated helicopter ever built. It’s armed with six Hellfire missiles that can lock on to and destroy any known tank, and for softer targets it has 2 .75-inch rockets and an extremely accurate 30mm Chain Gun. It is equipped with night-vision target-acquisition-and-designation systems to enable it to fly and fight in all weathers, day or night.”

  King nodded. These were going to be extremely useful against Indianapolis. “And what else do we have?”

  Hawk walked a bit farther into the hangar. “We’ve got about ten Bell AH-1 HueyCobras. They were developed from the old UH-1 and were one of the most feared weapons back in the Vietnam War. They’re kinda dated now, since they have no bad-weather or night-fighting capability, but it’s still a devastating weapon in the daytime. It’s got a 20mm Gatling gun beneath the nose, and can be fitted with either Target On Wire antiarmor missiles, cannon pods, or rocket pods beneath its stub wings.”

  King nodded and glanced at the side at an array of ten smaller helicopters off to the side.

  “What are those?” he said, pointing.

  “Those are McDonnell Douglas OH-6 Defenders,” Hawk answered. They’re used mainly as light scout choppers, though they can be fitted with a Minigun for strafing troops and light personnel carriers. They’re too slow for major battles, but are great in the field when they’re aren’t any other choppers available.”

  “Great,” King said. “Now how about airplanes?”

  “They’re in the next hangar, sir,” Hawk said, leading the colonel through a side door and across two hundred yards of tarmac toward a much bigger hangar.

  When they entered the hangar, King’s eyes lit up. “Jesus,” he said, staring at the array of aircraft in front of him.

  Hawk stood next to several short jet-powered planes. “These are Vought A-7 Corsair IIs,” he said, then grinned. “Better known as SLUFs.”

  “SLUFs?” King asked.

  “Yeah, it stands for Short Little Ugly Fuckers,” Hawk said, laughing. “Originally designed as a carrier-borne light attack aircraft, it has a huge bomb load and is very effective against both ground troops and buildings.”

  King nodded, his attention wandering to a group of planes farther inside the hangar. “What are those?” he asked.

  “Those are the pride of the Air Force,” Hawk said, “probably the best close-support aircraft ever designed. The Fairchild A-10 Warthog. Heavily armored and very maneuverable at low level, it carries both guided missiles and a 30mm cannon. It was the mainstay in the Gulf War of thirty years ago.” He shook his head. “Pilots loved it. Several of ’em came back with half their wings shot off and tails missing, and they still brought the boys home alive.” He patted one on the fuselage. “This is my favorite of all.”

  King smiled. “How about that?” he said, looking at a huge helicopter in the corner.

  “That’s an old Boeing CH-47 Chinook. It’s too big to fit in the helicopter hangar so we stored it here. It can carry fifty troops and twelve tons of support equipment for ’em and drop ’em anywhere you want ’em to go.”

  King rubbed his hands together. “All right, gentlemen,” he said to the group of pilots that had been following them through the hangars. “Get some rest this afternoon, and we’ll meet at 2100 hours in the officers’ mess and formulate a battle plan for President Osterman.”

  “When do you plan on staging the attack?” Hawk asked.

  “Just as soon as we can arm these machines and get some troops up here for support,” King said.

  “We’re also gonna have to have someplace nearer to Indianapolis to refuel the choppers,” Hawk said. “Most of ’em only have a range of two hundred and fifty to three hundred miles.”

  “How far is it to Indianapolis from Oak Ridge?”

  “About a hundred and fifty miles, but they’re gonna need some fuel for maneuvers, especially if we face any resistance.”

  King nodded. “I’ll coordinate with President Osterman and General Stevens. There are a couple of old National Guard bases not too far from the government’s headquarters.” He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I’ll get a couple of squads of Blackshirts up here and we can transport them to one of those fields the day before our attack. If they can take the field, the Chinook can carry enough avgas in drums to refuel the choppers on their way in.”

  Hawk nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Three days later, the plan was set. Forty Blackshirt troops equipped with assault weapons were loaded into the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, along with 22,000 pounds of avgas in fifty-five-gallon drums and a handful of aircraft mechanics to see to the refueling when the time came. It’d been decided after consultation with Stevens and Osterman to have the Chinook make its assault at dusk on the morning before the attack, giving President Warner less than twelve hours to react in case word of the taking of the Guard base leaked out. The National Guard base they’d picked was at Terre Haute, Indiana, less than fifty miles from Indianapolis.

  Stevens picked Saturday evening for the assault and dawn on Sunday for the final attack on the government’s base. He’d grinned when he told Claire of the plan, saying, “Remember Pearl Harbor? No one’s on their best on Sunday
morning, especially when we’re negotiating a peace and not expecting an attack.”

  The Blackshirts were under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Johnny Walker, an ex-Ranger in the Special Forces who was trained in assault techniques. His men were all in black, with black grease paint on their faces. Twenty of his men were armed with Browning sawed-off shotguns, the other half with M-16’s. His plan was simple. The pilot was to radio he was having engine trouble and would request permission to make an emergency landing at the Terre Haute field. Since it’d been practically abandoned when the government took over the base in Indianapolis, there would only be a skeleton crew stationed on the base, and most of those would probably be in town since it was Saturday night.

  Pilot Tommy Windsong, a young Navajo warrant officer, keyed his mike and said, “Tower at Terre Haute . . . tower at Terre Haute. This is Chinook 7624 declaring an in-flight emergency. Mayday! Mayday!”

  “Got ya on the scope, Chinook 7624. What’s the problem?”

  “Engine oil pressure is falling rapidly and I’m losing my hydraulics. I need to put this can down fast!”

  “Advise Chinook 7624, Indianapolis field is only fifty miles north. They have emergency equipment on standby. Advise you try there.”

  Windsong put as much sarcasm in his voice as he could. “Listen, son. These whirlybirds have all the glide characteristics of a rock when the engine quits. I say again, I need to land now!”

  There was a pause and a burst of static before the controller came back on. “Bring her in, Captain. Wind’s nor-noreast at ten miles, visibility is six miles. Happy landing, sir.”

  Windsong smiled and made an O sign over his shoulder with his thumb and index finger to Colonel Walker, who was standing just behind his seat.

  Walker turned to his men and pumped his fist up and down, signaling them to get ready. “Lock and load, gentlemen,” he said over the intercom into their headsets. “We’ve been invited to the dance.”

  “Time to kick some ass!” an unidentified voice responded, making Walker smile. It was the kind of spirit he liked in his men just before battle. It meant they were loose and ready.