Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Watson could see a pair of Army boots standing in the doorway from under the edge of the overcoat, and he gave a silent prayer while he waited for the impact of a stream of bullets.

  After what seemed an eternity, the boots turned and walked away, leaving the closet door open.

  Watson took a shallow breath, but didn’t move. He intended to stay right where he was until the police came, however long it took.

  Sharak and Duke walked around the power plant, checking the bodies of the workers to make sure they were all dead.

  Once they’d determined there were no witnesses left alive, Duke showed Sharak’s men where to place their explosive charges so they’d do the most damage.

  “We want to put the turbines out of business,” he explained, “but not completely ruin them.”

  “Why not?” Sharak asked.

  “Because once we take over running the country,” Duke said, referring to the Freedom Fighters of America, “we don’t want to have to spend all the country’s resources on rebuilding what we’ve torn down.”

  “Oh,” Sharak said, though personally he thought blowing this terrible country of unbelievers back into the Stone Age was probably a good idea.

  Duke showed the men how to position the charges so only the big belts that ran the generators would be destroyed. Something easy enough to fix, but that would put the plant out of business for at least a few weeks. Weeks that would give the FFA and the Arabs time to do enough damage to the country to make Osterman give up her position as president, or so Duke thought.

  Just as they set the timers for ten minutes, enough time for them to get free of the building, shots rang out from the doorway to the turbine room and three of Sharak’s men fell, twisting under the impact of hot lead.

  “Put your hands up and come out one at a time! This is the police!” a voice yelled from the doorway.

  Sharak ducked behind a turbine, raised his AK-47, and let go with a stream of bullets, yelling in Arabic at his men to do the same.

  As the police and the Arabs exchanged gunfire, Duke looked worriedly over his shoulder at the charges placed just a few feet away from them.

  “Hey, Omar,” he said, pulling on Sharak’s shoulder. “Them charges are gonna go off any minute now. We got to get outta here or turn ’em off.”

  Sharak laughed, sweat pouring off his forehead and running down his face. “Look there, John Duke,” he said, inclining his head toward the doorway, which was filled with policemen pointing guns into the turbine room. “There is no way out of here.”

  “Then, we have to give ourselves up,” Duke said, sweat pouring off his face too.

  “You don’t understand, John,” Sharak said, not unkindly. “We will be martyrs to the cause . . . we will have everything we want when Allah takes us home.”

  “Martyrs?” Duke shouted, backing away from Sharak. “I ain’t gonna be no goddamned martyr!”

  He ran out from behind the turbine, his hands in the air, yelling, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I give up!”

  Sharak shook his head sadly. Cowards, these Americans, so afraid to die. He raised his AK-47, centered the sights between Duke’s shoulder blades, and let go with a short burst, blowing the traitor forward onto his hands and knees.

  Duke, still alive, tried to crawl forward, but collapsed after only six yards. He moaned, coughed, and spewed blood from between pale lips, and died on the cold concrete.

  Sharak glanced at his wrist watch, saw the time was at hand, and stood up. He held his automatic rifle at waist level, screamed, “Allah be merciful!” and rushed the door, firing as he went.

  The astonished policemen saw the Arabs all come out from behind cover and rush their position.

  “Jesus!” the lieutenant in charge whispered as he pointed his M-16 and pulled the trigger.

  Men were bowled over and cut down like flies as the police unloaded on the rushing Arabs. Two policemen were hit and went down in the melee.

  Just as the last of the Arab attackers was hit and knocked to the floor, six tremendous explosions occurred almost simultaneously, sending a giant fireball across the room and through the door, incinerating four more policemen and severely burning three others.

  The force of the explosions caused the roof of the turbine room to cave in, covering the huge electric turbines with two tons of concrete and Sheetrock.

  The lieutenant, blown over backward and flung across the room by the blast, got to his feet in time to look out of the window. There was nothing but darkness as far as the eye could see.

  “God damn!” he muttered. “They’ve killed the electricity all over the state.”

  After he saw to his men as best he could, he went to the nearest phone and dialed headquarters.

  “This is Lieutenant Waler,” he said tiredly into the phone. “Send some ambulances out to the power plant; we’ve got officers down.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” the female communications officer said, “did you know all the lights in town are out?”

  He gave a low laugh. “Yeah, I kinda figured they might be. After you get the ambulances on the way, get the chief on the horn for me.”

  “He’s not going to like being waked up,” she said.

  “That’s not all he’s not gonna like,” Waler said. He hung up the phone. I sure hope the chief’s still taking his ulcer medicine, he thought wryly.

  Fifteen

  Claire Osterman called an emergency meeting of her cabinet in response to reports coming in from both the Northwest and Northeast of multiple attacks on cities, defense installations, and power plants and roads.

  Her Defense Minister, Gerald Boykin, was sweating under her intense glare.

  “All right, Gerry,” Claire said in a low, ominous tone of voice as she stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Tell me just what the hell is going on and why we haven’t been able to do anything about it.”

  “Uh, Madam President,” he began, his voice croaking, “it appears we’ve been invaded in both the Northwest and Northeast borders by a substantial number of troops of Middle Eastern origin.”

  Claire sighed and drained the last of her coffee in one gulp. “I know that, Gerry,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “We’ve known that for over twenty-four hours. My question is, what exactly are our Armed Forces doing about it?”

  Boykin spread his hands, looking to his left and right at Wallace Cox, Minister of Finance, and Clifford Ainsworth, Minister of Propaganda, as if searching for help. Neither man appeared ready to step to his defense, so he continued.

  “I’ve asked General Maxwell Goddard to come here this morning to give you a briefing, but so far, he hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Claire shook her head. “You and the general are supposed to work in concert, Gerry. Why don’t you fill me in while we wait for the esteemed general to arrive?”

  Boykin sleeved sweat off his brow. “All I know is he sent some air-assault troops into both areas by helicopter late last night . . . Rangers, I believe.”

  Just as he finished talking, the door opened and in walked General Goddard, his tie loose and his shirt collar open, with sweat stains under his arms. He looked harried, as if he hadn’t had much sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Good morning, Madam President,” he said, and nodded at the other people in the room.

  “Ah, the ever-late General Goddard,” Claire said with some sarcasm.

  The general bristled at her tone. “I’m late to the meeting because I haven’t left the radio for more than five minutes in the last twelve hours,” he said crossly.

  Claire held up a placating hand. “I know, General. Now, would you please give us some idea of just what is going on in my country?”

  He took a seat and opened his briefcase on his lap. He withdrew a sheaf of papers and studied them as he spoke. “As you know, over twenty thousand foreign troops have invaded our country from Vancouver Island in the west and Nova Scotia in the east.”

  Claire nodded. “I’m aware of that,
General, but that doesn’t seem to be such a large amount that our Army couldn’t handle them.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Under ordinary circumstances, we would be able to overrun them without any problem whatsoever,” he said.

  Claire’s eyebrows raised. “So, we’re talking about extraordinary circumstances, I presume?” she asked.

  Goddard nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Instead of marching together in a straight line as most armies do, these invaders have evidently divided up into hundreds or thousands of smaller bands and spread out across the country in an almost random manner. They are all skilled terrorists and are targeting centers of government and police stations as well as important Army National Guard facilities and power plants and road bridges.”

  “With what purpose in mind?” Claire asked. “They will cause some minor problems, but surely not anything we can’t eventually overcome with the proper Army response.”

  Goddard shook his head. “That might be the case were they acting alone, Claire, but they’ve managed to get substantial help from some local dissidents.”

  “What?” Claire asked, her face flushing red.

  “Yes. It appears members of some splinter groups are aiding and abetting the invaders. The FFA seems to be playing an important part in helping the invaders with both their choice of targets and with routes that will make them almost impossible to interdict with conventional forces.”

  “The FFA?” Claire asked, turning her attention to Ainsworth.

  The Minister of Propaganda frowned. “Yes, ma’am. They call themselves the Freedom Fighters of America, and they oppose just about everything we stand for.”

  “Go on,” Claire said, leaning back in her chair and steepling her fingers under her chin.

  “They are far-right-wing zealots who oppose any government interference in their lives. They think people should be left alone to fend for themselves without any aid from the government.”

  “They sound like the citizens of the SUSA,” Claire observed, glancing around to see if the ministers agreed with her.

  Ainsworth nodded slowly. “In many aspects, they do agree with the tenets under which Ben Raines formed the SUSA; only these people are even more adamantly against government intervention in their lives. They refuse to pay taxes, they hoard arms and weapons and explosives, and live in communes out in the boondocks where they’ve formed heavily defended areas.”

  Claire leaned forward and slammed her hand down on her desk. “And why haven’t these traitors been rousted out and imprisoned before now?” she asked angrily.

  Goddard shrugged. “It’s been a matter of priorities, Claire. As Cliff says, the areas where they live are isolated and heavily defended. It would take a major effort to take them out, and for the past few years, the military and the police have been more concerned with the wars we’ve been in and maintaining order in a populace that has grown increasingly rebellious as our standard of living has fallen.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked, her face flaming red at the implied criticism of her policies.

  “Well ...” Gerald Boykin began, and then hesitated.

  “Go on,” Claire demanded, staring intently at him.

  “Over the past few years, the citizens have gotten tired of everything they need to live being in short supply. They’ve become surly and argumentative with local authorities, and there have even been riots in some localities when food and sundry supplies have gotten low,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor, unable to meet Claire’s stern gaze.

  “And you’re saying this is my fault?” she asked, a dangerous tone in her voice.

  “Of course not, Claire,” Goddard interrupted. “We are on your side, and as your ministers, we’ve backed you up on every decision you’ve made about trying to defeat the SUSA. It’s just that our efforts have strained the economy to its bursting point and the people are ready to rebel. The constant shortages followed by this damn plague that’s killed thousands of civilians has caused them to be less than respectful of any governmental officers.”

  “So, what does all this mean?” she asked, relaxing a little at Goddard’s conciliatory tone.

  “I’m afraid, if the invaders keep going, they’re gonna find a large number of citizens willing to join them in their quest to overthrow the government,” Cox said. “The number of malcontents among the citizens is at an all-time high, and if the terrorists succeed in cutting even more essential services out, such as electricity and roads, then the people are going to want a change.”

  “And you think the average citizen is dumb enough to think these rag-heads will be able to do more for them than we can?” she asked scornfully.

  Goddard smirked. “Claire, the average citizen is a mushroom. . . kept in the dark and fed bullshit. Don’t expect them to make rational decisions based on logic. All they know is their electricity is off, they can’t get food at the stores ’cause the roads and bridges are destroyed, and these FFA guys will be promising them the moon. A lot of them are bound to fall for these lies and join up with the terrorists.”

  Claire nodded slowly, seeing his point. “All right, I get the picture. Now, just what do you men propose we do to counter this invasion?”

  “I’m sending all the Rangers I have out into the field to combat these infiltrators,” Goddard said, “but I’ll soon be running out of men.”

  “What about the Regular Army?” Claire asked.

  He shook his head. “No good. Those soldiers are trained to fight a regular war, with huge masses of troops going up against other huge masses of troops. As for guerrilla warfare, which is what we are engaged in here, they don’t have a clue. They’d probably do more harm than good.”

  “So this Army that’s costing the government a fortune is useless when we need it?” she asked scornfully.

  Goddard shook his head. “No, it’s not useless. In fact, I am spreading the Regular Army units out and posting them as guards along major roads and around important facilities for electricity and communications. But as for going out in the field and rousting out these terrorists, only the Rangers are trained for that kind of fighting.”

  “So, what do you suggest?” Claire asked, her face looking defeated for the first time they could remember.

  Goddard glanced at the other ministers, who all nodded at him as if they’d already discussed this eventuality.

  “I think it’s time to give Ben Raines a call,” Goddard said.

  “Ben Raines?”

  “Yes. You said he offered to help when he gave us the warning about these terrorists, and he has a large contingent of troops that are trained for just this kind of war.”

  “Rangers?” Claire asked.

  Goddard shook his head. “No, I believe Raines calls them Scouts, and from what my officers tell me from the times they’ve faced them in combat, they’re even deadlier than our Rangers in guerrilla warfare.”

  Claire turned in her chair and glanced out the window. “Damn, I hate to go begging on hands and knees to Raines. The son of a bitch will give me a horselaugh.”

  “I don’t think so, Claire,” Boykin said. “After all, Raines said he supports your continued presence as president of the United States, and it would do him no good at all to have a bunch of Middle Eastern terrorists in control on his northern border.”

  “I agree, Claire,” Ainsworth said. “Raines will welcome the chance to keep some stability here.”

  Claire looked over at Herb Knoff, who had been sitting silently throughout the meeting. He smiled slightly and nodded his head in agreement.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” she said, turning back to her desk and standing, indicating the meeting was over.

  As the men stood up, Goddard stepped closer to her desk. “Don’t think about it too long, Claire. We may not have much longer to get a handle on this before it’s too late. Once the people begin to join the FFA, the cat will be out of the bag and very hard to put back in.”

  “You think we’re that close to
losing the support of the people?” she asked.

  Goddard held up his hand with his index finger and thumb a half inch apart. “Very close, Claire, very close.”

  Sixteen

  “Hello, Claire,” Ben said into the speakerphone, adjusting the volume a little so Mike Post, his Chief of Intel, could hear the conversation from where he sat across the room.

  “Hello, Ben,” Claire Osterman replied.

  “How are things going?” Ben asked, wondering just why she’d called him.

  “Not so well, Ben,” she replied, her voice sounding tired and worn out. “You were right about the possible invasion of the U.S. by the Arabs.”

  “Oh?” Ben asked, but Mike had already filled him in on the current status of the invasion and how the invaders were systematically moving southward, destroying vital U.S. infrastructure as they went.

  “Yeah, and we’re having a bit of a problem controlling them,” Claire said.

  “What’s the problem?” Ben asked. “My information is there are only twenty or thirty thousand invaders so far. Your Army should be able to easily handle that number of terrorists, especially if you have the help of your citizens in the fight.”

  A sigh could be heard through the speaker. “Well, as you know, Ben, our citizens have always believed strongly in gun control, and therefore not many of the people in my country have access to firearms.”

  Ben grinned at Mike Post and shook his head. This was indeed one of the many differences between the SUSA and the U.S. The bleeding heart liberals of the U.S. with their wrongheaded notion that guns were all bad had long ago decreed that no one other than the government should own or have access to firearms.

  The SUSA, under Ben Raines’s leadership, had always felt just the opposite. Ben believed a well-armed populace was the nation’s surest defense against tyranny, and virtually everyone in the SUSA owned guns and knew how to use them. Any invasion of the SUSA would be short-lived, with the invading troops being fought by everyone in the country as well as the Army.

  “We’ve had this discussion before, Claire, about the importance to a nation’s defense of its citizens being armed, but even now I don’t expect to change your mind.”