“I didn’t call you up to argue philosophy, Ben,” Claire said, an edge in her voice.
“That brings up an interesting point, Claire,” Ben said. “Just why did you call me?”
“We may need your help,” Claire said, her voice croaking a bit, as if asking her old enemy for aid was difficult to articulate.
“Oh?” Ben asked.
“Yes. The terrorists have separated into hundreds of small groups of men who are all moving independently of each other, and thus our Army is virtually helpless against them. General Goddard has decided to send in our Rangers in helicopters to see if they can stop the terrorists’ advance, but he says the Rangers will be severely outnumbered.”
“So, the terrorists have resorted to a sort of guerrilla warfare, huh?” Ben asked.
“Yes, those were Goddard’s exact words.”
Ben shook his head, frowning. “Claire, I wouldn’t want to try and tell your general how to run his war, but I don’t think helicopters are the best bet against this kind of attack.”
There was silence for a moment, and Ben wondered if the general was sitting in the room with Claire listening to their conversation.
“Why not?” she asked after a few moments.
“Helicopters are fine for attacking large concentrations of men and equipment and for inserting troops into combat zones,” Ben said, “but they are fairly slow and make very tempting targets for men spread out in wooded areas, and are virtually worthless in urban areas. I’m afraid your general is going to lose a lot of very valuable troops if he insists on using the helicopters against guerrilla warriors.”
Another silence, finally broken by a question. “What would you advise?”
“If it were me, Claire, I’d use the latest intel to find out where the pockets of invaders were and HALO-drop small teams of Rangers, or Scouts as we call them, into the areas just ahead of the invaders. That way, the defenders could get set up and ambush or take out the invaders before they knew they were under attack.”
“That’s an interesting game plan, Ben, but my general says we just don’t have enough Rangers to do it that way.”
“Are you asking me for help, Claire?” Ben asked gently.
“Would you consider . . . uh ... lending us some of your Scouts to help eradicate this threat to my country?” Claire asked, a slight note of desperation in her voice.
“No, Claire,” Ben said, his voice firm. “I won’t ‘lend’ you any of my troops. But,” he added before she could respond, “I will send some of my troops to help get rid of the terrorists if they can act independently and under the command of our own leaders.”
“I don’t know if General Goddard will agree to having troops here that aren’t under his command,” Claire said.
Ben shrugged and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “It’s your call, Claire, but it’s the only way you’re gonna get any troops from us.”
“Let me get back to you on that, Ben,” Claire said.
“Don’t wait too long, Claire. The more spread out the guerrillas get, the harder it will be to take them out, and the more damage they’ll be able to do.”
“That’s exactly what General Goddard advised,” Claire said, a note of humor in her voice for the first time.
As Claire was speaking to Ben Raines on the phone, General Goddard was meeting with his Ranger commanders at his headquarters. Present were Colonel Blackie Johnson, Major Ralph Jackson, Colonel Randy Morrow, and Colonel Jimmy Doolittle.
Goddard was sitting at his desk, with his men arranged on chairs around his office.
“All right, men, here’s the plan,” Goddard said. “We’ll send in your teams of Rangers in Chinook helicopters to areas where the terrorists are active. Since we’re short on men, we’ll try to take out the most advanced teams of invaders first and then backtrack toward the ones not so far along.”
“General,” Colonel Johnson said, his voice a slow Southern drawl, “those Chinooks are gonna be mighty temptin’ targets for those Arabs.” He pronounced Arabs like A-rabs. “ ’Specially if they’ve got their hands on any TOWs or antitank rockets.”
Colonel Randy Morrow nodded his agreement. “Blackie’s right, General,” he said. “Those damned Chinooks are slower’n Christmas. My men are gonna be like sittin’ ducks up there.”
Goddard held up his hand. “Wait a minute, gentlemen. I plan to have some Apaches and Cobras and Defenders along to give your men air support.”
Lieutenant Ralph Jackson, the only black man among the group, shook his head. “That’s great, General, if the terrorists oblige by standing around all bunched up. But if they’ve got any brains at all, they’re gonna be spread out where the attack helicopters won’t be worth a bucket of spit.”
“The attack helicopters are just to occupy the attention of the terrorists,” Goddard said, “while the Chinooks let your men off ahead of the invaders’ area. Then, while the attack helicopters are harrying the hostiles, your men can advance on foot and take them out.”
Colonel Jimmy Doolittle shook his head. “I sure hope your intel is accurate on the location of these bandits,” he said. “ ’Cause if it’s wrong, my men are gonna be in a world of hurt.”
Goddard sighed deeply. “I need you men to work with me on this,” he said. “We don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. These terrorists are systematically destroying half the countryside while we sit here arguing over how to go about defeating them.”
He stood up. “If you have any better suggestions, make them now; otherwise get your men together and let’s go kick some ass!”
The officers glanced at each other, shrugged, and got to their feet.
“I guess you’re right, General,” Blackie Johnson said, “but I have a feelin’ we’re gonna need a lot of body bags ’fore this little fracas is over.”
The big Chinook helicopter shuddered and jumped in turbulent air as it headed for Erie, Pennsylvania. Colonel Blackie Johnson sat on metal benches along the walls with twenty of his Ranger troops.
As they rode, the men were constantly checking their equipment. Each man was outfitted with an M-16 carbine, the short-barreled model; a Colt .45-caliber automatic pistol; and a K-Bar assault knife. The equipment was relatively outdated, but the U.S. defense budget couldn’t afford the better, but more expensive, Uzis and Berettas used by the Scouts of the SUSA.
The latest intel relayed to Johnson said a band of terrorists were in the area and expected to hit the dock facilities at Erie on Lake Erie that were used to import goods and food from Canada. If the docks were destroyed, it would be a major setback for the people of the Northeast as it would severely hamper their ability to get food and other supplies for some time.
A McDonnel-Douglas OH-6 Defender attack helicopter was flying on the Chinook’s port side, while on the starboard side an Apache was leading the way toward the rendezvous with the invaders.
“Lock and load, gentlemen,” Johnson yelled, trying to make his voice heard over the roar of the Chinook’s big double engines.
The plan was to off-load the troops between the towns of Ashtabula and Erie, and to have them advance in the jeeps that were slung under the helicopter, while the Apache and Defender kept the invaders busy.
At least that was the plan. But Colonel Johnson, ever the realist, knew such battles rarely went as planned.
The Chinook began to settle along a lake-side road as the Apache and Defender flew in wide circles to keep watch while the troops and matériel were unloaded.
As the Chinook lowered toward the ground, Johnson looked out the window to the north and could see huge, billowing dark clouds of smoke some five miles away where the town of Erie would be.
“Damn,” he said to himself, “it looks like we’re too late to save the docks. Fuckin’ intel, wrong as usual,” he told himself.
Intel had said the terrorists were at least twenty miles to the north of the town, and wouldn’t be in a position to hit the docks for another twelve hours.
A booming explosion, followed by a bright light off to the left, caught his eye. He glanced over his shoulder out the window in time to see the Apache go up in a red fireball.
“God damn!” he yelled, knowing the attackers were lying in wait for them below.
“Hit the ground!” he hollered, diving out the cargo door of the Chinook and rolling as he hit the dirt.
Off to the right, the Defender made a sharp turn and lowered its nose as it dove at the ground just ahead of them, its 20mm cannon firing at unseen troops on the ground.
Johnson got up on his knees in time to see a bright orange streak of light head directly at the Defender, followed seconds later by another fireball as it exploded into fist-sized pieces of molten metal.
“Shit!” he screamed as he and his men began to come under withering automatic-weapons fire.
He recognized the distinctive sound of the AK-47’s that were being used against them—one of the most fearsome attack weapons ever made.
Half his men were cut down before they could exit the chopper, while the rest lay on their bellies and returned fire blindly at flashes of gunfire ahead of them.
Johnson threw his M-16 to his shoulder and pulled the trigger, just as a slug tore into his left shoulder, spinning him around to land facedown on hard-packed dirt.
There was no immediate pain, but he knew that would come later, after the shock wore off. He tried to get to his feet, but his left arm hung useless at his side, so he just rolled over onto his back and pulled his .45 from its holster.
He could see black-clad figures rushing toward them out of the darkness, and he tried to cock the pistol, but his left hand wouldn’t cooperate. He finally managed to cock the weapon by putting the butt against his chest and using his right arm.
A man screaming something in Arabic appeared twenty yards ahead and ran toward him, firing his rifle.
Johnson gritted his teeth in a savage grin and raised his Colt. “Take that you bastard,” he growled, pulling the trigger as fast as he could.
The big pistol bucked and jumped in his hand, and the Arab shuddered under the impact and was thrown backward with his arms outflung in death.
From his left, Johnson heard the stutter of another AK-47, and felt as if he’d been kicked by a mule as seven slugs tore into his chest and abdomen.
As blood welled up between his lips, he lay his head back and said, “Fuckin’ intel.”
And then all was quiet.
After a few moments, shadowy, black-clad figures emerged from their hiding places among the trees and shrubs nearby.
They walked slowly among the dead and dying Rangers, occasionally firing a single shot to put an end to suffering, looting and stripping each body of weapons and ammunition before moving on to the next one.
Jamal Ahmed Fadl, the leader of this particular Arab team, walked with his second in command over to stand in front of the Chinook helicopter. He could see the pilot and copilot’s bodies through the bullet-shattered Plexiglas, slumped over their controls, the rotors still moving slowly around as the big twin engines idled roughly.
Fadl inclined his head toward the chopper’s cargo doorway. “Go and see if there is anything worth taking inside,” he said in Arabic, “then torch it.”
“Yes, sir,” his man said, and moved quickly off to do as he’d been told.
Fadl turned to watch his men strip the bodies and nodded. “All in all, a good night’s work,” he muttered to the night air.
Seventeen
Mike Post knocked on Ben Raines’s door once and entered without waiting for a reply. Ben was in the corner pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Hey, Mike,” he said, holding up the carafe, “want some?”
“Only if it’s better than what they’ve got in the mess hall,” Mike answered, sitting in the chair in front of Ben’s desk and placing his briefcase on his lap.
“Guaranteed,” Ben said, and poured another cup.
While Mike got his case opened and a sheaf of papers arranged on Ben’s desk, Ben handed him his coffee and walked around to sit in his desk chair.
“So, what’s the latest news from Intel?” Ben asked.
“I just got a call from General Goddard.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Evidently his best Rangers went up against the terrorists last night and didn’t fare too well.”
“What happened?”
“Seems the general’s intel is not so good. Half the time the invaders weren’t where they were supposed to be, and the other half of the time they were lying in wait for the Rangers when they arrived.”
“He sent them in by chopper, didn’t he?” Ben asked, though he knew the answer. Men like General Goddard were far too conservative to think outside the limits of their rather limited imaginations. They were much too prone to do things the way they’d always been done, and that was one reason Ben had such good luck in defeating such men in combat.
“Uh-huh,” Mike said, nodding his head. “Big Chinooks with Apaches and Defenders to run interference.”
Ben shook his head. “I can’t believe he was that stupid. The men he was going after could hear those choppers coming a mile off. Even if the intel had the right area, there was no chance to get his men in secretly.”
Ben slammed his hand down on his desk. “Shit!” he said. “Those men were doomed from the get-go with that kind of a plan of attack.”
Ben hated to see good fighting men, no matter the side they were on, wasted by incompetent commanders. It went against his grain.
“What did Goddard want, other than to tell us his problems?” Ben asked.
“He wants to talk to you personally,” Mike said. “I think he’s anxious to work out some kind of compromise on the chain-of-command issue so he can get some of our Scouts over there to help save his ass.”
Ben’s lips compressed into a thin line, a sure sign he was angry. “Okay, get him on the phone,” he ordered.
Mike glanced at Ben and took a deep breath. He wouldn’t want to be in Goddard’s shoes when he talked to Ben, that was for sure.
Mike picked up the phone on Ben’s desk and spoke briefly into it. After he hung it up, he said, “Sally’s gonna ring through when the general’s on the line.”
A few minutes later, the phone on Ben’s desk buzzed. Ben reached over and picked it up.
“General Raines,” he said, his voice curt so as to let General Goddard know who was in charge.
“Hello, General Raines, this is General Maxwell Goddard,” the voice on the other end said.
Ben reached down and pressed a button, activating the speakerphone. “I’m gonna put you on the speaker, General,” Ben said, “so my Chief of Intel, Mike Post, can hear the conversation.”
“Good,” Goddard said, “I’d like us both to have his input on the situation.”
“Me too,” Ben said. “Well, Max, it’s your nickel. What can we do for you?”
“Has Mike filled you in on the situation here, Ben?” Goddard asked.
“Yeah. How many men did you lose last night?” Ben asked.
After a short hesitation, Goddard answered in a low voice, “Over a hundred, along with three commanders.”
“And how many terrorists did your men manage to take out on their missions?”
Another hesitation. “Uh, about fifty, give or take a few.”
“That’s not a very good ratio, Max,” Ben said wryly.
“I know,” Goddard said. “Our intel was badly mistaken on both the whereabouts and strength of the opposition. Due in part to the cooperation with the terrorists of some of our own citizens.”
“You talking about the FFA guys?” Ben asked.
“Yes. The traitors have aligned themselves with these invaders in hopes of eventually taking over the reins of government from President Osterman.”
“So I hear,” Ben said. �
�Now, you’ve explained your problems, Max. What is it you want from us?”
“President Osterman said she’d discussed with you the possibility of your sending some of your Scouts over here to help us eradicate these bastards,” Goddard said, a tentative note in his voice.
“Yes, we discussed it,” Ben said, “along with my requirements for the assistance.”
“You mean about the men not being under my command?” Goddard asked.
“Yes.”
“Ben, you know that’d be very difficult to set up,” Goddard said. “It would be extremely difficult to coordinate a good plan of attack without unified leadership of the troops.”
“Just how coordinated was your plan of attack last night, General Goddard?” Ben asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm and scorn.
“What do you mean?” Goddard asked huffily.
“General, I’ll be frank with you,” Ben said, leaning forward so his face was closer to the speaker. “Your operation last night was a complete cluster-fuck!”
“What?”
“You heard me, Max. If you were under my command and had planned such a terrible operation, I would’ve had you court-martialed and probably shot at dawn.”
“I don’t have to listen to this shit! ” Goddard said, his voice rising to a high pitch.
“No, you don’t,” Ben said quietly, “but you’d damned well better listen to someone, Max, or you’re not only going to get a lot of good men killed, you’re gonna lose your country.”
“But how was I to know what was going to happen?” Goddard asked, his voice no longer angry but more hushed. “These invaders are just a bunch of rag-heads who don’t even know the country.”
Ben leaned back and looked at Mike Post, wondering whether it was worth his time to try to explain the fundamental aspects of guerrilla warfare to this man.
“Using the helicopters was a big mistake, Max,” Ben said in an even voice, trying to keep the accusation on a professional level.
Destiny in the Ashes Page 11
