Ambush in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Who attacked us back there, General?” a reporter asked, walking up.

  “I don’t know. We did take some prisoners and they’re being questioned now. Maybe we’ll find out, but the odds are we won’t.”

  “What will you do with the prisoners after you’ve questioned them, General Raines?” Marilyn Dickson asked. “Shoot them?”

  Ben sighed. “I doubt it, Ms. Dickson. We’ll probably patch them up as best we can and leave them behind.”

  “It was our understanding that the Rebels always executed their prisoners,” a reporter said.

  “Whoever told you that is full of shit,” Ben said bluntly. “If we’re dealing with murderers and rapists and child molesters and the like, yes, we sometimes do execute them. But these men today are soldiers, following orders from someone. They’ll be treated as fairly and as decently as is possible, under the circumstances, and left behind. Now if you will all excuse me, I have things to do.”

  The Rebel dead were buried in a local cemetery, with simple military honors, in unmarked graves. The Rebels had learned to do that because many times, depending on the enemy, marked graves were opened and the bodies desecrated and mutilated.

  Ben explained that to the reporters.

  “How awful!” a woman exclaimed.

  “We are not well liked,” Ben said simply, then turned away and walked off.

  Ben did not hear Marilyn Dickson say very sarcastically, “I simply cannot imagine why that would be.”

  But Jersey heard her.

  On the way to Conakry on the coast, where they were to resupply before traveling on to Sierra Leone, the Rebels passed through a dozen villages, all deserted. The town of Boke was a shambles, ravaged by war, and so was Boffa, a town south of Boke. The Rebel doctors attended to the few people that remained, mostly the very old, the sick and the dying, and then they moved on after leaving them food. There was little else they could do.

  The highway, and it was stretching the imagination to call it that, missed the town of Coyah by a few dozen miles as the Rebels turned west heading for the city of Conakry.

  “A mass of humanity, to use the words of the Scouts,” Corrie told Ben. “But they are making some effort to cope.”

  “Gangs?” Ben questioned.

  “Negative. They split a few days ago when they learned we were on the way.”

  “I hate to ask, but how many people are we dealing with here?”

  “About half a million.”

  Ben groaned. “Damn! Is the airport functional?”

  “Affirmative. Once we chase the people off the runways. They’re camped all over the place.”

  “All right. Tell Nick to send us half his doctors and Paul Harrison and Mike Post to do the same. Tell them to share some of their medical supplies. Thank God we do have ample vaccines and medicines.”

  “The airport is on the main road into the city,” Corrie reminded him.

  “I’ll set up a CP there.”

  “The SEALs went in with the gunships and set up a defensive line along with the Scouts. So far no one has made any serious attempts to breech it.”

  “We’ll be there by midafternoon. The ships?”

  “Standing by well off the coast. The people in the city are hungry, boss. It could get touchy. Probably will.”

  “We’ll handle it,” Ben said. “One way or the other.”

  “We have shooting trouble with starving people, that will be just what the press is waiting for,” Anna said.

  “I know,” Ben said softly. “But I won’t lose a Rebel to a goddamn mob when I can prevent it.”

  The column arrived at the airport just in time. Huge mobs were gathering all around the runways and the Scouts and SEALs, as tough as both units were, were about to be overrun by the screaming mobs.

  Tanks began to circle the airport as Rebels by the hundreds jumped from trucks to set up defensive lines. The mob paused.

  “The gangs had surrounded the city, General,” a Rebel SEAL told Ben. “They cut off the people from food; took it for themselves.”

  “Here’s an interpreter, General,” a Scout said, walking up leading a very reluctant-appearing man with him.

  “A sound truck is being readied right now,” Ben told the man. “You tell these people food is on the way. It will be handed out in an orderly fashion. If they try to breech our lines, we will open fire.”

  “The people are starving, General!” Stan Travis shouted the words. “You can’t shoot starving people!”

  “Get this son of a bitch out of here!” Ben ordered.

  Stan was led away without protest. He knew better than to offer any resistance.

  Ben turned to the local. “Tell the people to clear the runway. We have planes coming in. Tell them I want about fifty volunteers, men in good physical shape, to help unload the ships that will be docking very soon.”

  The interpreter climbed up onto the truck and took the microphone. The speakers howled in feedback and the scared locals looked wildly all around him. The volume was adjusted and he received a nod to go ahead.

  Whoever the interpreter was, and Ben never did find out, for as soon as the man finished speaking, and got a chance, he jumped down from the bed of the truck and disappeared into the crush of humanity. But he had done his job. Within moments, the mobs had settled down and were backing up.

  “That was close,” Anna said.

  “Too damn close,” her adopted father replied. “Corrie, tell the troops to keep gently pushing them back. No rough stuff, just be firm. We’ve managed to round up a dozen English-speaking locals, they’ll assist. We’ve got to get these runways clear of people and trash.”

  Ben turned to a Rebel SEAL. “How did the port look to you, Chief?”

  “As far as we could tell without going in there, General, the harbor is clear. Of course, there is no harbor master and the tugs are long gone. It’s all up to the captains if they want to chance it.”

  “We’d have smash-ups for sure. Hell, there wouldn’t be a dock left. How about small boats?”

  “Plenty of those.”

  “We’ll off-load that way. Corrie, tell the ships to anchor as close in as possible. Set up defensive lines at the port ASAP and get the trucks down there ready to receive supplies.” He turned to the SEAL. “Can you find us a good distribution site in the city, Chief.”

  “No problem, General.”

  “Now we have to find people to captain the small craft . . .”

  “We’ll take care of that,” a Scout quickly volunteered.

  “Have at it,” Ben told her.

  The SEAL looked dubiously at the female Scout, but said nothing. He knew the females who made the spec ops units had no slack cut for them because of gender: they could either cut it, or they were washed out. There was no such thing as preferential treatment in the SUSA, civilian workplace or military. No quotas, no such thing as affirmative action. If one was qualified to do the job, they got hired. If they weren’t, they hit the boards.

  “Found a CP for you, boss,” Cooper said, walking up with a group of Rebels. “It’s in the old main terminal building. Just right.”

  “Okay, Coop, thanks.” Ben looked slowly all around him. The crowds had almost disappeared, only a handful of diehards remaining. Ben’s eyes narrowed as Stan Travis walked up with a small group of reporters.

  “Travis!” Ben barked at him. “I have a word of warning for you. Take it to heart. If you ever, ever, interfere with me again, I will not hesitate to shoot you stone dead on the spot. Do you understand that, mister?”

  “Yes, sir,” the reporter said. But he could not keep the hate from his words.

  “You better understand it. I don’t have the authority to order you home, but I can damn sure banish you from this column, and I will, mister, I will.”

  Ben turned away and began the walk over to the main terminal building, his team with him. He knew he had not heard the last from Stan Travis.

  SIXTEEN

  The small boats began b
ringing in food, including fifty pound sacks of rice and dried beans, later that afternoon. There were only a few instances of trouble, and the Rebels, with the help of some ex-Guinea army personnel who had volunteered to work with the Rebels, quickly handled it without any bloodshed.

  Ben was impressed with the work of the ex-military personnel and told his people to see about making them into some sort of militia or police. When asked, the men quickly agreed, and the first steps toward order were taken. The rebels outfitted them with uniforms and weapons and radios.

  “The people are really in pretty good shape, except for the miserable diet, or lack of one, they’ve been forced to endure,” Dr. Chase told Ben, over a glass of bourbon in Ben’s CP the next evening.

  “Supplies holding out?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re fine there. Those countries in Europe who agreed to help with this project have really come through.”

  “I just wonder how long they’ll continue coming through after the reunited states start putting the pressure on them?”

  “You think that will happen?”

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  Chase shook his head. “I’ll argue that with you, Ben. If the reunited states tried to halt a humanitarian mission such as this one, there would be a howl from every capital around the world.”

  Ben smiled at his long-time friend. “You’re probably right, Lamar. I just don’t trust those people. I have a very deep-seated dislike for liberals.”

  Lamar finished his bourbon and stood up. “I have a very deep-seated dislike for politicians in general. Bastards thrive on bureaucracy. I think if a kid of mine said he wanted to grow up to be a politician I’d drown him.”

  Ben sat for a time after Lamar had gone. The gangs the Rebels had been pushing slowly southward could not keep running. They had to stop, turn around, and make a stand somewhere. Unless . . . Ben frowned. Well, that was a possibility. If Bruno was behind the gangs to some degree he just might allow them to cross over into his territory and use them for cannon fodder, thereby saving his troops. The more Ben thought about that, the more he felt that might be the case.

  Ben picked up the just decoded communiqué from Base Camp One and reread it. Mike Richards’s people had been busy and had done well. Paula Preston was indeed working for the new government of the reunited states. Her parents had been lifelong, highly dedicated workers in the left-wing of the democratic party. And Paula had been in lock-step with their socialistic ideology ever since she had reached the age of comprehension.

  They had trained her well.

  But if she was such a dedicated worker, and so trusted, why the hell did her masters (that was the way Ben viewed people who gave their hearts and minds to the left-wing) leave her in North Africa? What the hell was the point in that?

  “Oh, shit!” Ben muttered, sitting straight up in his chair. “Of course. That has to be it. It was so obvious I didn’t see it.”

  They must have known that Ben and his Rebels were planning to come here. Must have known that the Rebels had been gearing up for this mission for a couple of years.

  But that didn’t necessarily mean the leak came from Ben’s HQ. Those working on the mission back in Base Camp One had known of it for just as long, setting up supply lines, lining up ships and planes, working out logistics, and doing the hundreds of other things that went with such an operation.

  But that still did not explain the “why” of Paula being left over here. Mike’s people had found that other state department personnel who had survived the Great War had been either brought back Stateside by their government or managed to find their way back.

  So what was the real story behind Paula’s staying?

  As much as Ben hated to even entertain the thought, his mind kept returning to one conclusion: Bruno Bottger.

  But would an avowed socialist work for a fascist? Really give her heart and mind to such a philosophy?

  “Sure seems as though that happened in this case,” Ben muttered.

  “Ike on the horn, boss,” Corrie broke into his thoughts.

  Ben walked to the radio and picked up the mic. “Go ahead, Ike?”

  “Ben, we’re doing a lot of good work with the people, but the gangs keep running away toward the south. It’s almost as though they want us to follow them.”

  “I think they do, Ike. I think Bruno is behind this whole damn scenario.”

  “They’re not going to be able to flank us, Ben. Not in any strength. We’ve got eyes in the sky every moment. They’d pick it up. So what’s his plan?”

  “What’s your estimate of the gang strength, combined?”

  “A hundred thousand or so, and that’s probably figuring on the low end.”

  “I agree that’s low. Say . . . the equivalent of seven or eight divisions.”

  “All right.”

  “That’s a hell of a buffer zone, Ike. Especially with long-range artillery laying back and giving them support.”

  Ben could almost hear Ike sigh. “Well . . . that’s the way I had it figured, Ben. But what is the point of Bruno allowing us to get all these hundreds of thousands of people well and healthy . . . Oh, shit!” he suddenly said.

  “That’s right, Ike. He’s got people scattered throughout the starving, hundreds, maybe thousands of infiltrators, ready to rise up and take up arms when we do butt heads with the bastard. He’s had several years to recruit, promising them all sorts of things in return for their support.”

  “And we have no way of knowing who they are so we can flush them out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ll be fighting on two fronts.”

  “If we’re both right in our assumption. But I could be way off base. It’s still pretty early and things are iffy at this stage.”

  “Well, hell, Ben. Even if the gangs are not affiliated with Bruno, we’ve still got to fight them at some point. And with that many of them, we’ll be held up and sure to take casualties.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right.”

  “Any word on the ringer?” He meant Paula.

  “Ike, I think she’s working for Bruno.”

  “Son of a bitch! How do you figure she got hooked up with him?”

  “Through the people who ramrodded the reunification of the States back home.”

  There was a long pause from hundreds of miles away as the full impact of what Ben had just said struck home to Ike. “Ben . . . are you serious.”

  “Yes, I am, Ike. I . . .” He cut his eyes to Jersey, who had just been handed a slip of paper and had stiffened as she read it. She motioned to Ben to cut it short. “Back in a few, Ike. I think we may have a little trouble here.”

  “Okay, Ben. Take it easy.”

  “What’s up, Jersey?”

  “Intel says something’s in the wind. There is some unusual movement among the locals in the city and we’ve got several hundred people all moving toward the airport in small groups.”

  “Any sign of weapons?”

  “All of them carrying bundles about three feet long.”

  “My, my,” Ben said with a grin. “You don’t suppose they’re going camping this late in the evening, do you?”

  “I kinda doubt it, boss.”

  Ben glanced at Corrie. She nodded. “Everybody’s on alert.”

  Ben picked up his CAR and looked around the large room. Cooper had set up his squad automatic weapon and had placed extra two hundred round magazines close by. Anna and Beth had taken up positions at the rear of the room, facing away from the runways. Corrie picked up her CAR and smiled at Ben.

  “Rock and roll,” she said.

  “Indeed we shall,” Ben replied, just as the first sounds of gunfire reached their ears. “Cut the lights.”

  The room was suddenly plunged into darkness.

  “Groups of people swarming all over the airport,” Corrie spoke calmly. “One large group attempting to cross the runways.”

  “They won’t make it,” Ben said softly, just as Rebel .50 ca
liber machine guns opened up.

  Portable lights set up all around the area clicked on and the harsh beams showed dozens of men either lying very still in darkening pools of blood or flopping around in twisted pain on the runways.

  “Fools,” Ben muttered.

  A face filled with hate suddenly appeared in a window and Ben leveled his CAR and squeezed the trigger. The face dissolved in a spurt of blood and shattered bone. Another face took its place and Ben’s CAR bucked in his big hands. The top of the man’s head splintered apart and gray matter splattered.

  Cooper’s bi-podded SAW began yammering and a line of figures went down in boneless sprawls as the 5.56 rounds stitched them from left to right in the center of the body.

  “It’s heavier than anticipated,” Corrie shouted over the rattle of battle. “A large contingent of reinforcements coming in from the north.”

  A man suddenly shoved a weapon through the smashed window near Corrie and without changing expression she one-handed lifted her CAR and pulled the trigger. The 5.56mm rounds took the man first in the throat and then left a hole-pocked, bone-splintered, and bloody trail from his chin to the top of his head as the CAR rose on full auto.

  “Asshole,” Corrie was heard to mutter.

  A grenade sailed through a smashed window and without hesitation Anna scooped it up and hurled it back outside. “Hit the floor!” she shouted.

  Ben and team hit the brass-littered floor just as the grenade exploded outside the CP, waist-high about three feet in front of a group of charging infiltrators. The shrapnel shredded living flesh and the torn bodies were flung around like puppets with a madman manipulating the strings.

  With their ears still ringing from the concussion, Ben and team rose to their boots and once more took their positions. But the attackers had shifted their attack away from the small cluster of buildings—which included Ben’s CP—and seemingly were concentrating on attempting to overrun Rebel positions around the airport.

  Bad mistake on the part of whoever was in charge of the enemy operation.

  Ben and his team could hear the battle raging all around them, but for now, their part of the airport complex was quiet except for the moaning of the wounded outside.