Ambush in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The village appeared to be deserted, just another civilian casualty of war.

  It was a death trap for the unsuspecting.

  “Enemy column’s ETA twenty-five minutes,” Corrie said.

  Ben nodded his head and rolled a smoke. “Tell the people to grab a quick smoke if they want to. Piss now if they have to. Smokes out in five minutes and everybody in position.”

  Ben rolled a cigarette, lit up, and asked, “Corrie, Scouts are certain the enemy convoy has no recon working forward?”

  “Positive, boss. They’re rolling along pretty sure of themselves.”

  “Somebody fucked up,” Ben muttered. “They didn’t do their homework; didn’t study the tactics of their opposition. Bad mistake.”

  “They won’t make another one,” Jersey said, chomping on a wad of gum.

  “Very true, Jersey,” Ben said, after blowing a smoke ring and watching it disappear in the wind that silently sang through the glass-smashed windows. “If we’re careful and don’t spring the trap too soon. Corrie, tell the troops north of the town to be sure and knock out the first several vehicles. The commander of this force will almost certainly be in one of those vehicles. And we don’t want to give them a chance to radio what’s happening. Lots of ‘ifs’ involved here.”

  “Enemy convoy has increased speed,” Corrie said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “They’re getting anxious,” Ben replied. “Bad move on their part. Shows another sign of lack of professionalism. They’re going to roll right into this.”

  “They won’t roll out of it,” Anna said grimly.

  Ben looked at his adopted daughter. Anna was as cold as ice, as usual.

  Ben cut his eyes to Beth, looking at him. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled knowingly. Anna was a warrior, pure and simple, through and through, but one who would always pick the right side, Ben was sure of that. Her years of struggle to survive as a child against the evil of the forces of the nearly overwhelming numbers of warlords and gangs back in her home country had seen to that.

  Anna had laid out a long belt of 40mm grenades, filled with anti-personnel grenades. She sat back and waited.

  Ben checked his old M-14, known affectionately as a Thunder Lizard, and slipped the fire selector to full auto. It was a punishing weapon to hold and fire at full auto, but it laid down a devastating field of fire.

  Cooper had his SAW bi-podded, an extra canister of ammo nearby.

  Ben’s team was ready.

  “Ten minutes,” Corrie said.

  Ben took his position by the window—or what was left of it—nearest the south wall. He stayed well back from the window, in the shadows, and would remain there until the ambush was sprung.

  All around the battle-scarred little town, the Rebels waited, silent and motionless.

  “Five minutes,” Corrie said softly.

  The rain continued to fall, but it had been reduced to only a drizzle.

  Finally the Rebels could hear the truck engines as the enemy convoy approached the town.

  “Showtime,” Cooper said, pulling back the bolt on his SAW, chambering a round.

  The Rebels in town would let the first fifteen or so trucks in the convoy roll on through. The Rebels in position on the north side of town would start the ambush. At the first yammer from machine guns, the first crump of grenades, the first whoosh from a rocket launcher, the entire stretched-out company would open up on the unsuspecting convoy. And the quiet, gray-sky, drizzly day would turn into a death trap.

  “Play with the big boys,” Ben muttered, his eyes following the first truck as it passed through the town, “and you’re very likely to get your nose bloodied.”

  Jersey was the only one of the team to have heard the quiet words, she cut her dark eyes to Ben and smiled.

  Ben winked at her.

  Then the enemy convoy stopped before the first truck could clear the northern edge of the small town.

  “Crap,” Ben muttered. “Now what?”

  “What is the matter?” a white man yelled, jumping from the fifth truck in the packed-up-close column.

  “The engine is overheating!” came the shout from the lead truck.

  “I don’t give a damn if it blows up,” the white officer yelled. “We’re too close now to stop. If the engine fails, we’ll leave the truck and spread the men out among the other vehicles. Now get that goddamn thing moving.”

  “All right, all right! Keep your fucking pants on, will you?” came the insolent reply.

  “The officers certainly have a great deal of respect for each other, don’t they?” Jersey whispered.

  Ben smiled his reply.

  “Now what’s wrong?” the first white officer yelled after a few seconds. The enemy column had not moved. The waiting Rebels could hear the sound of a grinding starter.

  “The truck won’t start. I told you the engine was overheating. Now it’s locked up, I believe.”

  “It isn’t locked up, you idiot. Oh, never mind. We can’t wait. Push . . .”

  The sound of an engine bursting into life cut off his words as the lead truck’s motor roared.

  “Finally. Roll it, roll it!”

  The truck’s engine died. The sound of it was so clear it was heard up and down the street.

  “Oh, good God!” the officer yelled impatiently.

  The starter began grinding.

  “Hell with it,” the officer shouted. “Everybody out and the second truck push that vehicle out of the way. We’re wasting too much time. Move it, goddamnit, move it!”

  “Colonel!” another voice entered the conversation. “Colonel!”

  “What is it?” the now identified commander shouted.

  “Something is very wrong here.”

  The colonel paused for a heartbeat, looking slowly all around him. He shook his head and yelled. “What are you talking about?”

  “There are tire tracks leading left and right off the street. They disappear into the brush and jungle.”

  “Tire tracks?”

  “Yes, sir. From heavy trucks. Colonel, they’re all up and down the street. Just look, see for yourself.”

  “Now it gets interesting,” Ben muttered. “I hope everybody is on their toes.”

  “I don’t see any damn tracks!” the colonel yelled. “Where are they?”

  “You’re looking at the hard pack in front of that old store. Move left or right where the earth hasn’t been packed down by years of parking. You’ll see them. It’s all very strange.”

  “The man is an idiot,” Ben muttered. “I would have put the tracks together immediately.”

  “Oh, very well. I’m looking.” The colonel began walking slowly south, mumbling about a waste of time.

  Ben lifted his Thunder Lizard.

  “By God!” the colonel yelled. “I see them. It’s probably just . . .” He paused. His training as a soldier finally kicked in and jogged his brain. “Oh, shit!” he shouted. “Ambush!” he screamed. “Ambush!”

  Ben shot him and the gates of Hell swung open, inviting all who would enter to step right up.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The colonel was slammed back by the heavy rounds from Ben’s M-14. He fell on his back in the mud and did not move. Anna cut loose with her Big Thumper and the two trucks that were parked directly in front of the old building exploded in flames and death and the screaming of wounded men. Cooper shifted the muzzle of his SAW and opened fire on the third, parked south of the burning trucks, before the soldiers who were under canvas in the bed could leap out and run for their lives. The 5.56 rounds hammered out pain and death. The others in Ben’s team sent grenades from their bloop tubes into the parked enemy column at almost point-blank range.

  The Rebels lying in wait north of the town did not have to have a signal to know what had happened. They were moving instantly, working closer to the north edge of the town, throwing up a defensive line left and right of the highway.

  The jaws of the death trap had been sprung and the dangerous, predato
ry beast caught in the snare could not free himself and had no place to run even if it could. Those caught could do nothing now except die.

  From front and back and both sides, the Rebels hammered out death by bullet, grenade, and rocket. Many of the trucks caught on fire and the fumes from the fuel tanks exploded. The ammunition and mortar rounds they were carrying exploded and lead and shrapnel was flying in all directions. The din was deafening and the smoke teared the eyes. The wounded were screaming and the sergeants and officers were yelling orders which could not be heard five feet away and conditions were so confused and disorganized no one would have paid any attention to them if they could be heard.

  The Rebels methodically picked off any of the enemy who tried to flee the scene of destruction and death. Ben ended a burning man’s race with death with one round from his M-14. The man was enveloped in flames from his feet to his hair and was running in blind agony.

  The smell of burning and cooking and charred human flesh and hair was thick in the damp air, clinging close to the ground, offensive even to those who were long accustomed to the smell of death.

  The carnage seemed to go on for hours, when actually it lasted less than five minutes. Five minutes to snuff out hundreds of lives. Ben was reminded of the old saying: “You pays your money, you takes your chances.”

  The ambush was almost one hundred percent effective. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five men escaped into the brush and jungle, running in sheer panic to escape the death trap.

  “No pursuit,” Ben ordered, his voice strange in his head after the yammering of combat.

  Automatically, Ben ejected the nearly empty magazine from the belly of his Thunder Lizard and slipped in a full one, clicking it into place. He walked to the door and looked out through the swirling smoke, staring impassively at the sprawled bodies and those few who were wounded and trying to crawl away. A few were crying out for help in English, others were calling out in a language Ben did not understand, but he was reasonably certain the vocal content was the same.

  Ben slung the M-14 and pulled his canteen out, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink of water. He was conscious of eyes on him. He searched the death scene until he found the man who was staring at him.

  “Water, please,” the man called.

  Ben walked over to him and knelt down. The man must have taken at least eight or ten rounds in the chest and belly; he was soaked in blood. Ben pulled the wounded man’s canteen from his web belt and unscrewed the cap, holding it to the man’s lips. Water to a man gut-shot is dangerous, but what the hell? Ben thought. This guy will be dead in a few minutes. The blood staining his lips was pink and frothy—lung shot.

  “You are the devil, Ben Raines?” the man gasped out the question.

  Ben smiled. “That’s me.”

  “You live up to your reputation, General.” Then the man closed his eyes, shuddered once, stiffened, and died.

  Ben placed the canteen on the ground next to the man and stood up. “I’ve been called worse,” he said to the dead man, then turned and walked away.

  Some of the Rebel deuce-and-a-halves were able to back out of the brush and jungle without getting stuck in the soft earth. Rebels were already using them to wench out trucks that were mired up.

  “How many people did we lose?” Ben asked, as Corrie walked up to stand beside him.

  “None. Five wounded. None of them seriously.”

  “We lucked out again.”

  The rest of Ben’s team joined him and stood watching as the dead were unceremoniously dragged off the road and tossed into ditches. They would not be buried. The wounded—those the medics thought might have some chance of making it—were patched up and carried to huts and houses. The dying were given a shot to ease the pain and left alone to wander off into that long sleep.

  Several times Ben heard the whispered words among the wounded: “That’s the devil himself over there.”

  Ben ignored the comments and walked away, over to where his own wounded lay, being treated. Their wounds were not serious, certainly not life-threatening, and all five would be up and ready for limited duty within a few days. He chatted with the wounded for a few moments, then walked on.

  “The animals and the carrion birds are sure gonna have a fine time here when we leave,” Jersey remarked.

  “That they will,” Ben replied. “But I don’t believe the dead will notice.”

  “Those enemy troops at the junction have fled, boss,” Corrie reported. “Running away in all directions.”

  “Somebody caught up in the ambush kept their cool and was professional enough to get off a radio message. With the element of surprise gone, those at the junction wanted no part of us. Good. Just maybe we can get out of this country without another fight.”

  “I wouldn’t bet any money on that,” Anna said, standing nearby.

  “No,” Ben replied. “I don’t think I would, Anna. We’re going to have to be heads up at all times from now on. Corrie, how many of the enemy trucks are serviceable?”

  “Maybe half a dozen.”

  “Load all the collected weapons, ammo, and what supplies we can salvage from the ambush into them. Let’s get out of this damn place ASAP.”

  His team knew what he meant: the awful smell of death hung everywhere and clung to everything; especially the odor of burned human flesh. And the afternoon rains had not yet come to wash and cleanse the earth. It was time for a lunch break, but no one wanted to eat here.

  “Corrie, tell the companies ahead of us to hold up at the junction; wait for us. We’ll be pulling out of here within the hour—hopefully.”

  “It’ll be about forty-five minutes, boss.”

  “That’s even better. Damn, this place stinks!”

  A medic walked up. “General, the one white who survived the ambush wants to talk to you. He’s hard hit and probably isn’t going to make it.”

  “All right. Lead the way.”

  The officer looked to be in his early forties and had been hit twice in the chest and twice in the belly. The doctor attending him met Ben’s eyes and shook his head, then walked away. Ben knelt down beside the man.

  “An honor, General Raines,” the dying man whispered. “You are truly a worthy foe. You might even be a match for Field Marshal General Bottger.”

  “How many damn titles does that nut have?”

  The officer smiled: a bloody curving of the lips. “Whatever suits him at the moment, General Raines. But he pays well and while he might be just slightly insane, he is a brilliant field commander.”

  Ben didn’t argue that. He knew Bruno Bottger’s tactics well and knew he was not a commander to take lightly.

  “Then you are not one of Bottger’s regulars?”

  “No. I’m Austrian by birth. A professional soldier by the grace of God.”

  “You’ll fight for whoever pays you the most money.” It was not a question.

  “That is correct. Politics does not interest me at all.”

  “How many men can Bottger field?”

  “Several hundred thousand regulars and several hundred thousand natives who joined him after he arrived on this shithole of a continent.”

  Ben smiled faintly. “Does he have an air force?”

  “Yes. Jet fighters. Not that many but he has training programs and factories working around the clock as we speak. All of the south of Africa is his new homeland, so he’ll be ready for you and your Rebels, General.”

  “I’m sure he will be. What happened to the people of South Africa, the white population especially? And I’m talking about all the whites south of here?”

  “They fought us. We killed off most of them. Pity, they were good fighters, too. There are still many of them left, but they’re disarmed and helpless. They know that if they oppose us, they die. It’s just that simple. Once you disarm a nation, the citizens are virtually helpless.”

  “Yes. That’s what the liberal politicians in the United States tried to do.”

  “But you and your pe
ople, among others, rose up and fought them.”

  “Tooth and nail.”

  “You were better organized, General. Despite the efforts of government enforcement agents. Oh, I followed your exploits carefully. I always admired your courage and tactics.”

  The man’s voice was growing weaker.

  “You will face growing resistance the further south you go, General.” The dying officer coughed up blood and for a moment, Ben thought he wasn’t going to be able to continue. He fought for breath and settled down. “And then from the Congo River south you will meet Bottger’s legions. And he will stop you eventually. Oh, you might push him back a hundred miles or so. Two hundred miles, perhaps, if you’re very, very lucky. But this is one fight you cannot win. But you will be a very worthy foe for him, and he will respect you for that.”

  Ben said nothing. He waited.

  “You might be able to strike some sort of deal with him, General. Have you given that any thought?”

  “No.”

  Again, the dying man smiled that bloody grimace. “No? I thought not. With you, it is all or nothing, correct?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I would keep a deal in the back of my mind, General. I really would.”

  “I don’t make deals with thugs.”

  “So I have heard, General.” Weakly, the man lifted a bloody hand and saluted Ben. “Good-bye, General Raines. I’ll see you in Hell.”

  The officer closed his eyes and died without a shudder or another word.

  “Could be,” Ben said, rising to his boots. “It sure wouldn’t surprise me.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ben’s company joined the others at the junction and cut east toward Abomey. On the way to the border, Scouts reported seeing patrols of enemy soldiers, but there were no further attacks against the column while they rolled through Togo.

  At the Togo/Bénin border, the column halted. There were no border guards.

  Ben got out and walked toward the raised barrier at the crossing, joining a group of Scouts.