Betrayal in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben shook his head. “God only knows, Coop.”

  The people of Moravia welcomed the Rebels warmly, with open and seemingly genuine hospitality. The Rebels quickly discovered that the crime wave that had erupted all over the world had not occurred in this part of the Czech Republic. At Jihlava, they found the town virtually untouched. Ben set up a CP, and Lamar and his medical people met with the town’s doctors and went to work.

  With nothing to do, Ben and many of the Rebels went exploring Jihlava, once an important silver-mining town. Something was nagging at Ben, but he couldn’t put a finger on it, so he put it out of his mind.

  “How come the punks and street shit didn’t hit this region?” Jersey asked.

  “I was told they tried more than once,” Ben said. “But the people rose up and put them down. Very hard and brutally. The word spread quickly, and gangs stayed the hell out of this area.”

  They were standing in front of the Kostel Svateho Jakuba—St. James Church—on the east side of the main square of the town.

  “Says here,” Beth said, reading from an old tourist guidebook, “there used to be a wall around the town, with five gates. I wonder what happened to it?”

  “Time,” Ben said softly. “It eventually erases almost everything.” He looked around him, and the nagging inside his brain began again.

  “Even the pyramids?” Coop asked.

  “Given enough time and enough wind and sand, yeah, even the pyramids, Coop.”

  “Are we going to see the pyramids this time around?”

  Ben sighed. “We probably will, Beth. I don’t imagine we’ll see home for several years. Only the badly wounded will get to return home.”

  “And our dead that we can find,” Jersey added softly.

  “Yeah. And the dead.”

  They roamed throughout Moravia, and not one shot was fired at or by the Rebels. What few airports could be found were in deplorable shape, and supplies had to be dropped in. The further east the Rebels went, the worse the roads became and useable airports were nonexistent.

  Ben halted the eastward push of all his columns except for those with Colonel Wajda and began preparations for his 1 Batt to move down to meet with Ike in Vienna, or as it is spelled on European maps, Wien.

  Early fall had settled over the land, and the mornings were crisp. What concerned Ben now was being caught in unknown and, while not necessarily hostile, often just downright unfriendly territory in the dead of winter.

  There was another reason that Ben called for a meeting with Ike and his other Batt Coms: Mike Richards had returned, and all he would say over the air was that the news he had was not good.

  Vienna, or Wien, was another city that had fared well since the Great War, remaining virtually untouched by gangs of criminals.

  “It’s weird, Ben,” Ike told him on the ride to quarters. “Some cities were torn to pieces and controlled by punks and street shit, while others . . . it’s like the war never happened.”

  Parts of the city were deserted, however, as many residents had fled in panic when the Great War struck, years back, and never returned. Ben lowered the window and sniffed the early fall air.

  “Creeps,” he said.

  “We know they’re here,” Ike confirmed. “But we just can’t find the bastards.”

  “You may have been talking with them every day,” Ben said softly. “And so have I,” he added sourly, as what had been nagging him for days finally fell into place.

  “What do you mean, Ben.”

  “That’s why the city has remained so seemingly untouched.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yeah. I mean.” Ben scribbled on a notepad. “Pull over here,” he told the driver. Ben got out and walked back to his team’s vehicle. “Corrie, hard scramble this transmission.” He handed her the note. She read it and her eyes widened.

  “Holy shit!” Corrie said.

  “Yeah. At least that.” He walked back to Ike’s vehicle and spoke to the driver. “Get out and raise the hood; pretend there is something the matter with the engine.” Then he turned to General McGowan. “Ike, get on the blower and tell your people to fall back toward the airport. Do it slow and easy, now. Let’s don’t spook the creeps until we’ve got some more people on the ground.”

  “Are you sure about this, Ben?” Ike asked.

  “No. I’ve just got a hunch about it, that’s all.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Ike shuddered. “I suddenly have this sinking feeling that we’re being watched, ol’ buddy.”

  “We are.”

  “What happened to the regular folks of this city?” a Rebel escort standing outside the rear of the vehicle asked.

  “The creeps ate them over the years,” Ben said. He looked out the window. “If we can get your full battalion, with armor, back to the airport, we stand a chance, Ike.” Ben shook his head. “Son of a bitch, but I’ve been had and had proper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the nice, friendly people we’ve been meeting in certain sections of Moravia.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re all creeps. Every goddamn one of them. We pushed a lot of them east, where they joined up with others of their kind who’ve been in place for years.”

  “Oh, shit!” Ike muttered.

  “Let’s make a big production of stepping out of the vehicle, looking under the hood, and then kicking a tire or two before we turn around and head back toward the airport at a very leisurely pace.”

  “And once we’re there?”

  “We’re going to have to hold for hours. Maybe all night. Our battalions are spread out all over Eastern Europe. Come on, let’s put on a show for the creeps.”

  The men stood around the vehicle and cussed and waved their arms and kicked tires and looked under the hood and then got back in the vehicle and turned around, heading slowly back to the airport, about 20 kilometers southeast of the city, at Schwechat.

  A few miles up the road, Ike’s radio operator said, “Two and Ten batts clear of the city and rolling toward the airport.”

  “All right!” Ike said.

  “And 12 batt is in place ringing the airport,” Ike said. “We did that yesterday.”

  “Good,” Ben said. “We’ve got a chance.” Ben lifted a walkie-talkie. “Corrie, where are the nearest P-51’s?”

  “Prague.”

  “Easy trip for them. Get them up.”

  “The creeps just overwhelmed headquarters company,” the radio operator said. “Last transmission said good luck to us.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Ike said.

  Ben’s thoughts turned dark and ugly. They could not turn around; to do so would be a suicide-run.

  “Chief?” the word sprang out of Ben’s walkie-talkie.

  “Go.”

  “All battalions advised and on full alert. Colonel Wajda is cutting south now and moving as fast as he can toward the Czech Republic. Meteorology says it’ll be pouring down rain here in a few hours. Big front heading our way.”

  “Wonderful,” Ike muttered.

  “Roadblock up ahead, sir,” Ike’s radio operator said. “About fifty people manning it.”

  “Advise the lead tank to blow it,” Ike said tersely. “Clear us a way through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The booming of an MBT’s main gun came seconds later, then again and again.

  “Roadblock neutralized, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Ike replied.

  The short convoy rolled past what was left of the burning and smoking roadblock. Bodies and body parts littered both sides of the highway. They didn’t get a second look from the passing Rebels.

  The airport soon came into view.

  “We used to drive creepies out of airports,” Ike said. “Now here we are taking refuge in one.” He shook his head.

  Ike’s XO met them outside a terminal. “We had a little trouble a few minutes ago,” he said matter-of-factly. “We handled it. We’re doing a search
of the terminal buildings right now to see if any creepie tunnels are under us, and I suspect they have several of them.”

  “No doubt,” Ben said, climbing out of the vehicle. “You can bet on that. More than several, I would think.” Ben didn’t have to tell the man what to do with the tunnels once they were found. That was fully understood S.O.P. with the Rebels.

  “Here we go,” Corrie said. “Hundreds of creeps leaving the city. Fanning over the countryside in a rough half-circle. They’re coming this way.”

  “The first wave of planes should be here in about forty-five minutes,” Ben said, glancing at his watch. “Or less. They’ll be pouring on the juice to get to us. I figure approximately two hundred and fifty air-miles from Prague to here. Tell the pilots to do their stuff and give us some relief. Right now, let’s get set up. It won’t be long before it’ll be show time. We want to be sure to get a good seat.” He looked around and pointed at a young Rebel. “You.”

  “Sir!”

  “Go to my Hummer and get me my old M-14 and that clip pouch.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You and your goddamned old relics,” Ike said.

  Ben smiled and held out his Thompson to another Rebel.

  But the young woman would not touch it.

  Ben didn’t push the issue. He knew that many of the younger Rebels, and more than a few of the older Rebels, viewed Ben and the old Thompson with more than a touch of mysticism. He knew there were clans of people who lived in the forests of North America who carved statues of him and viewed him as a god. He had, many times over the years, tried to dispel those myths. He had never been entirely successful.

  “Take the weapon and stow it in a safe place, Christy!” Ike barked out the order.

  “It’s all right, Ike,” Ben said. “I understand.” Ben cut his eyes at Cassie Phillips, Nils Wilson, and Frank Service, standing several yards away. The three of them wore puzzled looks.

  Cooper took the Thompson and walked off with it.

  Ben patted Christy on the shoulder. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “Get back to your unit now.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, General.” She turned and left quickly at a trot.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Nils asked, his words reaching Ben.

  “Some things don’t need to be talked about,” Jersey said, shifting her boots to face the man. “Not now, not ever. Not at all.”

  Nils arched an eyebrow and wisely did not pursue the subject.

  Jersey had that effect on people.

  “The creeps are pouring out of the city, Boss,” Corrie said. “Not hundreds of them. Thousands of them.”

  “It’s going to get real interesting around here in a few minutes,” Ben said, taking his M-14 and thanking Cooper for fetching it. He looked at Jersey and smiled.

  “Kick-ass time!” she said.

  SEVEN

  Ben sensed someone standing at his elbow. He turned to face Mike Richards. “How was Africa, Mike?” Ben asked.

  Mike shook his head. “Where do you keep your crystal ball, Ben?” He waved that off. “Never mind. Africa was just as it was the last time I was there. It stinks. And I’ll tell you something else that stinks even worse: Bruno Bottger is still alive.”

  “I figured he was, Mike. How’d he pull the switch?”

  “I’ve got to keep this short. We do have something of a major engagement to fight in a few minutes. Bruno had a twin brother. An identical twin. Right down to the birthmark. Both he and Bruno were born at home, so there were no hospital records. The twin brother was an idiot. Hopelessly so. The parents confined him to a home when he was about two years old and then, later, spread the story that he had died. They even had a closed-casket funeral for the kid, so all the neighbors naturally assumed the retard had croaked.” Mike could turn such a delicate phrase when he put his mind to it. “Anyway, when Bruno wanted us to think he had committed suicide, he went to the nut farm where his brother was being held, sprung him, and killed him.”

  “Such a loving brother,” Ben said.

  “Oh, yeah. Just delightful. So doting and all that. But that’s it in a nutshell, Ben.”

  “And Bruno is setting up shop in Africa?”

  “You got it. He’s transplanted thousands and thousands of whites over there in the past five years. From all over the world, Ben, including America.”

  Ben nodded slowly. “How many black Africans have they killed, Mike?”

  “Twenty-five million to fifty million, give or take a million either way.” He said it without changing expression. “And sent another ten or fifteen million fleeing for their lives. Bruno and his people control the entire southern part of Africa. And I mean control it. They went in as friends, with food, medicines, the whole ball of wax. Then they subtly turned one tribe against another. The whites sat back and watched the blacks kill each other. By the time the blacks got some order restored and began talking sense to one another, it was too late. Bruno killed any white who opposed his methods. A few got out. I talked with some of them.”

  “What countries do Bottger’s people control, Mike?”

  “Namibia, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Botswana, and South Africa.”

  Ben was skeptical. “That’s a hell of a lot of territory.”

  “Yes. But you’ve got to understand that by the time Bottger’s people arrived—four or five years ago, maybe more—millions and millions of black Africans had already died. Africa literally exploded along with the Great War. Old tribal hatreds surfaced; racial hatreds sprang to the fore. Blacks began killing whites, and whites began killing blacks. Crops were ignored and food ran out—then there were food riots, until disease struck. Without proper medicines, millions died; whole tribes were wiped out. I doubt that anyone will ever really know how many native Africans died in the years just after the Great War . . . white and black.”

  “Nuclear capabilities?”

  Mike shook his head. “No. Moments after the Great War began, a group of South African scientists destroyed their nuclear arsenal. They died in the process, but they did it.”

  Jersey walked up carrying Ben’s body armor. “We’re going to have company in a few minutes, Boss.”

  Ben struggled into his protective gear. “We’ll talk more when this little venture is over, Mike.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mike agreed. “’deed we shall.”

  “Our P-51Es are five minutes away and screaming in, Chief,” Corrie said when Ben walked out of the terminal to take his position. “The battalions we left in Moravia are under attack. You hit it right on the head. Those were creepies that greeted us there.”

  “They came close to fooling us. Too close. They must have been keeping their food sources in basements and tunnels.”

  Coop shuddered at the image and Jersey didn’t kid him about that; she felt the same way.

  Beth pointed and handed Ben binoculars. “Look.”

  Rebel eyes shifted, lifted binoculars, and took in the almost-unbelievable scene. Thousands of people, men and women and children, all armed, were massing around the airport. The creepies were still over a mile away, but the scene was chilling.

  “Tank commanders want to know if they can open fire,” Corrie noted.

  “No,” Ben said. “I want the creeps massed the way they are when the planes come in for their first strafing and bombing runs.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be here in about two minutes.”

  “I’m in contact with the squadron leaders,” Corrie informed him. “Ninety seconds from target.”

  “Some of them will be dropping napalm,” Ben said. “Get ready for fried creepie.”

  Cooper pointed at faint specks in the sky. “There they are.”

  The souped-up and modified P-51Es began peeling off and screaming in. Suddenly, the land in front and on both sides of the airport blossomed in fire as the napalm was dropped. The flames licked across the ground at amazing speed, moving as if it had a mind of its own, incinerating hundreds of creepies within second
s. Those standing on the fringes of the fire zone ran screaming, balls of fire sticking to their clothing and flesh like giant, glowing leeches.

  The second wave of planes opened up with cannon and machine-gun fire, knocking the creepies spinning and sending bloody chunks and torn-off arms and legs of the cannibalistic clan flying in all directions.

  The creeps charged the airport, screaming and cursing and howling as they ran. It was a fearful sound.

  “Commence firing,” Ben said, and Corrie calmly relayed the orders.

  The main guns of the MBTs and heavy machine guns opened up, followed by the thunk of mortars. The tanks were firing anti-personnel rounds called FRAGs. Each round contained either fragments of steel or small grenades that exploded on contact. The land around the airport was rapidly turning into a killing field.

  Shoulder-fired ground-to-air missiles were useless against the low-flying, high-speed planes; some of the P-51s were no more than a hundred feet off the deck.

  Creepies died by the hundreds that afternoon. They crawled over their comrades’ bodies and continued their mad charge against the defenders of the airport. The stench of charred bodies was thick and oppressive in the moistening air; the approaching storm was not far away.

  “That’s it, Big Chick,” the flight leaders radioed to ground. “We’ll head back, reload, and return. Can you mark targets at night?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Corrie said. “Many thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it, Big Chick. Is the Eagle all right?”

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “See you in about an hour.”

  “I wouldn’t count on night attacks from the air,” Ben said after Corrie had relayed the messages. “It’s going to be storming in about two hours. That will make it impossible.”

  “Supply planes want to come in for a drop,” Corrie told him.

  “Negative. We know the creeps have Stingers. The planes would have to drop at three-and-a-half miles up. Supplies would be all over the goddamn place with most of them going to the creeps. We’ll have to be resupplied by the ground. How far away are Buddy and Dan?”

  “They left two hours ago,” Corrie replied. “They should be breaking through by 0800.”