“Then we’ve got to hold out for sixteen hours. Probably longer than that if the weather turns rotten.”
Corrie nodded, listening to both Ben and to the reports coming in. “The creeps are falling back to regroup.”
“They’ll wait until night to attack. They’ve tested us and they flunked the exam. They won’t try a daylight charge again. They have no way of knowing whether or not we have more planes circling just out of sight. We’ll use the time to fortify our positions. Let’s get busy.”
The Rebels began tearing down and ripping up and hauling off anything they could use as a barricade.
“We’ve found the tunnels,” Corrie said, “and they are being booby trapped.”
“It’s a safe bet we haven’t found them all. Get the engineer platoon busy welding all basement doors to their steel frames. Weld all manhole covers tight. Any basement door that can’t be welded shut, booby trap it.”
Ben prowled the terminals, talking with Rebels as he walked. He wasn’t particularly worried; their position was good, and they had plenty of food and water and ammo. They were five-battalions strong with plenty of heavy armor. But he knew the creeps had mortars and they would begin using them very soon. How many? he wondered.
“Get spotters up onto the roof and into the tower,” Ben said. “Make sure they have night-vision equipment. The creeps are going to be dropping mortars on us P.D.Q., and I want their positions spotted . . . if at all possible.”
“Beginning to rain,” Corrie said.
“At least it will stifle some of the stink from those dead bodies. It’s going to be dark soon. Heads up.”
Buddy and Dan just made it out of their area before the creeps attacked. The other battalions, including Colonel Wajda’s were locked in combat with the Night People. The attacks stopped their advance toward Ben’s position, and stopped it cold.
All over Eastern Europe, creepies by the thousands were rising up, throwing off their disguises, and attacking Rebel columns.
But the creepies had chosen a bad time to attack, for—with the exception of Ben’s 1 Batt—all the other battalions were traveling heavily supplied. Even without any additional supplies, the Rebels at the airport could hold out for days.
“Creeps setting up mortar positions in the low hills west of the airport,” Corrie reported to Ben. “Spotters have several locations pinpointed.”
“Order artillery to start giving them a mix of willie peter and anti-personnel rounds,” Ben said.
The 105s and 155s started booming and the low hills began lighting up as the white phosphorus exploded, burning into flesh and bone. The antipersonnel rounds, each projectile carrying anywhere from sixty to ninety grenades, impacted and sent deadly shards of steel flying everywhere.
The creepies retaliated, and their mortar crews started dropping in rounds. While the first few rounds fell far short, the Rebels dug in at the airport knew that would not be the case for long.
“Tell our mortar crews to commence firing,” Ben said.
Rebel 81-mm mortars thunked out high-explosive rounds, laying down a devastating field of fire while a light rain continued to fall.
“Planes coming back for one more pass before the storm hits,” Corrie said.
“Drop in smoke to mark the targets,” Ben told her. “Tell the pilots I want a wall of fire in those hills.”
“That’s a roger,” squadron leaders acknowledged. “Y’all just sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Cheerful bastard, isn’t he?” Cooper muttered.
And as has been observed since the first airplane flew wobbly support for ground troops nearly a century back, a Rebel said, “He’s got a right to be cheerful. He’s up there, and we’re down here!”
Ben smiled. How many times had he heard those same remarks over the long and bloody years?
The P-51Es came in low with everything they had roaring and booming. By the time they had pulled up and banked, the area behind them was a searing inferno. Every fighter at Ben’s command was in on this raid, and the napalm they dropped turned the land into a burning, smoking hell for the creeps. Wave after wave came in, dropping every conceivable weapon at their disposal.
Finally, the squadron leader radioed, “That’s it, Eagle.”
Ben said, “Thanks. We’ll see you when the storm breaks.”
“Roger.”
The planes disappeared into the darkening clouds, and the area around the airport grew quiet.
“I believe that run sort-of discouraged the creepies,” Cooper said.
“Yes,” Ben agreed. “All their mortars weren’t put out of action, but enough of them were knocked out to reduce their effectiveness.”
Cooper looked confused. “Didn’t I just say that?” he whispered to Jersey.
“In a manner of speaking, Coop. Loosely speaking.”
“Oh.”
Ike joined Ben outside under the terminal overhang. “We’re all set,” he said. “I don’t think the creeps can overrun us, but it’s going to be an interesting night.”
Ben pointed to the low and darkening clouds. “We’re about to have one hell of a storm.”
“Yeah,” his longtime friend replied. “Up there and on the ground.”
“Corrie,” Ben said, looking around for her. “Have all mortar crews keep IB rounds close at hand.” Illumination bombs could be fired to a height of approximately 600 yards at ranges of over 3300 yards. They could light up an area of over 1200 yards for 60 seconds.
The concrete under their boots trembled as the muffled sounds of heavy explosions reached them.
“Some of the creepies trying their tunnels,” Ike said as the rumbling stopped and smoke and dust began leaking out of exhaust vents set just off the road. “It’s gonna be messy as hell beneath us in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, but some of them are sure to break through,” Ben said. “Alert the guards at all basement entrances. And, let’s all try to get some rest while we can. Post enough EF’s (eyes forward) to maintain vigilance out here, and the rest knock off for a time. Get something to eat and drink.” Ben’s eyes lingered on the outside vents for a moment. “Keep an eye on those vents. Even though they’re all welded closed, the creeps could easily chunk grenades out of them. We don’t have this fight won by a long shot.”
“Every battalion except Batts 3 and 8 are engaged in heavy firefights with the creeps,” Corrie said, seconds after receiving another report. “Batts 3 and 8 making good time, and their ETA is several hours sooner than first anticipated.”
“Any word from Tina?”
“9 Batt holding their own. No K.I.A.’s and only a few hits. None serious so far.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “The creeps are going to get wet this night,” Coop said.
“Good,” Ben muttered. “I never encountered one yet who didn’t need a bath.”
EIGHT
The skies sprinkled showers until an hour after full dark, and then the storm roared in with a fury of lightning and thunder and drenching rain, rain that reduced visibility to no more than a few yards. With the darkness and the storm, every Rebel was up and at his or her post, for everyone knew the creeps would be coming at them under the cover of the storm.
“Tell all tank commanders to load up with FRAG rounds and tell our mortar crews to get ready to light up the sky at my orders,” Ben told Corrie.
“You see something I don’t?” Jersey asked.
“Just a hunch, Little Bit. I just had a chill crawl up and down my spine.”
“Jersey has that every time I look at her,” Cooper said with a wide grin.
“Accompanied by nausea,” she popped right back at him.
“Spotters see something moving out there,” Corrie said.
“How close?”
“Fifteen hundred meters in the front. Nothing happening on either side of us. They’re creeping slowly. No play on words intended.”
“Let them get closer.” Ben checked his watch and waited for three minutes. “Bump the spo
tters, Corrie.”
“Still coming, Boss. About eleven hundred meters out.”
“Count to thirty and light up the sky.”
Thirty seconds later, the IB rounds were dropped down the tubes and the night became day and the creepies were caught flat-footed out in the open.
“Open fire,” Ben said.
The Rebels around the airport threw everything they had at the night crawlers, and the rain-soaked ground became slicker still with creepie blood. But still the creeps came on, climbing over the bodies of their dead.
Some were close enough to the terminal buildings for rifle fire to reach them, and Ben started chopping at them with his old M-14. Using the NATO 7.62 round, Ben reached out and touched a dozen creeps before the night crawlers broke off the attack and dropped to the ground, scurrying behind whatever cover they could find in the stormy night.
The firing gradually ceased as no more targets presented themselves.
Corrie was busy checking each platoon by radio. Anticipating Ben’s question, she said, “No dead, no wounded.”
“How many IB rounds do we have left?”
She had checked that, too, and her reply was brief. “Not enough.” Ben looked at her and she added, “Firing two rounds every ten minutes, we’ll be out of IB’s at 0300.”
“Use one round every ten minutes, staggering the illuminated area.”
Sniper fire began coming at the Rebels from Night People hidden among their own dead. The entire airport complex was dark, so the snipers could not really see any targets; they were simply harassing the Rebels.
“When is this rain supposed to stop?” Ben asked.
Over the years, Corrie and Beth had learned that Ben asked the most impossible of questions, and they were able to anticipate many of them.
“Sometime tomorrow,” Beth replied, having checked with meteorology back in Paris. “During the early afternoon.”
Ben nodded in the gloom of the terminal. “Even if we stagger the pattern of illumination, it won’t take long for the creeps to figure out we’re low on IB’s.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll be coming at us again about ten o’clock.”
The savage air-attacks from the modified P-51Es had taken out many of the creep’s mortars, but they still had a few left. Rounds began dropping in, and this time they were on target. They were answered by the Rebel’s 81-mm mortars and by main guns from the tanks parked around the terminal and on the tarmac. It was an astonishingly unequal artillery duel and, before long, the mortars of the creeps fell silent.
No Rebel there had any doubts about their ability to hold and to beat back any creepie attack—this was just a nuisance, that was all. The Rebels didn’t like being on the defensive; it was a situation they were unaccustomed to facing. And it was highly irritating to them.
The battlefield fell silent under the onslaught of the storm. Lightning helped illuminate the grounds, but the creeps were not moving. Ten o’clock came and went with no creepie attack. Eleven o’clock crawled by, and then it was after midnight.
Ike made his way through the darkened buildings to Ben’s side. “What the hell, Ben?”
“I don’t know, Ike. If I had to take a guess, I’d say they were gone.”
Ike stared at him for a moment. “Gone . . . where? Back to the city?”
“No. Just gone. Fanned out into the countryside to hide until we’ve left.” He smiled in the darkness, his teeth flashing white against his tanned face. “But then again, maybe that’s what they want us to think.”
“Yeah. That crossed my mind, too.”
“Therm on the horn, Boss,” Corrie said.
“Go, Therm.”
“The creepies here have vanished, Ben. We had one hell of a firefight for hours, then nothing for the past four hours. I’m getting the same reports from other batts.”
“It’s all quiet here, too, Therm. So let’s sit tight until dawn.”
The pre-dawn hours crept by slowly. No unfriendly fire came at the Rebels. During that time, Ben made contact with every batt com. Each one of them reported the same thing: quiet, except for the fury of the as-yet unabating storm that was lashing the countryside.
“One hell of a storm front,” Ben said to no one in particular. “It’s all over Europe. Damn thing must stretch for three hundred miles.”
Gray dawn broke through the rain and clouds, and the scene in front of the Rebels was unbelievable: hundreds and hundreds of bodies littered the land, beginning to stiffen now after hours of cold death. They lay in twisted and grotesque shapes.
“Buddy and Dan are a few miles out,” Corrie told him. “They’ve met no resistance for hours. Fighters are about fifteen minutes away. Squadron leaders say it’s nice and sunshiny where they are.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “Thirty-five thousand feet up. Tell them to come in and make a few passes and see what they can spot, if anything. Advise them of the location of the Rebel columns and tell Buddy and Dan to come on in.”
The P-51Es made recon pass after pass over the city and the suburbs and the area around the airport. “There is nothing down there, Eagle. Nothing living, that is,” the pilots reported. “Absolutely no signs of life. The creeps have either gone underground beneath the city or have pulled out.”
“All right,” Ben radioed. “Hang around for a few minutes until we can inspect the runways.”
“That’s a roger.”
In an attempt to fool the Rebels into thinking the city was populated by normal human beings, the creeps had kept the airport terminals and the hangers clean and the runways clear. Within ten minutes, the fighters began landing and taxiing up.
Ben shook hands with a squadron leader. “Your son and his convoy are about two miles out, General,” the flyer said. “You needn’t have worried; we knew who they were. What’s the story here, the creeps just quit?”
“Looks that way. We’ll check the city, but I think we’ll find them gone. They’ve scattered in order to survive.”
The flyer shook his head. “I don’t get it, General. What was all this about? These . . . crazy suicide charges by the creeps, all over Europe?”
“One wild, last-ditch attempt to kill us, I guess. It was a well-thought-out plan. And all I had to go on was a last-minute hunch.”
“Thank God for hunches,” the pilot said.
“Oh, they’ve pulled this several times before, but never on so grand a scale. And they’re likely to pull it again. Creepies are not very original.”
The pilot grinned and gave Ben a salute—of sorts—and left to check his plane.
“Get the battalion together, Corrie. We’re going into the city at noon.”
Ben stowed his M-14 and retrieved his old Thompson and clip pouch. Then he waited for Buddy and Dan’s convoy.
They were a tired-looking bunch, having been on the road for many hours, pushing their vehicles as fast as they dared through terrible weather.
“Tell your people to get a few hours sleep,” Ben said after shaking hands with Buddy and Dan. “We’re going into the city this afternoon.”
Dan and Buddy both smiled. They knew that Ben had been up all night, with the exception of perhaps a few catnaps. Ben didn’t push his people any harder than he pushed himself.
Back in the terminal building, Ben found Ike. “I saw some earth-moving equipment on the drive into the city. When the troops have had a few hours rest, send the engineers in, with heavy guard, to see if that equipment runs. If so, get it out here and start burying those creeps before they present a real health problem.”
“Right, Ben.”
“And be careful. The retreating creeps do booby-trap their dead.” Ben stepped back and looked at Ike. “And get some rest, Ike. You’re beat.”
Before Ike could retort, probably to remind him that he was younger than Ben—although not by much—Ben had walked off. Ike sputtered for a few seconds, then hollered at Ben’s back, “You get some rest!”
Ben kept walking . . . with a smile on his lips.
Ben stood on the outskirts of the city, scanning the area in front of him through binoculars. The city appeared to be deserted. And indeed, Ben felt reasonably sure that it was. But he’d been fighting creepies for a long time, and knew that, while they were not terribly original when it came to tactics, they were fearless in combat. Ben lowered the binoculars and hopped down off the hood of the HumVee.
“Ike, what was the last reported position of your headquarters company?”
Ike spread a map out on the hood and pointed. “Right there, Ben.”
“We find them first,” Ben said, a grim note to his words. “Or what’s left of them.”
The Rebels started a slow advance into the suburbs of the city toward the last known position of Ike’s headquarters company. They met no resistance. It was an eerie advance, for they encountered not one, single, living thing. Not a cat, dog, squirrel, or bird. The silence spooked them all.
“This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies,” Cooper said.
“We agree on something else,” Jersey replied. “That’s twice in a week, Cooper. Either you’re improving or I’m slipping.”
“Surely the former,” Cooper said.
“Scouts have found where our people made their last stand,” Corrie informed them in a soft voice. She looked at a map. “Turn right at the next intersection. It’s about halfway down the block.”
“Tell Ike to take the lead. They were his people.”
Ike’s Hummer pulled around Ben and turned just ahead of them. Cooper parked behind Ike’s Hummer, and Ben and his team got out and waited by the curb. Rebel trucks and Hummers were parked around the three-story building. They had all been burned.
Ike came out of the building, his face ashen and his big hands clenched into fists of rage. Ben strode past him and entered the building. The scene that greeted him was worse than he had imagined. A dozen or more Rebels had been taken alive and tortured to death . . . tortured in the most hideous of ways.
“Body-bag them all,” Ben said in a gentle tone. “Get them to the airport for transport back home.”
Ben returned to the clean, fresh air and breathed deeply, then joined Ike.
Betrayal in the Ashes Page 19
