Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  For the moment, Ben kept those thoughts to himself.

  Georgi had put Pasadena to the torch. Cecil had torched Glendale and pushed south, almost on a parallel with Georgi.

  Everything was just coming too easy to suit Ben.

  Therm and his short battalion had been on the edge of Beverly Hills, just approaching the now-fading opulence of the homes of famous movie stars and rock singers, when Ben had called for a meeting of all unit commanders. Therm had left Emil Hite behind (but not in charge) with a contingent of the new Rebels just arrived from Base Camp One. He had left him wandering through a huge mansion that had once belonged to a rock singer who had fronted a band called the Sickening Slime.

  Ben turned around to face his commanders. “It’s going too damn easy, people. I don’t know that anything is wrong, but I have a gut feeling that something is. Let’s kick it around. First of all, we know for a rock-solid fact that there are thousands of creepies and street punks in southern California. But we’ve had more of a fight with a few outlaws and warlords along the way than these people have given us. Why?”

  “For a fact, resistance has been extremely light,” the mercenary, West, said. “And I will admit I have puzzled over the why of it.”

  “Yeah,” Ike said. “Now that you bring it up, nobody on the other side has thrown jack-crap at me. And we all know the creepies can fight. We don’t know that for sure about the punks, though.”

  “I think they can fight,” Georgi said. “They just haven’t done so as yet. Like you, Ben, I am puzzled as to why they haven’t.”

  “I have encountered virtually no resistance,” Cecil observed. “I think we have deluded ourselves into believing those we face are cowards, fleeing before us in fear, when in fact, they are not cowards at all.”

  “Then what are they up to?” Ben asked the group. “We’ve got to know before we — I — make a fatal mistake in planning and get a lot of Rebels killed. Have our people out on Santa Catalina Island been able to pick up anything of value?”

  “Not much,” Corrie told him.

  The island had been deserted when the Rebels landed to set up a listening post. So far, all they had learned was that they were all bored with the inactivity of it all.

  “The enemy has good communications equipment,” Corrie said. “But much of their conversation is gibberish to us. They’re using a lot of street-punk talk that just doesn’t make any sense to our people.”

  Ben looked at Dan and smiled.

  Dan returned the smile. “I believe I can certainly take care of that little problem.”

  “See to it, Dan,” Ben said. “Lamar, get the chemicals readied for drug interrogation.”

  “They’ll be ready.”

  Hopefully, there would be prisoners taken this night.

  “Is anybody running low on supplies?” Ben asked. After seeing several affirmative nods, he said, “Stock up, double up on everything. If something heavy is in the works, we stand a good chance of being cut off from each other. And we might be cut off for several days.”

  Dan left the room to go head-hunting for prisoners.

  “One way or the other,” Ben said, just before dismissing the commanders, “we are going to find out what is going on. In the meantime, all of you hold your positions and brace for trouble. Just in case.

  THIRTEEN

  The Rebels attempted no further advance against the street punks and the creepies. Dan led a team of Scouts into hostile country to grab some prisoners for interrogation. The Rebels assigned to Ben’s command post waited while Ben sat for hours, looking at the big wall map.

  “Has to be,” he finally muttered. “There is just no other reasonable explanation. Corrie, call Dan and his people back in. Immediately. Tell Dan that is a direct order from me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Therm was waiting for his trucks to be loaded with fresh supplies and was in Ben’s office, drinking coffee and alternately chatting with Cooper and studying Ben — the latter being one of his favorite pastimes.

  Ben waited until Corrie had recalled Dan and his Scouts, and said, “Corrie, advise all units to be alert for a sneak attack — possibly a suicide attack, from all sides. That’s got to be their plan. All other patrols that are out, tell them to dig in and stay low. If an attack is coming, it’s going to be soon. They can’t wait much longer.”

  Therm joined Ben by the map. “If you’re correct, we’re going to be in trouble.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. You are so right, Therm. Get on back to your command; your trucks should be ready by now. Draw plenty of drinking water. We’re going to be cut off from each other for no telling how long.”

  “See you whenever, Ben.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Buddy walked in the CP just as Therm was leaving. Ben brought his son up to date on his hunch.

  “I think you’re right, Father. They slipped around us and headed north while we were driving south.”

  “And before West and Seven and Eight could loosely secure this area,” Ben said, running a finger from the north to the south, along the eastern edges of the combat zone, “they found a hole and slipped through, out into the zone. Corrie, advise all units we’re under a red alert. Get ready. Do it quickly, but not in a panic. Let’s don’t give ourselves away. Let the punks still think they’ve got us fooled. We’ve got to be under observation — all units. It’s my belief that if, or when, they hit us, we’re going to be hit hard from all sides. That’s why there has been no radio traffic of any significance.”

  “You believe their plan was already worked out before we hit the outer edges of the territory?” Buddy asked.

  “Or maybe while we were hitting it. They probably saw that fighting us alone, in separate gangs, just wouldn’t work.”

  “We’re going to be cut off from each other for sure.”

  “Yes. Perhaps for several days. Okay, people, let’s get cracking. We’ve got a lot to do in a very short time.”

  The Rebels began quietly and quickly bracing for an attack. Snipers slipped into place, all of them equipped with night scopes.

  “West and Seven and Eight will probably have a hard time of it,” Ben said. “Corrie, tell them to make like this is an Indian attack on a wagon train. Is his CP still at the airport?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pull them in tight. None of us have a place to run so we’ve all got to adopt a wagon-train mentality and we don’t have long to do it.”

  “Right, sir. General Ike?”

  “Ike can put his back to Santa Monica Bay with the assholes coming at him from three sides. He just resupplied, so he’s in good shape. Corrie, as soon as everyone is in place and ready, tell them to button up and get set for one hell of an attack. We will cease all artillery at 1900 hours. Forward posts heads up and be prepared to bug out. No heroics, people. The name of this game is staying alive. Every communication will be on scramble and no unnecessary chatter. No smoking, no fires, no lights after 1900 hours.”

  The Rebels got in place and waited. Darkness began creeping in around them, shadowing the streets. Murky pockets in their line of sight became areas of suspicion.

  Linda came to stand by Ben’s side. “How bad is it, Ben?”

  “We’ve been in worse spots,” he said softly, his eyes sweeping the seemingly deserted streets below them. “I let us get overconfident, that’s all. This is the final push in the lower forty-eight, and we were too anxious to bring it to an end. I let it happen. It’s my fault.”

  “West’s people report movement, sir,” Corrie called from across the room. “Enemy coming out of the zone.”

  “Tell all forward recon people to get the hell back to their units. Right now! It’s all going to break loose in a few minutes.”

  Ben checked his watch just as the artillery barrage stopped. The sudden silence was eerie.

  “Now they’ll know that we know,” Ben said. “They’ve got too much forward momentum to stop now. All hostile units are committed. They can’t stop
now. It’s root-hog-or-die time for them. And us,” he added.

  “Ike coming under very heavy attack from all open sides,” Corrie called out. “They’re throwing everything they’ve got at him. Rocket launchers, mortars, and heavy weapons in use by the bogies.”

  “Tell him I said good luck and to keep his lard-ass down,” Ben said with a smile. He pinched off the fire from his hand-rolled smoke and stowed the butt in a pocket of his BDUs. He took a sip of water from his canteen and moved to a position at a window, stacks of clips already there. His M-14 was bi-podded.

  His personal team got in place, quickly, quietly, and professionally.

  Buddy laid aside his Thompson and got behind an M-60 machine gun.

  On the roof of the building, and the buildings surrounding Ben’s CP, teams of Dan’s Scouts were in place, with mortars, rocket launchers, and .50-caliber machine guns.

  “Come on, you sleazy sons of bitches,” Ben muttered. “Come tell us about how it was all society’s fault that you turned out to be such assholes. Let’s rock and roll some.” He started humming “Bad Moon Rising.”

  Dan looked over at him and smiled. He would have preferred “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  Buddy grinned in the semi-gloom of the room, knowing his father was in his element now. He had never met a man who enjoyed combat more than Ben Raines. The Rebels had long ago ceased any attempts to put Ben behind the lines, behind a desk.

  A rocket exploded against the side of the building, on the ground floor, and the early evening was suddenly shattered by the roar of hundreds of weapons, yammering on full auto.

  “Flares up!” Ben yelled.

  Outside, dozens of flares lit up the dusk, exposing the street punks as they charged the Rebels’ positions from all sides. Ben let out a war cry that would have put a Cheyenne chief to shame and opened up with his Thunder Lizard, holding the trigger back. One line of street punks went down as the .308 slugs impacted against flesh and bone.

  Ben slipped the empty, popped a full clip into the belly of the old war hoss, and let it bang.

  Buddy had pinned down a small band of punks with his M-60 and was making life awfully miserable for them. One stuck his head up just as Buddy was making a return sweep and the punk lost the entire top of his head. His friend squatting next to him received the full compliment of brains and eyeballs. He jumped up screaming in terror and Buddy stitched him across the chest. Now all he had to worry about was facing his Maker, and He was not a terribly forgiving God.

  Smoot and Chester were in a box-bed, under the desk, with a flak jacket wrapped around the both of them, secured so they could not slip out of it.

  Ben shifted positions and took a quick look out what remained of a shattered window. “Take over here,” Ben called to a Rebel.

  “Where are you going, Dad?” Buddy yelled over the roar of gunfire.

  “To the bathroom maybe. None of your business.” Ben hurried low across the floor and out the door of the second-story office, into the hall. But he couldn’t shake Jersey, who was staying right behind him.

  “Get back to your position,” Ben ordered.

  “Sorry,” she told him. “Where you go, I go. So just lead on.”

  “Hardhead,” Ben muttered.

  “Look who’s talking, will you? Come on, General. What’s going on?”

  “Hostiles have infiltrated the building next to this one, that’s what.”

  “And you were going to take them out by yourself?”

  “There aren’t that many of them.”

  “How many?”

  “Oh, a dozen or so.”

  “That’s good, General. Excellent. Has it ever occurred to you that you are not Superman? Has it? That a lot of people spend a lot of time just trying to keep you alive? Huh. Do you know —”

  “Hush up and come on if you’re going with me, Jersey.” Ben turned his head and grinned at her. “Hell, there’re two of us — we’ve got them outnumbered already.”

  She gave him a dark look and muttered something under her breath. But she followed him. Jersey would have followed Ben through the gates of Hell.

  They slipped down the stairs and paused by the back door. Flares were constantly being fired high into the air, keeping the night bright with artificial light. Ben pulled Jersey close and put his lips next to her ear so he could be heard over the yammer of gunfire.

  “We go out the door and cut immediately to our left, keeping between those old garbage dumpsters and this building. That way we’ll stay in the shadows. Once across the alley, we toss Fire-Frags in and follow. You ready?”

  “Oh, sure. I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to this.”

  Ben chuckled. “Let’s do it.”

  They exited the building quickly, Ben in the lead. Working their way past two old dumpsters, they both bellied down on the littered concrete as two street punks ran past their position and into the building across the alley.

  “That makes it either fourteen or sixteen,” Jersey muttered. “Right?”

  Ben smiled and whispered, “We still have them outnumbered, short-stuff. Let’s go.”

  They ran across the alleyway and flattened against the old building, one on each side of a huge paneless window. Ben pulled a Fire-Frag from his battle harness and Jersey did the same. They looked at one another as the sounds of voices came from inside the building. Jersey nodded her head.

  Two Fire-Frags were chunked into the ground floor of the building. The door blew off from the concussion of the exploding grenades.

  The shrapnel had just ceased bouncing off the interior and the screaming of the wounded had begun when Ben and Jersey rolled into the room and laid down a field of automatic fire, effectively clearing the area of street punks. With their ears ringing from the concussion of the mini-Claymores, Ben and Jersey got their bearings and spread out, covering the only door they could see from the dim light of the flares. It went to the second floor. They could both hear the faint sounds of footsteps above them.

  “Goddamnit, there ain’t no other way out!” the voice said, reaching Ben and Jersey.

  “Take a peek down there.”

  “You so damn interested, you take a peek.”

  Ben and Jersey remained silent, crouched behind a pile of junk in the room, their weapons set on full auto, each with a fresh clip. They waited, eyes on the blackness of the open stairwell leading to the second-floor.

  A lone figure came cautiously down the steps and stuck his head into the dimness of the room. Ben and Jersey waited. They didn’t want just one punk dead — they wanted them all dead.

  “Fuller’s dead,” the punk called over his shoulder. “I can see half a dozen more on the floor. All blown to shit. There ain’t nobody movin’.”

  Several more punks gathered around the first one at the base of the stairs, none of them wanting to take that first step into the ground floor room, but knowing they had to do so if they were to get away.

  “They was waitin’ on us.” Words just reached Ben and Jersey over the diminishing din of battle. “Bull’s plan didn’t turn out worth a damn. They knew we was comin’.”

  “This ain’t the time to discuss it. You see anybody down yonder?”

  “No. I can’t see nothin’ ’ceptin’ dead people.”

  “Come on.”

  The punks crowded out of the stairwell and onto the ground floor.

  Ben and Jersey opened up, the Thunder Lizard and the M-16 blasting the darkness. The street punks were slammed back against a wall as the slugs tore the life from them. Ben and Jersey ceased fire and waited. A faint moaning came from the piled-up bodies by the stairs.

  “That’s it,” Ben said. “Let’s see what we have over there that might be able to talk.”

  Two were still alive. One of them was hard hit in the guts and dying. The other had suffered only two minor flesh wounds.

  “Eagle to Rat,” Ben spoke into his walkie-talkie.

  “Goddamnit, Dad, where are you?” Buddy’s voice held
more than a note of irritation.

  “In the building just north of your location. Ground floor. Come on over. We have a prisoner. The ground floor is clear. I can’t be sure about the other floors, so watch it.”

  Buddy and Dan and a squad of Rebels were in the building within two minutes.

  “This craphead isn’t hurt bad,” a medic said. “He’s got lots of conversation in him.”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you bastards nothin’!” the punk said, spitting out the words.

  Dan smiled at him in the gloom. The smile was very much like a cobra before a strike. “Oh, I think you’ll be chattering like a magpie before long.”

  At daylight, the punk was tossed out onto the sidewalk, weaponless, and told to hit the road. He had been wrong. He’d had plenty to say to Dan and Ben. It had just taken a little persuading, that’s all.

  The Rebels had not physically tortured the young man. He’d been interrogated with the use of drugs.

  Sixty thousand punks and creepies,” Ben said, after taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I guess that means we do have our work cut out for us. Of course, that was a guess on his part, since I doubt that any census has ever been taken of the current population of Los Angeles.”

  The fighting had all but ceased, the punks retreating several blocks at first light. The Rebels were still loosely trapped — in a manner of speaking — but the punks were now in that unenviable position of riding a tiger: afraid to turn loose and afraid to stay on.

  “Get me a report from all units, Corrie,” Ben requested.

  “Working on it now, sir,” she called. A moment later, she said, “All units holding firm with no ground lost. Reporting five dead and eleven wounded during the night. Several prisoners were taken and their stories match the one told us.”

  Ben picked up his M-14. “All right, people. Tired we may be, but we’ve got to take some ground today. The one thing the punks won’t be expecting is a counterattack from us this early. Ready tear gas and everybody into masks. We’re going to do our best to clear everything between us and Therm. Let’s do it.”

  Tear gas canisters and smoke grenades and shells began raining down all around the area, the choking and blinding fumes masking the forward movement of the Rebels as they counterattacked the street punks.