Smoke from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The old man turned and walked back into the street.

  The Rebels were silent for a moment until another Rebel stuck his head into the doorway.

  “Sure is quiet in here,” he said.

  “What did you make of Nutsy?” someone asked him.

  “Who?”

  “The old guy with the beard and sandals and the robe and big stick.”

  The Rebel had seen no one answering to that description.

  “Well, where the hell have you been?”

  “I been sittin’ right outside this door, in a Jeep! And there ain’t been nobody wearin’ robes or sandals and carryin’ a big stick come out of this building. What the hell have you guys been doing — smokin’ some old left-handed cigarettes?”

  Later, Ben spoke with a Rebel sergeant, Buck Osgood, who had just pulled in from Arizona. Buck told Ben he had seen an old man who called himself the Prophet.

  “When did you see him, Buck?”

  “Ah, last week.”

  “In Arizona?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The date?”

  “Ah, the ninth, sir.”

  “Time, approximately?”

  “’Bout noon, I reckon.”

  “That’s the same time and date I saw him,” Ben told the young sergeant.

  “I didn’t know you were in Arizona then, sir.”

  “I wasn’t, Buck,” Ben said. “I was in Little Rock.”

  ELEVEN

  Ben brought Denise up to date on the old man called the Prophet. The others listened in silence.

  The woman took the telling without any apparent disbelief or shock. “My people are not as skeptical or as frightened of spirits as your people, general,” she told him. “Those from the other side often walk this earth years after their passing. Perhaps the old man is a messenger from God. Who can tell?”

  “Is the old man still at the reservation?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, no. One day he just vanished. No one has seen him since. Or if they have, they are keeping silent about it.”

  Ben nodded and put the old man called the Prophet out of his mind. “Let’s roll, gang.”

  “We’ll crush Ben Raines like a bug!” Big Louie said. “This time he’s met his Waterloo.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ashley drawled.

  “Ashley, my good fellow,” Big Louie said, leaning forward. “Don’t you realize what this means?”

  “I know that we’ve got one hell of a fight lookin’ smack at us.”

  “Oh, pish-posh! You simply don’t understand these military types, Ashley. They have no imagination. None at all. They go right by the book. They’re totally predictable. I tell you, we are going to defeat Raines quite handily. And then, my good man, with that overblown legend rotting in the ground, the nation, the entire nation, will be ours for the plucking.” He giggled. “And all those lovely young girls for the fucking!”

  Ashley nodded his head. Might as well agree with the silly perverted bastard, he thought. Grown women intimidated Louie. So he used little girls. So he could intimidate them. Or young boys. It really didn’t make that much difference to Louie. But this time, Louie was flat out wrong about the upcoming fight. The legend of Ben Raines might well be a bit overblown, but the man damn sure wasn’t.

  “So you think it’s going to be a cakewalk, huh. Louie?”

  “You forgot to say Your Majesty,” Big Louie said.

  The look in Ashley’s eyes wiped the grin right off Louie’s face. “I’m only joking, Ashley,” Louie whined. “You know I don’t demand that from you.”

  “You silly bastard!” Ashley hissed at him. “Do you have any idea how fuckin’ ridiculous you look?” Before Big Louie could reply, Ashley said, “Sittin’ up there on that goddamned throne; makin’ people bow and scrape to you. You bear one thing in mind, you goofy fag: I put you up there, and I can jerk you down any damned time I please.”

  Big Louie pursed his lips, looking very much like a fat fish, and stamped his slipper-clad foot. “And you’re forgetting that I saved your life, you ungrateful oaf!”

  “Yes, Louie,” Ashley replied wearily. “How can I ever forget? You keep constantly remindin’ me.”

  “You’d have died if it hadn’t of been for me, Ashley!” Louie screamed, slapping his hands against the arms of his great chair. “And this is the way you repay my bravery and kindness!”

  Ashley at first looked irritated, then began laughing. “Bravery? You? Brave? You tossed a rubber inner tube to me when that damned boat sank in the Mississippi. Let’s don’t make any more of it than it really was.”

  “I nursed you back to health. Remember?” Louie asked coyly.

  “Don’t bat your eyes at me. I’m not one of your playmates, Louie.”

  “I would certainly be amenable to that, Ashley,” Louie simpered.

  “I can’t think of anything more disgusting than that. Don’t push your luck, Louie.”

  “Oh, Ashley. Don’t let’s quarrel.”

  “Stop simpering!” Louie was all twisted sexually, no one in their right mind would ever question that; but to take Louie lightly would be a fatal mistake. He might not be the bravest man in the world, but he was both dangerous and devious. He had killed many, many times; often for very little reason — that any sane person could see.

  “You think I’m wrong about this Raines cretin, don’t you, Ashley?”

  “No.” And Louie’s face brightened. “I know you’re wrong, Louie.”

  Louie looked crestfallen.

  “And here is something else, Louie: You run your little kingdom. That’s fine. But the military is under my command. They take orders from me.” He watched Big Louie’s face mottle with anger. “Go ahead and sull up, Louie. Won’t do you a bit of good. Besides, Louie, you don’t like combat. You might get your pecker shot off in combat.”

  Louie grimaced and crossed his legs. Daintily.

  Just as the first teams were getting into position in Kansas, Gen. Cecil Jefferys was watching the first trucks begin rolling out of Base Camp One in North Georgia. Luck was on the Rebels’ side on this night, for the moon was fat and full, and no other lights were necessary for the drivers to see their way.

  Cecil stood by the side of the road, giving each vehicle a salute as they passed his position. These were the noncombatants pulling out: the old, the very young, the untrained, the wounded. And with their leaving, Cecil felt a weight slip from his shoulders.

  “Give ’em hell, general!” a wounded Rebel called from the back of a truck.

  “Will do,” Cecil returned the call.

  “See y’all in Alabama, general,” another Rebel called.

  Cecil waved.

  The long, snakelike column rolled and rumbled its way west.

  There would be a dozen convoys leaving that night, each one at least a mile long, leaving a half hour apart.

  And so we do it again, Cecil thought, standing by the road, feeling the cool night wind from the passing trucks, cars, and Jeeps fan him, the breeze touched with the odor of gasoline and diesel, the smell of oil and rubber.

  We tear it all down, all the refineries, the hospitals, the factories — and bug out. God, when will it end? he silently questioned. Are You up there, God? Are You listening? What are we doing wrong with our society? Why can’t we just settle down in one spot and live in peace?

  Cecil took off his beret and bowed his head. The moonlight touched the salt and pepper of his hair. There had been no gray in his hair when he and Ben and Ike had come together, to build the Tri-States. All of them young men not that many years back. Young men, of all races, creeds, nationalities, coming together to form a government, a country, a society.

  And it had worked. A society free of bigotry and prejudice. A society with full employment; where no one went hungry; no one was denied medical care; where one could go to sleep at night with the doors unlocked and not be afraid; where the elderly were cared for with love and compassion.

  It was almost perfect, Cecil thought, standing
by the road with his beret in one hand and an M-16 in the other. Not perfect in the minds of those who lived outside our borders; but perfect for us who lived inside those borders. And isn’t that the way it should be?

  Cecil did not expect the heavens to open up and give him a reply. He had asked these questions many times before.

  But he did long for an explanation as to why a decent society, which meets the satisfaction of all who live within its borders, can’t exist free from outside pressures.

  He had been waiting many years for that answer. And he was no closer to an explanation now than fifteen years ago.

  He raised his head at the sound of boots on the gravel. Putting his beret back on his head, Cecil looked at Col. Joe Williams.

  “Sons of bitches want a fight, huh, Joe?”

  “Looks that way, general.”

  “Well, then . . . let’s just give them that, Joe. A dirty, stinking, no-holds-barred run for the money.”

  Joe grinned in the night, waiting for Cecil to continue.

  “No quarter, no mercy, no prisoners. Travel light, hit hard, then run like hell and circle around behind the cock-suckers!”

  Joe and Cecil had been together for a long time. And Joe knew Cec never used profanity unless he was very angry. And the big ex-Green Beret was very angry.

  Cecil motioned Joe to follow him, and the two men went into a building. There, Cecil spread a map of Georgia on a table. “They’re coming at us from the south and the east, Joe. We’re going to take casualties. But we’ve got to buy some time for those leaving for Alabama. So, in order to do that, we’ve got to create confusion, panic, and doubt. What’s the latest intel on Khamsin’s troops?”

  “They aren’t rushing toward us. They came across the river in a hurry, then for some reason, they slowed to a crawl. Many units even stopped their advance. I don’t know why they did that. They sure as hell weren’t meeting much resistance. From the east, they’re about thirty-five miles inside Georgia. From the south, they’ve advanced just about that distance north of Interstate Twenty.”

  “Get on the horn. Tell Mark and Alvaro to start raising hell with the invaders. Hard, fast, deadly, and then run like hell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Start mining the roads and blowing the bridges, Joe. Wherever our people can lay booby traps, do it. Make them very enticing. We’ve got tons of explosives. So let’s don’t skimp a bit. Start jamming their communications. We’ve got a few people who speak Arabic; not well, but enough to do the job. Get them to start issuing false orders to the troops in the field. See if we can’t get some of The Hot Wind’s people running around in circles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got supplies cached all over the northern part of the state, Joe. So our people can take off traveling light, except for ammo and grenades. Load ’em up, but don’t overload them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Joe. You’re in charge of the eastern section, I’ll take the southern section. Let’s start moving them out.”

  Cecil held out his hand and Joe shook it. “Watch your ass, old friend,” Cecil said.

  Joe squeezed Cecil’s strong and thick upper arm. “Same to you, old friend.”

  Buddy gathered up his gear and packed the Jeep. He wanted to be ready when General McGowan and his people started forming up in this area. And from the radio transmissions he’d been monitoring, the forward recon teams were very close.

  Buddy cleaned and oiled his weapons and checked his ammo pouches. That done, he fixed a cold supper and squatted by the dark outline of the Jeep, eating slowly as the sound of approaching vehicles grew louder. He remained very still in the night. He had chosen his position well, and knew that unless someone literally walked into the Jeep, the odds of his being discovered were slim. But, he cautioned himself, these were Raines’s Rebels, and they were all professional soldiers, the recon teams picked and trained by the former SAS man, Col. Dan Gray.

  They were the best in the world; even his mother would agree, reluctantly, with that.

  Moving as silently as a cat, Buddy slipped full length on the ground, looking under the Jeep. He watched as the lead vehicle stopped and several people got out. In the moonlight, he could see tiger-stripe and lizard battle dress.

  “It looks clean.” The voice drifted to him.

  “Yeah, but I don’t like it,” came the reply. “Down!”

  The shapes vanished, hitting the ground.

  They sensed my presence, Buddy thought. True warriors all. No wonder my father’s Rebels are so feared and respected. I must be very careful; I must not be shot out of carelessness.

  Buddy sensed more than heard movement to his right and to his left. And knew that he had been silently and effectively surrounded.

  “If you’re Raines’s Rebels,” he called softly. “I am your friend. If you are warlords’ troops, not many will walk away from this place.”

  “And that includes you, too, partner.” The voice came out of the darkness.

  “But of course,” Buddy said.

  “You’re pretty good, whoever you are. But you made one mistake.”

  “And that is?”

  “You just ate. We smelled the food.”

  “Then that makes you even better than I first thought. I have some papers I took from some of Big Louie’s men. After I killed them. Troop placements and so forth.”

  “That’s nice.”

  The voice was much closer. Damn! Buddy thought. I didn’t even hear or sense his coming nearer.

  “What’s your name?” another voice called.

  “Buddy. And I have traveled far to reach Raines’s Rebels. I wish to join you.”

  Buddy stiffened only slightly as he felt the cold muzzle of a rifle touch his neck. They move like ghosts, he thought. The Old Man warned me. He told me that while I was very good, I was not yet in the league of many of Ben Raines’s Rebels.

  “My name is Ben Raines Blackman,” Buddy said.

  A harsh burst of light flooded Buddy’s face, blinding him to all but the beam.

  “Jesus God!” a Rebel said. “He ain’t lyin’ about that, gang.”

  BOOK TWO

  Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground.

  - O’Hara

  ONE

  “Forgive me for starin’, boy,” Ike said. “But the resemblance is kinda unnervin’.”

  “That is perfectly all right, sir,” Buddy said. “I understand.”

  “Well, you got manners. Give your momma credit for that, at least.”

  Buddy’s smile was thin. “Not my mother, general. Thank my grandfather for that. And he convinced me to leave my mother’s Order.”

  “What if that crackpo — ah, your mother, finds out what he did?”

  Buddy sighed. “She knows. I would imagine she had ordered him burned at the stake.”

  “Son,” Ike said, leaning forward, “I know Ben would love to see you; love to welcome you into the Rebels . . .” He shook his head. “You mean, she would burn her own father at the stake?”

  “Yes. She’s quite insane. She is my mother, but I think the kindest thing anyone could do would be to put her out of her misery.” Just please don’t ask me to do it, he thought.

  Again, Ike shook his head in disbelief at Sister Voleta. But the boy seems genuine, he thought. “Well, son, as I was gonna say . . . puttin’ your mother out of her misery is exactly what Ben plans on doin’. The very first chance he gets.”

  “Yes, I know,” the young man said softly. “And so does my mother.”

  Ike nodded his head, then looked at the team leader who had brought the young man to him. “Not one word about who he is. Not a word. Get him outfitted and bring him back to me. He’ll stay close to me. I want to see what he can do.”

  “General . . . if something were to happen to him? . . .”

  “I plan on talkin’ with the general in about a minute. Don’t worry about it; the final word is up to Ben. Boy,” he said, looking back at Buddy. “You go wi
th Sergeant Rogers. You’re now a buck-assed private in your daddy’s Rebel army.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ike walked to his communications truck, telling the operator, “Go get a cup of coffee. Come back in about five minutes.” He grinned. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with all this mess for more than that. I’m liable to be talkin’ with Mars.”

  When the operator was out of earshot, Ike lifted the mike and said, “This is the Shark. Get me the Eagle and put it all on scramble.”

  Ben put down the mike and stepped outside, motioning the radio operator to once more enter and take over.

  Not much shook Ben Raines. Not much at all. But this shook him; shook him right down to his boots and toenails. So the rumors were not rumors at all, but fact. Ike had just told him that the young man looked so much like Ben it was frightening. In Ike’s words, “Man, it like to have scared the shit out of me!”

  And Ike also said that he was going to test the boy in combat. No — not boy. Young man. He’d be in his early twenties by now.

  Ben smiled. His son. Blood son. A buck-assed private, soldiering under one of the toughest men Ben had ever known.

  Ike McGowan.

  Well, Ben thought, Buddy had damn well better be tough, ’cause if there was any rabbit in him, Ike would sure discover it.

  And, the thought once more came to Ben, the young man just might have been sent in here to kill me. His mother’s hatred was so intense, that was something she would do — even if it meant her own son would die trying to accomplish it.

  That was something Ben did not like to even think of. But he knew it was something that had to be weighed, and weighed very carefully. He had told Ike the same thing.

  Ben was conscious of Denise coming up to him and stopping a few feet away. He glanced at her.

  “Yes?”

  “This word, sir. All the troops are in position. They’re settling down to get a few hours’ sleep.”

  Ben nodded his head, then realized she could not see the gesture. “Very well. Wake me at four in the morning, please.”