Smoke from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “What was that, Ike?” Ben asking, smiling. “I couldn’t quite catch it.”

  “I said I’d probably let him handle it!”

  “Just wanted to be sure, Ike.”

  Buddy had ordered Denise out of the Jeep. She refused. “I’m your driver, captain.”

  Buddy thought he might know just a tad how his father felt at times. “Fine, Denise. Let’s go.”

  They stopped a few hundred yards from the blocked highway. Buddy had sent two squads left and right, out of sight of the men behind the barricade.

  “There is a bullhorn on the floorboards, back seat,” Denise told him.

  “Thank you.” Buddy got the bullhorn and stepped out of the Jeep.

  Lifting the bullhorn to his lips, Buddy pulled the trigger and said, “You men behind the blockade. What do you want?”

  “This here’s a toll road, boy,” a man shouted back. “You don’t pay, you don’t pass.”

  “We can always backtrack, captain,” Denise said.

  “Nobody owns the highway system,” Buddy told her. Lifting the horn to his lips, Buddy said, “I have three thousand troops behind me.”

  “You a goddamn tie!” the man shouted.

  “And there are troops all around you,” Buddy informed the man.

  “Another goddamn tie, boy!”

  “You do not own this road!” Buddy shouted through the bullhorn.

  “I took it from them goddamn McCoys, and now I own it. So fuck you, soldier boy, or whatever the hell you is!”

  “Troops left and right!” Buddy shouted. “Clear the road!”

  The quiet morning stillness was shattered by the violent sounds of gunfire. The men standing behind the blockade were knocked backward to the roadbed, their blood soaking into the highway as two dozen M-16s and M-14s rattled and spat death.

  When the gunfire ceased, Buddy said, “Mop up and post guards on both sides of the road.” He walked back to the Jeep and lifted the mike to his tips. “This is Little Eagle. C Company, first and second platoons, up to my position, pronto.”

  Ike looked at Ben. “Ain’t you gonna get on that horn and ask him what went down, Ben?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ain’t you the least bit curious about what happened?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ben Raines, you are a plumb exasperatin’ asshole! Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Yep.”

  When the first and second platoons from Charlie Company arrived at Buddy’s position, he told them to range east, up the highway, securing the way east for the column.

  “How secure, captain?” a platoon sergeant asked.

  Buddy looked at the man. “Whoever you encounter will either be our friends, or they will be dead. Is that understood, sergeant?”

  The Rebel grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  He was not quite out of Buddy’s hearing range when the sergeant said, “We don’t have to worry none about him, people. That’s Ben Raines all over again. Let’s roll!”

  Buddy walked back to his Jeep and picked up the mike. “This is Little Eagle to Old Eagle,” he said with a smile. “You may advance now, Father. I have secured the area.”

  Dan was laughing so hard he fell out of the Jeep. Ike and Tina were roaring, tears running down their faces.

  Ben sat quietly, shaking his head and smiting. When the laughter died away, he said, “I sure set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”

  And a few miles outside of Topeka, the clock that Big Louie had set before his fateful meeting with Ben Raines started clicking.

  Louie might well have been crazy, but he was not stupid. He had known for some time of Ashley’s deceit and subversion. Louie wanted to leave something for the masses to remember him by in case this meeting with Ben Raines turned out to be a trap and he did not survive.

  He had entered the silo and worked for more than an hour, resetting and reprogramming the firing and guidance systems. But Louie was going to be just a bit short and south of his goal of dropping one in on Khamsin in South Carolina. Besides, while Louie had been brilliant in some areas, he was quite stupid in others. This type of missile was not built to explode on land contact.

  But no matter. It would certainly help a fellow that Louie would have loved.

  Far away. In Louisiana. When the clock finally reached its firing point.

  BOOK THREE

  Don’t look back. Somebody might be gaining on you.

  - Satchel Paige

  ONE

  We still have radio contact with Cecil?” Ben asked his radio operator.

  “Yes, sir. He’s diggin’ in for a fight. The last word I got was that Khamsin’s people are really pourin’ into Georgia.”

  “Setting up a line along Interstate Twenty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben nodded and turned to Buddy. “Assemble your teams and get ready to move out. You’ll be driving them hard, Buddy. Clear the way for us all the way to Sikeston, Missouri. We’ll pick up Interstate Fifty-five there. We’ll take that down to Jackson, Mississippi. From there, the column will cut straight east. I want us to come up under Khamsin’s troops. We’ll hit them from the south. Move out, boy, and good luck.”

  “Yes, sir.” Buddy trotted off, shouting for his teams.

  “Ike,” Ben said. “Get in touch with Colonel West. Tell him to push hard. I want him to link up with Cecil in Georgia.”

  “Right now, Ben.”

  Ben stood and watched as Buddy and his teams pulled out, heavily armed, carrying as much ammo and food as they could. Buddy was in the lead Jeep, the ties of his dark red bandana tailing in the wind.

  “Damn boy just won’t wear regulation headgear,” Ben said, smiling.

  Ben saluted his son, and Buddy returned the gesture.

  Then the teams were out of sight, pushing as hard as road conditions would allow.

  “Godspeed, boy,” Ben murmured.

  “You sure this is going to work, Brother Emil?” Brother Matthew asked.

  “I’m positive,” Emil assured him. “You just make damn sure this gets in the men’s water supply, and then leave the rest to Blomm.”

  Brother Matthew looked rather dubious about the whole thing, but finally he nodded his head. “Just the men’s water supply?”

  “Just the men’s.”

  “Look, Emil. Don’t hand me none of that Blomm shit. The Great God Blomm has about as much power as a pickle.”

  Emil looked frantically about him. “Shush! Don’t say that too loud, you idiot. Somebody might hear you that isn’t supposed to.”

  “This scam better work, Emil. ’Cause if it don’t, I’m splittin’.”

  “It’ll work. It’s gonna take four or five days, maybe even a week, but it’ll work.”

  “I hope you’re right, Emil. For the sake of all of us, I hope you’re right.”

  No more than I do, Emil thought.

  After Brother Matthew had walked away, Emil looked heavenward; actually, he was looking more west than up. A bit north by west to be exact. Which was all right, as it would later turn out.

  “Blomm, Zeus, Aphrodite . . . somebody, give me a little bitty miracle. ’Cause holy shit, I don’t wanna have to go back to hoein’ butter beans! I got it made here. Come on. Just a little teeny weeny miracle. Please?”

  There is someone on the radio who is requesting to speak to you, general,” Khamsin was informed.

  “Who is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “My apologies, sir. But the person is very insistent.”

  “Name?”

  “He says his name is Ashley, and he has news of Ben Raines.”

  Khamsin glanced at Hamid. “It could be a trick,” Hamid said.

  “And it could be worth hearing,” Khamsin countered. “All right,” he spoke to the messenger. “Tell this Ashley I’ll be along presently.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But impatience and curiosity got the better of Khamsin, and he was less than a minute behind the messenger in entering the rad
io room at his HQ.

  “I’m having trouble holding the frequency, sir,” Khamsin was told, “The distance is not that great, only a few hundred miles. But he’s on very low band and keeps slipping away.”

  “Get him for me,” Khamsin ordered.

  “I’ll keep this short, general,” Ashley said. “I don’t want the Rebels accidentally stumbling onto this transmission. You ten-four that?”

  “I understand,” Khamsin replied. “Can you switch to a scramble?”

  “If they’ll mesh, sure.”

  “We’ll let the radio people on each end work on it. I’ll talk to you momentarily.”

  The radio operators finally settled on a higher band, one that could be scrambled to both party’s equipment.

  “Now then,” Khamsin said, taking the mike. “You may speak freely.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that, general,” Ashley told him. “Raines has the finest radio equipment in the world. They’ll find us, and lock onto us and unscramble. Believe me, I know. So everything we have to say, we’d best say this go-around and save the rest for a face-to-face. Ten-four?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Raines is headin’ your way with about thirty-five hundred combat-ready Rebels. Three of my battalions are with him; but only one is going to fight with Raines. You understand that?”

  Khamsin looked at Hamid and both men smiled. “I understand,” Khamsin said. “But why the generosity?”

  “Simple. I hate Raines more than I distrust you.”

  “How do I know this is not a trick?”

  “You don’t. Yet. But hear me out. I just intercepted a radio message from Raines to Colonel West. Raines is going to take the southern route and come up behind your men, south of Interstate Twenty. The nigger, Jefferys, will link up with Colonel West and my people north of the interstate. To put your people in a box. Ten-four?”

  “Yes,” Khamsin said. “Ten-four. Your plan?”

  “My men will wait until they’ve linked up with the nigger and then revolt. They have their orders. That agreeable with you?”

  “Yes. But what do you want from me for all of this?”

  “Not a goddamn thing, other than Raines being dead.”

  “Oh, come now! Surely you want something.”

  “All right. You stay east of the Mississippi River and I’ll stay west. How about that?”

  “How do you know you can trust me?” Khamsin asked.

  “I don’t, partner. But I’ve always heard that you were a man of honor. Is my information wrong?”

  Khamsin drew himself up and bristled at the slur. “I am, of course, a man of honor.”

  “Then we have a gentleman’s agreement, general.”

  “We have an agreement, Mr. Ashley.”

  “We’ll both monitor this frequency at noon each day for messages. “Ten-four?”

  “Agreed.”

  Both men signed off.

  “I have discovered something, Hamid,” Khamsin said. “With Ben Raines, there is no middle ground. People either love the man, or totally despise him.”

  “Or totally fear him,” Hamid dared to say.

  But Khamsin did not take umbrage. Instead he smiled. “Yes. You are correct, Hamid. Or totally fear him.”

  Ben pushed his people hard, driving first east, then due south on Interstate 55. Buddy and his teams were driving just as hard, clearing the way of obstacles, both human and accidental. A six-person engineer team was traveling with Buddy, in case the obstacles needed to be blown free, or a temporary bridge built.

  The long stretch of interstate between Memphis, Tennessee and Jackson, Mississippi yawned before the Rebels, seemingly deserted, void of human life. But cook fires could be seen on either side of the concrete lanes as the Rebels drove south. But they rarely spotted any human life.

  “I wonder about people like that,” Buddy said to Judy as he pointed toward a slim finger of smoke, edging upward from a home in the distance. “I wonder what they’re doing and how they are getting along.”

  “Warlords control much of this area,” Judy said. “But the Rebels have crisscrossed this route several times before. They’ll keep their heads down. They won’t mess with us.”

  “How can people just allow themselves to be ruled like that? I mean, by outlaws and other human trash?”

  “Roadblock up ahead,” Buddy’s radio crackled.

  “This may answer your question,” Judy said.

  Buddy picked up the mike. “Location?”

  “Five miles north of the Grenada Dam exit,” the point team replied. “It’s no small force, captain. We’ll have a fight on our hands.”

  “Have they spotted you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fall back and hold position. We’re ten minutes away.”

  The column topped the hill and slowed, spotting the point team. Signaling his people to halt, Buddy walked to the Rebel squad leader. “Did you make verbal contact with them?”

  “Yes, sir. They say this is a closed area. They’ll allow us to pass if we give them ammo and women.”

  Buddy smiled. “In that order?”

  The squad leader grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  Buddy was silent for a moment. “They may have just told us that they’re short of ammunition. We’ll lay back about five hundred meters and let the snipers have some fun.”

  Buddy waved several Rebels forward. They were all armed with heavy sniper rifles.

  “Make things a little hot for the people down there,” Buddy told them. “Let’s see how heavy they return the fire.”

  The first volley from the long range shooters knocked three outlaws sprawling, all three with massive chest wounds from the rifles more than fifteen hundred feet away.

  The returning fire was sparse.

  “Low on ammo,” Buddy said. “We can’t just knock out this blockade and go on. They’ll have it rebuilt in a day and then Dad will be held up. We’ve got to take the whole bunch out. Mortar teams up!”

  Two mortars, each with a range of up to thirty-three hundred yards. “Blow it out of there,” Buddy ordered.

  The barricades were reduced to smoking ruins in less than two minutes.

  “Clear it out and bring any still living up to me,” Buddy ordered.

  Three men and one woman were brought before Buddy. All were slightly wounded and dazed.

  “The four of you are standing closer to death than you have ever stood before,” Buddy told them. “And don’t doubt that for an instant.”

  He could tell by their frightened eyes that they did not.

  “What was the purpose of the blockade?”

  The question seemed to confuse them all.

  “You do not own the nation’s highways.” Buddy tried another tact.

  “Neely Green claims this area for his own,” the woman spoke. “We have formed our own nation here.”

  “Very admirable of Mr. Green,” Buddy said, then thought he’d give them all a mild jolt. “My father did the same.”

  “Your daddy?” a man asked. “Who’s ’at?”

  “Ben Raines,” Buddy said softly.

  The man peed in his dirty jeans. “Oh, Lard!” he said.

  The other three began trembling.

  “Where is this Neely Green?” Buddy asked.

  “Grenada,” the woman said quickly. “You want me to go git him for you?”

  “How kind of you to volunteer. But would I ever see you again?”

  The woman regained some composure. “Yes. Because you don’t have enough people to whip Neely.”

  “I am in radio contact with half a dozen battalions,” Buddy informed her. “General Raines commanding. Do you think that would be enough to contain your Mr. Neely?”

  When she again found her voice, she thought that was probably enough troops to do the job.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” one of the men with her asked. “We ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

  Indeed, Buddy thought. A fair question. He wondered how his fat
her would reply to that. And Buddy was conscious of many Rebel eyes on him. “If you wish to set up small communities, to band together for safety and productivity, free of slavery and forced labor upon others, that, certainly, is your right. But you do not have the right to block highways and demand some sort of toll for others to pass.”

  “You’re wrong,” the woman told him. “The roads belong to them strong enough to take and hold them.”

  “And that is the feeling among all who follow this Neely person?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You hold slaves?”

  “Inferiors.”

  Buddy sighed. Would it never end? It seemed to be getting worse. He looked at the woman. “I don’t expect you to tell me the truth, but I have to ask. How many men hold this area?”

  “Fuck you!” she told him.

  “Thank you, but no.” He turned to Judy. “We’ll need to know some estimate of how many we are facing. Send in a recon team?”

  She nodded and left.

  “Remove the prisoners, tie them up, and guard them.”

  He turned to the squad leader. “Set up perimeters. They may try to hit us. As much as I hate to say it, we’re going to have to wait for reinforcements.”

  “There’s no crime in that, captain,” the squad leader said. “That’s just good sense.”

  “But it’s going to slow up my father’s column.”

  “We’re used to that, captain,” the squad leader said. “We might not like it, but we’re used to it.”

  Less than an hour passed before the first of the recon teams returned and reported to Buddy. “I’d say three to four hundred, captain. At the minimum. They’re pretty well armed too. And not a ragtag-looking bunch, either.”

  Buddy went to his radio truck and called in. “Father, we are now approximately eight miles north of Grenada. We have cleared the southbound lanes of a roadblock, but are facing possibly four hundred armed men. However, I feel they are low on ammo. We are too small to launch any attack, but could hold until reinforcements arrive. Orders?”

  “We don’t have time to fuck around with some two-bit warlord, Buddy. Hold your position and stand ready to repel any attack. Colonel Gray will be on his way within five minutes to beef you up until the main column arrives.”