Smoke from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  That little ruse had cost him a thousand men. He sat in his new command post in Augusta and worried thoughts around in his mind.

  “Two companies,” he ordered. “Send two companies after them. And do it cautiously.”

  The IPA who struck Joe Williams moved through the night, pursuing the retreating Rebels. They encountered no mines, no snipers, no nothing. But they did find tracks left by the Rebels as they ran away.

  They reported this back to Khamsin.

  “Fourth Brigade across the line and pursue the Rebels,” he ordered. “Cautiously, cautiously, now.”

  Joe had pulled his people back, way back, all the way back to Highway 43, north of the interstate, leaving Rebel sappers in deep cover behind him, stretched out along a twenty-five-mile strip of interstate.

  As the troops of the IPA moved across the interstate, into what had just been Rebel-held territory, the Rebel sappers came out of deep cover and moved across the interstate, carrying their deadly cargo of mines and explosives.

  The sappers then formed up into small guerrilla groups and waited for the action to start.

  Joe’s troops were now in position, lying in wait, north to south, along Highways 43 and 78. That left the troops of the IPA with the river at their backs, the western fingers of Clarks Hill Lake to their north, and the deadly mined interstate to their south.

  And a half a dozen guerrilla groups waiting in ambush in the darkness.

  Cecil’s thinly placed troops stood their positions and slugged it out with the IPA across the interstate. The odds were impossibly against the Rebels, but that was something they were, to a person, used to. They held their ground and fought savagely.

  And Mark and Alvaro waited with their troops just south of Cecil’s battle lines.

  The hot late summer’s night exploded in hate and rage along the interstate. Several companies of Khamsin’s IPA, expecting little or no resistance, moved confidently across the interstate just east of Conyers. They died in bloody piles in the eastbound lanes. Lieutenant Mackey’s Misfits were determined to prove themselves in the eyes of the other Rebels. The company of quick-trained Rebels fought with a ferocity that surprised even them.

  The lines of Rebels, stretching thinly along the interstate, bent and buckled, but did not break as the night attack continued to ram its assault against the Freedom Fighters.

  “Circle now.” Joe Williams gave the orders, speaking into the cup of his walkie-talkie. “Quickly and quietly.”

  Rebels sealed off the few miles between the last south-pointing finger of Clarks Hill Lake and Interstate 20, just west of Highway 78. Other Rebels moved just east of Highway 47, putting the troops of the IPA into a box.

  “Now!” Joe gave the orders. “Hit them hard. No prisoners.”

  The Fourth Brigade of Khamsin’s invincible Islamic People’s Army found themselves fighting shadowy ghosts in the night; they found themselves in a deadly no-man’s-land, some of them facing men and women in vicious hand-to-hand combat, facing Rebels with knives honed to razor sharpness.

  Some of Khamsin’s IPA ran toward the north, toward the fingers of the lake, and became hopelessly lost in the maze of brush and timber and marsh, the country not tended by human hands in years. Others walked into ambushes. Entire squads were wiped out by two and three-person Rebels’ teams lying in wait in the night.

  Others of Khamsin’s so-called superior forces ran south, toward the interstate. They ran into Claymores and Bouncing Bettys and trip-wired, electronically detonated C-4s. Brush fires sprang up into the night, set by Rebels to block escape routes. The fires grabbed greedily at the clothing of the IPA, creating running, screaming human torches in the darkness.

  The night skies along the interstate became brightly lighted by the dry brush and wood.

  “Get your people out of there!” Khamsin screamed the orders from his CP.

  But it was too late for most of the ill-fated Fourth Brigade.

  The summer night, normally filled with the scent of flowers, became filled with the odor of burning human flesh, excrement from death-relaxed bowels, and the sickly-sweet odor of death.

  And once more, the taste in Khamsin’s mouth was the copperlike taste of defeat.

  “Scouts just radioed in, colonel,” West was informed. “The Second and Third have linked up and are spreading out west to east. Looks like they’re trying to box us in.”

  “Looks like I was right,” West said. But he took no satisfaction in being correct.

  Colonel West looked at his map. His troops had angled south and east in order to avoid the trashy and dangerous mess that was now Atlanta.

  But they still had miles to go, over roads that were unfamiliar and, for the most part, badly in need of repair.

  “I figure three-four more hours,” West said. “We’re ahead of schedule, but those assholes in Second and Third worry me some.”

  “That goddamn Ashley!” a company commander said. “He must really have the red-ass toward General Raines.”

  “If I ever get that son of a bitch in gunsights,” West said, “I’ll put an end to his quarrel. And you can tattoo that on your arm. Let’s roll, boys.”

  Buddy’s teams had barreled past Ike’s slower-moving columns and were inside Georgia long before dawn.

  At La Grange, Buddy brought his teams to a halt.

  “Let’s find out where everybody is,” Buddy said. “String an antenna over there,” he said, pointing, “and let’s get set up.”

  “This is Captain Raines to any Rebel unit within the sound of my voice. Come in, please.”

  At Conyers, Georgia, Lieutenant Mackey was darting from position to position during a lull in the fighting. She was approached by a runner.

  “Lieutenant, there’s a Captain Raines on the horn.”

  “A Captain Raines?” Mackey questioned.

  “Yes, ma’am. Says he’s Ben Raines’s son; he’s the lead recon commander. Has about seventy-five Rebels with him and wants to know where he and his people are most needed.”

  “This I gotta see,” she muttered. “All right. Ask him if he can come up south of us and take some of the strain off us.”

  The request was made. The runner returned. “Says he can do, lieutenant. He’ll be here before dawn.”

  Both sides facing each other across the interstate took the time to ease back and lick their wounds and review their situation.

  And for the Rebels, it was grim.

  “Order our people closest to Atlanta to break through.” Khamsin radioed his orders. “And do it, without fail.”

  Cecil’s CP heard the orders from Khamsin and informed Cec.

  “Start falling back,” Cec ordered. “Advise Mark and Alvaro we are doing so and to move out toward us. We’ve got to split up and send some people toward Conyers to beef up Mackey’s Misfits.”

  “There is a Captain Raines heading that way now, sir. He’s got a platoon with him. Who is Captain Raines, sir?”

  “Ben Raines’s son,” Cecil told the startled Rebel. Cecil smiled. “That means that Ben and Ike and Dan aren’t far behind. Any word on Colonel West’s position?”

  “Last report was Loganville. They should be getting into battle position any minute, now.”

  “How about Colonel Williams?”

  “He creamed them, sir,” the Rebel said with a grin. “From listening to radio reports, the IPA doesn’t want any more of Joe Williams.”

  A panting runner slid to a stop. “Breakthrough, sir! The IPA just punched through at Barnett. They’re trying to put Colonel Williams’s Rebels in a box.”

  “Goddammit!” Cec cursed. “And I don’t have a soul to send there. Any word on Ike’s people?”

  “Just crossing into Georgia, sir. They’ll take Highway Sixteen and set up battle lines at Thomson.”

  “If there is anything left there to save,” Cec said grimly. “Hang on, Joe,” he said. “Just hang on, buddy.”

  THREE

  Khamsin’s IPA did, indeed, punch a hole into Rebel-h
eld territory; but if they had thoughts of putting Joe Williams and his people in a box, they didn’t know Col. Joe Williams.

  But they were about to know him — far better than they wanted to, as it would turn out.

  “Motherfuckers!” Joe swore, and he was not normally a profane man.

  His driver and aide, Matt, glanced at him in the darkness. “They about to get you pissed-off, sir?”

  “No, Matt,” Joe said, his voice calm. “They have got me pissed-off.”

  Joe signaled for his radio operator to come over. Taking the mike from the backpack radio, he said, “This is Colonel Williams. All units form up north and south of my location. Take everything you can stagger with, and leave the rest. When you’re all in position, bump me.”

  “What are we gonna do, colonel?” Matt asked.

  “We’re gonna charge, son!”

  Matt grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  Lieutenant Mackey almost jumped out of her boots when someone touched her on the shoulder. She wheeled around, M-16 coming up.

  Colonel West grinned at her. “Sorry, lieutenant; I walk rather softly.”

  “Softly’s ass!” Mackey said. “You move like a friggin’ ghost! Who the hell are you?”

  “Colonel West, lieutenant. My battalion is in position just north of the interstate at Oxford. General Jefferys moved me to the east a bit. I’ll explain his plan to you. Has Ben Raines’s kid reported in position yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He’s a good troop. Not as savvy as his daddy, of course. But he’s damn good.” His eyes swept over what he could see of the Misfits. He grunted. “Strange-looking bunch.”

  Mackey grinned just as Billy Bob strolled up. “They’re doing well for only five days’ training, colonel.” She introduced Billy Bob.

  The men shook hands and West said, “Five days’ training?”

  “It’s a long story, colonel,” Billy said.

  “I’m not even sure I want to hear it!” West said, softening that with a grin. “But if they’re fighting and standing, that’s all that matters.”

  He told them both of Cecil’s plan.

  “I ain’t gonna second-guess no general,” Billy said. “But if it don’t work . . . we’re all gonna be in one hell of a mess.”

  “That we are, sergeant,” West replied cheerfully. “That we are. All right, lieutenant, I brought a platoon with me on this visit. Looks like you could use a few more people. Where do you want them?”

  Before Mackey could reply, a shout rang out. “Here they come! Jesus Christ, there must be two-three thousand of them!”

  “How about right where we are, colonel?” Mackey suggested.

  “Considering the situation,” West said, grinning a soldier’s grin, “do I have a choice?”

  Dan and his teams were just minutes behind Ike, and Ben and Tina only minutes behind Dan. All were pushing harder than road conditions would allow, and the trucks were showing it. But any vehicle that broke down was left, the gear and personnel transferred, and only a few minutes were lost.

  Ike would travel on clear across Georgia, following 16 all the way. Ben would break off at Highway Forty-four, at Eatonton, coming up under Mark and Alvaro as they plugged the hole left as Cecil pulled back. Dan would roll about twenty-five miles past Ben’s break-off point, and move north at Sparta, splitting his people, one group going up 22, the other heading up 15. Tina’s teams had already broken off from the main columns and were racing toward Conyers. Those troops of the IPA who were pushing hard at the Misfits and at West’s lone platoon. They were about to find themselves in a box with no way out.

  Except death.

  “Kill ’em all but six, people!” Williams roared into his mike. “And save them for pallbearers. Charge!”

  Screaming their fury, the Rebels lunged out of the timber, the brush, the ditches; over the hills and across the old highway, cracked and worn from years of neglect.

  The Rebels literally scared the living shit out of many of the IPA.

  The Rebels had camouflaged themselves with touch-up paint, leaves, twigs, and mud. They looked and sounded like something straight out of hell.

  And fought with the fury of ten times their number.

  Teams of Rebels broke through the western lines of the IPA, then turned around and put Khamsin’s people in the same box Khamsin had designed for them.

  The Rebels took no prisoners.

  The western edge of Khamsin’s box had been broken, punched through at a dozen locations. Now there were no clearly defined battle lines; all along a twenty-mile stretch of highway, it was bloody confusion and death.

  Selected teams of Rebels began stripping the uniforms off of the dead IPA troops and pulling them on over their tiger-stripe or lizard-battle dress, then slipping into the confused ranks of Khamsin’s people.

  To cut a throat or two.

  Joe had given the orders for all his people, after doing as much damage as they could, to work east and form up between Highways 80 and 47. If they could just hold out until dawn, Ike and his people would be in position just south of Thomson. If they could just hold out.

  If.

  “Little Eagle, this is Big Sister,” Tina radioed. “Are you in position?”

  “Ten-four, Big Sister,” Buddy answered. “I’m just south and west of Conyers. What is your position?”

  “South and east of same. I’ve got Highway One thirty-eight to my back.”

  “Ready to go?”

  “Sittin’ on ready.”

  “Let’s do it, Big Sister.”

  Buddy and Tina sealed off the south end of Conyers and began working their teams house to house, building to building; slow, dangerous work.

  The first silver rays of sun were just beginning to slip through the darkness, giving the sky a tinted look.

  Khamsin’s people, now realizing they were caught in a box, dug in and began fighting from locked positions. And that action served only to spell out their doom.

  “Lieutenant Mackey,” Tina radioed.

  “Mackey.”

  “You have mortar capability?”

  “Negative.”

  “I do.” West cut in on the transmission.

  “Is this Colonel West?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We have a large force of IPA dug in hard. Downtown Conyers.” She checked her grid map and gave him the coordinates. “Can you drop some surprises in there, colonel?”

  “Ten-four. Are you in position to act as forward observer?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Keep your heads down. Mail incoming.”

  “Ten-four, colonel.”

  Downtown Conyers began exploding in showers of bricks and stone and dust as West’s mortar men hit their targets. Bodies and bits and pieces of bodies soon littered the already littered streets of the Georgia town.

  Tina lay behind the rusted ruins of a pickup truck and called the shots in.

  As the troops of Khamsin tried to run from the deadly hail of rockets, Tina and Buddy’s troops knocked them sprawling amid the litter with well-placed rifle shots.

  To their credit, none of the IPA attempted to surrender.

  They had been briefed beforehand that the Rebels did not take prisoners.

  Tina called for a halt in the barrage.

  The downtown area of Conyers was destroyed. Small fires were caused when WP was mixed with HE mortar.

  “Northside friendlies,” Tina radioed. “Please hold fire. We’re commencing mopping up.”

  “Ten-four, southside friendlies.”

  Buddy and Tina soon linked up, standing and watching as their troops ended the dreams of world conquest for any IPA troop still left alive. Single shots sprang out of the smoky early morning mist. Rebel snipers lay in position, waiting to drop any IPA troop that might have escaped the deadly rain of mortars.

  The morning dropped from a noisy, screaming battleground into a hush, broken only by the crunch of boots walking about the rubble.

  South-side
Rebels met north-side Rebels and Colonel West’s mercenaries in the center of Conyers.

  “Orders, colonel?” Tina asked West.

  “General Jefferys has pulled back, opening a hole for the IPA to push through. The troops of someone named Mark and Alvaro are moving to plug that hole, trapping the IPA. I have my battalion waiting just east of here. But, there are two battalions of Ashley’s troops moving in on us from the north. Let’s do this: I’ll take the north side of the interstate, you and Buddy and Lieutenant Mackey take the south side; we’ll all work gradually east. Okay?”

  “Sounds good,” Tina said. “Let’s roll.”

  Jake and his band of rednecks and white trash and miscreants had not gone far from Athens. Just about ten miles down the road to a little town called Watkinsville. There, Jake had licked his wounds and nurtured his hate, all the while gathering more human trash about him.

  And Cecil had pulled his troops back and had set up his CP about four miles away, in what remained of a tiny town named Bishop.

  As an undeclared cease-fire was occurring for a time, Ike and Dan and Ben were rolling into position.

  The troops of Khamsin, who had pursued Cecil as he pulled back, were now positioned at the northernmost edge of the Oconee National Forest. The troops of Mark and Alvaro were only a few miles behind the IPA, filtering quietly through the forest.

  A hush fell for a time on the one-hundred-and-twenty-five-mile stretch of battleground.

  “We have lost contact with our troops near Conyers,” Khamsin was informed.

  “How long?” Khamsin asked, rubbing gritty eyes.

  “More than a hour, sir.”

  “Our people in the northern Oconee?”

  “Resting. They are only a few miles from the black general’s position.”

  Khamsin lifted his eyes, meeting the gaze of Hamid. “I know,” Khamsin said softly. “It is not necessary to speak the words; I can read them in your eyes.”

  We should have been content with what we had! Hamid’s eyes said. “I do not understand these people, Khamsin. We have conquered half the existing world, fighting forces that outnumbered us ten to one. Yet this little band of Rebels defeats us at every turn. I do not understand it.”