Boris trained his ATG rocket launcher at the spot where he saw the missile rush from the trees. He set the parameters and centered the markers on his HUD before he squeezed his stick-mounted trigger.
The whoosh of a mounted rocket was followed by its vapor trail away from the M24, causing his craft to swing to the left slightly as a right-side launcher fired. His gaze remained fixed on the HUD screen projected before him on his windshield, awaiting a hit.
An explosion and fire near the river announced the arrival of the rocket. Trees burst into flame as they disintegrated like kindling wood, and the distant roar of the concussion was loud enough to be heard even above the rotor’s noise.
“A miss, Red Leader One,” someone said into the radio from another HIND. “They had a heat shield in place. We hit a damn piece of sheet metal with an infrared homing device planted on it. We were tricked. The rocket was fired by remote control. There is no one down there. Repeat, we blew up an unmanned launcher.”
When an explosion of rocket fuel or any other ammunition did not follow the hit, it was painfully obvious the New World airmen had been fooled. A smoldering crater in the jungle floor was all he had to show for firing a valuable rocket.
“Damn it all,” Boris hissed. “They have tricked our best deep sensors again. The Russians insisted the modifications would work.”
He watched what was left of Eric Strauss’s gunship go down, twisting like a wounded duck, a flaming, wounded duck crashing into the rain forest below.
“There is nobody down there, Red Leader One. They set this whole thing up to draw us in, a fire burning in the jungle and an infrared beam coming from a worthless piece of tin and a remote rocket launcher.”
It was information Boris didn’t need to be reminded of, for he had quickly come to the same conclusion himself.
He gave the air around them a quick visual inspection. When the Rebels gave them something like this to shoot at, it was most often a trap of some kind.
“Poor Eric,” another voice crackled over the radio. “He will be missed. He had more air kills than any of us in the squadron. He was my instructor.”
Boris ignored the expression of sorrow by one of Eric’s fellow pilots, sensing that even now some sort of ground missile might be trained on his squadron. Yet his instruments gave him nothing. There was absolutely no indication that he or his men were being targeted by any radar-controlled missiles. Where can the bastards be? he thought, twisting his head from side to side, hoping to see something his sophisticated Russian instruments had missed.
“Red One! Red One! I’ve got a blip behind us!” It was Hans Rutger’s voice from Red Four guarding their rear.
That was one of the M24’s faults—their radar sensors could not cover a blind spot directly behind the aircraft. Boris swung his chopper around in a sweeping, diving turn, dropping lower out of the flight pattern to avoid a collision with one of his own aircraft.
And suddenly there it was, a flashing marker on his HUD, followed by a warning chirp that his M24 was being targeted by some infrared device.
“Down! Down!’ he cried into his headset. “They have a marker on me!”
He changed pitch suddenly on his rotor blades and dropped like a stone to less than a hundred feet above the treetops, his prop wash causing the jungle below him to swirl madly, driving monkeys and birds into flight in every direction.
“Red One!” Hans cried into his helmet earphones. “I have a GTA locked on me. . . .”
Hans’s voice broke off the instant a resounding boom thundered above Boris’s M24. He looked up when the aftershock of a direct hit made his chopper sway, forcing him to use more thrust to hold his position above the trees, for his ship was hovering dangerously close to the highest limbs.
Hans Rutger’s HIND was engulfed by fire. The tail section and rear rotor snapped off, looping away from the body of the flaming craft as though it had a flight path of its own, dropping toward the jungle in perfect arcs driven by the tail rotor.
Boris caught a brief glimpse of Hans—his helmeted body swaddled in a blanket of flame flying upward, turning head over heels while still belted into the pilot’s seat, his arms flailing helplessly until he was cut in half by a spinning blade on the main rotor separated from the shaft by the explosion.
Then all was fire and noise where Hans Rutger’s chopper had been only seconds earlier. Flaming wreckage fell across the rain forest, narrowly missing Boris’s rotors and almost taking his chopper down with it as it fell.
Another blip showed on Boris’ HUD, and his warning system chirped faster, louder, screaming a warning to the frightened pilot.
One of the Rebels was trying to train a rocket on him, even at an altitude that should have hidden him from a laser beam.
“Got a hot spot!” Boris shouted. “I have no choice but to put down now!”
He fully understood the consequences. Crashing in the jungle treetops at least offered a slight chance he might survive.
“Red One! I have a hot spot!” The voice belonged to the pilot of Red Three.
“Go down! Go down!” Boris bellowed into the microphone as he cut the throttle on his own chopper, hoping it would drift slowly into the treetops and catch somewhere among the tree limbs without exploding.
He saw a fireball erupt off to his left while he was going down. Red Three came apart like a child’s toy, and the clap of the explosion was accompanied by a scream transmitted over the radio. Then the scream ended abruptly as the helicopter’s fuel tanks exploded into a secondary fireball.
Boris felt his M24 strike an object below. Then the machine tilted crazily and main rotor blades began to chew into leafy limbs and jungle vines, shaking the cockpit as though he were in an earthquake. The tail section twisted upward, and then the cockpit glass shattered. The noise around him was deafening.
He had the presence of mind to reach for the control panel to shut off the electrical system, hoping to prevent a fire, just as the HIND made a nosedive among the branches toward the jungle floor. For some reason one of his machine guns began to fire, out of control, blasting the ground rushing toward him with a spray of armor-piercing bullets.
“Dear God,” he gasped, watching in horror what awaited him upon impact while the last remaining blade of the main rotor chewed through everything in its path.
Just before the nose of his ruined HIND slammed to the ground, something caught, jerking him forward against the restraint of his seat harness, suspending him and what was left of his chopper a few feet off the ground.
Something in his neck had snapped. His head lolled over until his chin touched his chest. Then, wondering if he might be dying, he lost consciousness.
Boris blinked his eyes open. Excruciating pain throbbed in his neck and head and down his back. Someone, some voice, was talking to him. Was this a dream? Was he still alive? How long had he been unconscious?
He found himself hanging from the pilot’s seat, trapped in the safety harness, staring down, unable to turn his head or lift it. He saw the shape of a man wearing fatigues, holding some kind of rifle with the muzzle pointed up at him.
The soldier spoke to him in English. “Looks like your bird broke its wings, Nazi.”
“Help me,” Boris stammered.
“I’m gonna help you, asshole. I’m gonna help you all the way to your grave.”
“Who are you? Are you one of Enger’s troops? Why are you aiming that gun at me?”
“My name’s Ben Raines. I’m sure as hell not one of you. I’m aiming this rifle at you because I’m gonna send you to hell with it, where you belong.”
The name Ben Raines was vaguely familiar, although Boris was too badly stunned by the crash to think clearly. The pain in his neck and back was excruciating, making his vision blur and consuming his thoughts.
“Adios, asshole,” Raines said.
Boris Dahn heard the hammering of gunfire, and felt his body being jerked back and forth in his flight harness. Then all went black around him and, mercifully
, the pain disappeared and he felt nothing.
TWENTY
When Jersey and Cooper, his arm in a sling, entered Ben’s CP tent, their team members gathered around, slapping Cooper on the back and hugging Jersey.
Anna said with tears in her eyes, “We’re so glad to have you two back. We never gave up hope you would make it.”
“We might not have, if Ben hadn’t left that medical team with the chopper at Soyo,” Jersey said.
She glanced at Cooper. “Coop was in pretty bad shape by the time we got down the Congo.”
“Yeah, if it hadn’t been for the way Jersey took care of me, I would have been a goner for sure,” Cooper added.
A voice from the tent’s doorway boomed out, “Speaking of wounds, I want to see you in my hospital tent right away, young man.”
Doctor Chase was standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, a grin on his face. “And as for you, young lady,” he said, pointing a finger at Jersey, “one of my medics says you threatened him with a gun.”
Ben looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “Is that true, Jersey?”
“No, of course not . . . I just told him I might be a little perturbed if he started cutting on Coop’s arm before Doc Chase had a chance to look at it.”
“That’s not the way he tells it,” Doctor Chase said, winking at Ben. “Now come on, Coop, let’s go take a look at that arm before it falls off.”
As he walked toward the door he called back to Jersey. “And you—in my tent later for a full physical. No telling what you might have picked up running around in the jungle like that.”
After Doctor Chase and Cooper left, Ben poured Jersey some coffee, “Tell us about what happened. Did you see any more hostiles?”
Jersey nodded. “Sure, Boss, but could it wait just a little while? We haven’t had anything to eat but rice and rotten fruit for three days.”
Beth and Anna both rushed to her side. “Come on, we’ll take you to the mess tent.”
Ben held up his hand. “Corrie, stay a few minutes. I need you here. I want to bump Cecil Jefferys in the states.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
After the others had left, Corrie got on the radio. It took her twenty minutes to establish a connection with Jefferys’s office, then another ten minutes while they transferred her back and forth to his new CP.
An impatient Ben Raines asked, “What’s taking so long, Corrie? Trouble with the equipment?”
“No, sir. It seems there was an attempt on Jefferys’s life.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir. He’s in a hospital facility. They wouldn’t tell me where, ’cause security’s still pretty tight and they didn’t want to transmit his location over an open line.”
“Damn! Things are heating up in the states faster than I anticipated.”
Ben shook his head, pacing around his CP tent, thinking out loud. “Corrie, we’re gonna have to finish up here as quick as we can. I’m afraid if we don’t get back to the States soon to give SUSA some support, the NUS and EUS are going to join forces and attack Cecil. I don’t know if he has the wherewithal to survive a combined assault without our forces backing him.”
Just then, the radio buzzed. After talking for a few minutes, Corrie handed the transceiver to Ben.
“Cecil Jefferys is on line, Boss.”
“Cece,” Ben said, “how are you, and what’s going on over there?”
“I’m fine, Ben, thanks. I was very lucky. One of my bodyguards took a bullet that was meant for me. I just got a nick in the arm.”
“So, do you know who’s behind the assassination attempt?”
“Yes. We captured one of the team of assassins. Before he managed to kill himself, he talked. You were right, Ben. The NUS and EUS have officially joined together, under one leader, and they’re going to call themselves The NEUS.”
“Any idea who came out on top?”
“No, we were just getting to that when he killed himself with a cyanide pill hidden in a molar.”
“So, they must not believe us when we say we will not be conquered without bringing complete devastation to the States.”
“You know how the old liberal establishment thinks as well as I do, Ben. They simply cannot believe anyone in his right mind wouldn’t want to be under their socialistic leadership. They evidently think all the people living in The SUSA actually want their government protection and handouts.”
Ben nodded, even though Jefferys couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I discussed that with some reporters from there not too long ago. They’re unable to comprehend why anyone would risk his life to remain free of governmental intrusion. Hell, they’re still convinced that most people abhor violence and private ownership of guns, so the thought that our citizens live with us of their own free will is anathema to them.”
“Ben, how long until you’re done over there?”
“No more than a couple of weeks, I’d guess. All of my brigades are moving south, facing very little organized resistance so far.”
Ben grunted. “Of course, that’s soon going to change as we get closer to Bottger’s headquarters. I have a feeling he has pulled all of his New World Order troops back to provide a final front to protect him and his other leaders somewhere in South Africa.”
“In that regard, my Intelligence sources here have been tracking quite a few long range transmissions between the headquarters of the EUS and NUS and Pretoria, South Africa.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. If I had to make a guess, I’d give you two to one odds Bottger has his headquarters either in or near the city of Pretoria.”
“Thanks for the info, Cece. I’ll radio my brigade commanders and tell them to start tracking their forces toward Pretoria. That should give us some quick response, increased opposition from more professional troops, if Bottger is headquartered there.”
“OK, Ben. I have to go now. The security types have decided it’s time to move me again, to someplace more secure. They feel another assassination attempt is on the way.”
“You take care, Cece. SUSA needs your leadership now more than ever. Raines out.”
“Thanks, Ben. You, too. If they’re trying to kill me, it’s only logical to assume you’re high on their hit list, also. Watch your back, old friend. Jefferys out.”
“Corrie,” Ben said as he handed her the radio transceiver, “see if you can get John Michaels in here. We need to discuss a strategy for ending this African campaign as soon as possible.”
Five minutes later Michaels walked through the door, followed by Cooper, Jersey, Beth, and Anna.
“I see you must have eaten your fill,” Ben said with a smile to Jersey and Cooper.
“Fruit and rice, especially rotten fruit, is highly overrated as an energy source,” Cooper said with a scowl.
He glanced at Jersey. “Not to say that Jersey isn’t a wonderful cook, who’ll no doubt make some man a wonderful wife some day, but I hate sharing my portions with maggots and worms.”
Jersey gave him a look. “Well, after nursing a layabout, lazy man who pretended his wounds were worse than they really were, hunting and gathering all our food by myself, and defending said lazy brute from the forces of evil all day, I feel I can be excused for not coming up to his culinary expectations.”
Cooper gave her a bow. “You’re excused, and your nursing skills and self-defense skills are above reproach. In fact, I highly recommend to all and sundry that if they ever get stranded and wounded in the jungle they have you as a companion, my dear.”
“OK, team. Let’s get down to business for a while,” Ben said. “Cecil Jefferys tells me the EUS and NUS have joined forces, and he fears an attack before too long and perhaps even a coup in the US. That means we have to get this unpleasantness in Africa over with as soon as possible.”
Michaels nodded. “Things are going well with the other brigades, Ben. From the east coast over in Mozambique to the central areas of Zimbabwe and Botswana, all our forces are moving very rapidly to the south
. They all report resistance has been minimal at best, except for Colonel Marsh, who for some reason has come under fairly severe attacks recently.”
Ben grinned. “Couldn’t happen to a more competent commander. If I know Marsh, he kicked some butt.”
“Yes. He’s suffered only minimal troop losses, but his losses of materiel have been slightly higher than the other commander’s.”
Ben got up from his desk and walked to a bulletin board where he had tacked up a map of Africa. He put his finger on the area surrounding Pretoria.
“I have fairly reliable information from Cecil’s Intelligence sources that Bottger is most likely headquartered in Pretoria, or somewhere close to it.”
He turned from the map to face Michaels. “I want the rest of the battalions to turn and concentrate their movements to heading for Pretoria.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Ike’s 502 Brigade is just a few hundred klicks behind us, running down the Angola-Zambia border. He’s not facing much resistance. It seems the native warriors who usually fight for Bottger are afraid to travel too close to Angola, because of the anthrax deaths there.”
Ben nodded. “Good. How about the others?”
“Thermopolis’s 19 Batt is still tracking south through the middle of the country, toward the middle to eastern Zimbabwe.”
“How about Pat O’Shea and the 510?”
“They started on the coast and have come straight south, from Somalia, through Kenya, and are now about halfway down Mozambique. He states he’s had relatively little opposition, other than native gangs and a few small bands of mercs.”
Ben studied the map for a moment. “John, I want everyone to curve their brigades to make a path straight for Pretoria. Ignore anything else. If Bottger’s there we’ll cut the head of the snake off, and the body will die.”
He glanced at his team members, sitting around watching him. “That was one of the weaknesses of the old Nazi regime, and has no doubt been copied by Bottger. The leaders were all too paranoid to have well trained men in place to take over in case they were killed or cut off. If we can isolate or destroy Bottger, his whole army will disintegrate through lack of secondary leadership.”
Triumph in the Ashes Page 15
