“I hope Ben wants us to keep moving this direction,” he said to himself, swinging his feet off the cot. “It would be a help if he sent word to us about what’s going on in the other sectors.”
“Colonel Marsh!”
He heard the voice and peered outside. “Yes, what is it?”
A private, whose face was sweating and flushed, stammered, out of breath from his run to the tent.
“Cap’n Warren said to get you real quick. He says radar picked up lots of planes on their way here.”
“Oh shit!” he said. “And here we are out in the open out of the jungle, caught with our pants down.”
He followed the boy toward the radar tent, buttoning his pants as he ran, cursing himself for being so foolish as to camp next to this stone city on a hill above the jungle.
“Captain Warren, what’ve you got?”
“Looks like a squadron of planes headed straight toward us. Luckily, they’re flying high enough to be picked up on our radar, or we’d never have seen them coming.”
“How long do you figure until they’re here?”
“Hour, maybe an hour and a half at the most.”
“Damn! That doesn’t give us enough time to get back down the hills into the jungle and under cover.”
The private, who had followed Marsh into the tent spoke up. “Colonel Marsh? I have an idea.”
He whirled around. “Well, private, what is it? Speak up. We don’t have a lot of time.”
The boy pulled a folded piece of paper from his hip pocket. “Maybe we could take cover in the city. There’s a huge amphitheater area surrounded by stone walls over thirty feet high.”
Marsh arched an eyebrow. “How do you know about that?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I took this brochure from the house where they used to let the tourists in, before the war. It had these maps, so I did a little exploring on my own.”
Marsh snatched the map from his hands. “If this works, son, you’ll get a field promotion to lieutenant. Now where is this place you’re talking about?”
The three of them bent over a table where Marsh spread the map out.
The boy pointed. “Right here. It’s called the Great Enclosure. It used to be called the House of the Great Woman, and was probably the residence of the queen mother and the royal wives. It’s a huge, elliptical structure about as wide as a football field, and it’s surrounded by a massive outer wall that’s about thirty or thirty-five feet high and fifteen or twenty feet thick.”
“Jesus,” Marsh said, “the place is huge. This map shows a circumference of over eight hundred feet.”
He turned to Warren, speaking rapidly. “Get moving, Captain Get all our troops and as many of the trucks and Apaches inside as you can. The map also shows some high towers inside where we can set up our M60s and other machine guns and a couple of SAMs. We may just make the bastards sorry they attacked, after all!”
Marsh never found out why—headwinds, misdirection, or what—but the aircraft arrived over two hours after Captain Warren picked them up on radar.
By then Marsh’s strike force was ready and waiting. All of the trucks and supplies and Apache helicopters were arrayed behind the thirty foot high and seventeen foot thick stone walls, and the many towers within the Great Enclosure bristled with M60s, SAMs, and even some old, fifty caliber, water-cooled machine guns.
As the planes attacked the position, Marsh calmly gave the order to fire, and hundreds of machine guns and M16s an even a few .45 automatics opened up on the aircraft.
The first plane in, a MIG with large, pointed napalm bombs on its wings, was engulfed by thousands of rounds of bullets and burst into flame, disappearing in a giant fireball so hot that virtually no wreckage fell to earth.
“Jesus!” Marsh exclaimed to Captain Warren when he saw the explosion. “That MIG was carrying napalm.”
He nodded, his face grim. “I wonder if the others are, too.”
His question was answered moments later when two planes made it through the fusillade of bullets to drop cluster bombs of napalm on the enclosure. Because of the height and thickness of the ancient stone walls, the strike force survived the firebombing without injury to men or matériel.
As more and more planes tried to penetrate their defenses without success, until finally the last bomber had been shot down, Marsh looked at Warren. “Captain, find me that private. I want to personally shake his hand and pin his sergeant’s stripes on his shirt. He saved all our lives.”
Warren shook his head. “Just think, Colonel, if we’d camped in the jungle like we usually do, we’d be barbecue by now.”
“You’re right, Captain. We would never have survived the napalm without these stone walls.”
He leaned over to pat the wall, saying, “Thank you, Queen Mother, for giving us sanctuary in our time of need.”
Two hours later, Marsh was resting in his tent while Captain Warren made sure the troops and materiel were ready to march south.
A gruff voice called from just outside the tent flap.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Sergeant Peters, sir. I’ve got a prisoner for you.”
He walked to the opening and peered out. Sergeant Peters, the lead Scout, was holding a man wearing a tattered New World Order officer’s uniform by the shoulder. Peters held a gun to the man’s spine.
“What is it, Peters?” he asked.
“I caught a spy,” Peters said, marching the officer through camp to the tent.
The man stood up straight, almost clicking his heels as he came to attention. “I am not a spy,” he said in a heavily accented voice. “I am Captain Helmut Gruber, pilot in the New World Order Air Force. My serial number is—”
“Why are you bringing him to me?” Marsh asked, interrupting the man as he buckled on his Beretta.
“Because he’s got a story to tell. I had to bang him on the head a few times to refresh his memory.”
The German officer was bleeding from cuts on his forehead and left cheek.
“I’d say you banged him a little too hard, Sergeant. But go ahead and tell me what he had to say.”
Peters pushed the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s spine. “Tell the commander what you just told me,” he growled. “An’ don’t leave out no details, or this gun is liable to go off accidental.”
The officer was clearly frightened. “I must protest this treatment of a prisoner of war, Commander. It’s completely against the Geneva Convention.”
“In case you forgot, Heinz, or Helmut, or whatever your name is, your leader Bottger never signed any treaties, certainly not any protecting the rights of prisoners.”
“Be that as it may, Colonel, we’re both reasonable people, civilized people, and again I must protest—”
“Protest this, Heimi,” Peters said as he held the pistol against the officer’s head.
Marsh nodded toward Peters, speaking to the German. “I guess you’d better tell me what Peters wants, Captain, before he blows your brains all over my tent.”
When the German officer hesitated Peters slapped the barrel of his gun across the rear of his prisoner’s skull. Gruber winced and bent over, clutching the back of his head.
“Speak up!” Peters snapped. “Don’t force me to hit you no harder.”
Gruber sighed, and began talking. “General Field Marshal Bottger has many cannons and tanks set up in southern Zimbabwe and northern South Africa. They are well hidden, between here and Pretoria, waiting for your arrival just in case you are to escape our air attacks.”
“When was all this done?” Marsh asked.
“Recently, in the last few days. Since you defeated Captain Schultz the Field Marshal has been obsessed with killing you,” Gruber said as more blood from the new wound to his head trickled down his neck. Peters was good at getting information this way, Marsh remembered.
“Can you show us where these tanks and cannons are set up?” Marsh asked.
“They’ll kill me if they see m
e show you where,” he said, stuttering in his awkward use of English.
“We’re gonna kill you if you don’t show us,” Peters warned him.
“I do not want to die,” the German begged.
“Just one way to keep from it,” Peters continued, after a glance in the colonel’s direction. “Start talkin’, and start showin’ us where them guns are bein’ hid.”
“I’ll show you,” the man said softly, touching the blood on his head and shoulders. “I do not want to be a traitor, but I want even less to die.”
“What else has Bottger been up to?” Marsh asked.
“He’s been offering a lot of money to the natives, men who have no money, to show him where your battalions are. Some of them, in spite of their dislike for Germans, take the money. They have many hungry children and wives to feed.”
“How about you, Fritz—you got any children?” Peters asked.
“Yes, two, a boy and a girl.”
“The only way you’re gonna live long enough to see ’em again is to cooperate with us. You show us where them cannons are hid, an’ maybe we’ll let you live.”
The officer nodded quickly, despite the pain it caused when he moved his head. “I’ll show you. Just stop hitting me with that pistol.”
Marsh held up a hand for Peters to stop pushing the prisoner. “We won’t shoot you if you show us where Bottger is putting the guns.”
“I’ll show you. I’ll show you,” he said again.
Marsh turned to Peters. “Take him to the mess tent and show him some maps. Have him point out where the gun batteries are hidden. I’m sure they’ve put antiaircraft guns in place, as well as anti-tank rockets and gun emplacements. Mark them well on the map.”
“Why mess with all that when we can just avoid the areas?” Peters asked.
Marsh turned to the flatbed trucks carrying their Apache helicopter gunships. “Because tonight, we’ll give our pilots the coordinates and let them drop a few firecrackers on Bottger’s new traps.”
“We’ve only got four that can fly, and one is developing some heating problems in this desert country,” Peters said as he, too, looked at the trucks bearing the partially dismantled Apache gunships.
“It’ll be cooler at night. I’ll have our flight commander get the Apaches ready. Remember, get the exact coordinates as best you can. We don’t have many rockets to spare. I hope we can get in touch with General Raines soon for replacements. We can’t fight Bottger with bows and arrows.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bruno stood in their underground War Room in Pretoria, his hands clasped behind him, listening along with the others while radio transmissions came back from the night attack on Rebel Battalion 12.
A fleet of ten MIGs carrying napalm and nerve gas was only minutes away from the battle zone in the jungles of southern Zimbabwe, where native Intelligence gatherers had reported Malone’s battalion was camped.
Unless his forces could halt Colonel Marsh there, nothing would stop him from marching straight across the border into the Republic of South Africa, headed for Pretoria. It was beginning to sound like this was a real possibility, as more grim reports came back to the War Room.
Colonel Walz seemed particularly uncomfortable. His M24s didn’t have the range to partake in this attack, and thus the MIGs were his only hope of hitting Marsh at his distant campsite.
His old MIG fighter planes were from a mothball fleet in Austria, some of them barely able to fly, their machine guns in various states of disrepair with a limited supply of ammunition.
When he had acquired them from his Russian friends at the start of the war in Africa, Bruno had only meant for the MIGs to serve as a last resort, or for the destruction of easy targets without heavy anti-aircraft artillery.
And, to make matters worse, the Avgas jet fuel for the MIGs had been dangerously low when he ordered Walz to send them after the Rebel strike force. Walz warned that roughly half of the planes might not have enough fuel to make it back to Pretoria.
Bruno had shrugged, indifferent to his air leader’s whining. At that point, with Rebel battalions closing in from all sides, he couldn’t have cared less for the lives of a few pilots.
The war against the Rebels, one that he was once certain he could win, was going badly. Adding to his building fury, this would be the second time Ben Raines and his ragtag, freedom-spouting armies had defeated him—first driving him out of Europe, and now his hold on Africa was being seriously threatened by these inferior mongrels.
Across the room, Walz almost shouted into the radio, “Come in, Fighter Squadron Six, come in!”
A storm of static followed Walz’s orders. Then another voice spoke to the War Room. “Fighter Squadron Six. We can see the signs of the strike force now. We’re on final approach. The idiots seem to have made camp out in the open, on a hilltop, not in the jungle, as was reported. The Apache helicopters are still on the ground, not even warming up yet. This should make our attack much easier, Colonel Walz. We’ll be launching rockets the minute we have range, then we’ll swing in a wide circle and let our payloads of napalm go down.”
Bruno was satisfied. The MIGs had arrived. “Tell the squad leader to split. Send one group directly over the Rebel position on the hill at five thousand feet, out of range of their smaller gun batteries. Send the others in a wide circle to come from the opposite direction. We’ll destroy Marsh and his men, and we shall blow their Apache helicopters to pieces while still on the ground.”
Walz spoke to the fighter squad leader. “Split your forces. Send half your planes in a circle to come from the north. Keep the others at five thousand feet. Release the bombs. Dump everything you have all over his camp, then strafe the surrounding area with machine guns to kill any troops that try to get away on foot. Fires from the napalm will be your cover.”
“Yes, sir. We’re dividing now.” A hesitation. “Scorpion group climb to five thousand. Release your pay-loads on anything you see moving. Black Widow group follow me to the north in a wide circle. Then hit them with everything you’ve got.”
Bruno leaned back against a desk behind him, watching two giant radar screens. “At last,” he said savagely, feeling the adrenaline rush through his arms and legs. “Now we’ll see how well this bastard can take a pounding.”
He smiled, with no humor in his eyes. “Welcome to South Africa, you asshole. I hope your drawers are the first to catch on fire. A napalm bath is what you’ve needed all along. Goodbye, Colonel. You gave us a good show, but it’s over now.”
General Conreid looked relieved. “With Marsh out of the way we can concentrate our tanks and infantry on Ben Raines to the north and west.”
Colonel Walz still seemed doubtful, rubbing his chin while watching the radar screens. “We haven’t gotten rid of Marsh yet, General.”
General Ligon came to Conreid’s defense. “This will be over very soon, Colonel. Napalm is quite thorough when it comes to destroying a target. These Rebels won’t escape our napalm fires, and even if some of them do the nerve gas will drop them like flies. I predict there will be no survivors.”
No survivors, Bruno thought. A twenty-year dream was about to come true. With Ben Raines and his Rebels out of the way, no force on earth could stand between Bruno and global domination, a triumph rising out of the ashes of a total annihilation of the Tri-States military machine.
In less than five minutes the radio crackled again. “Beta Squadron. Captain Gruber has been shot down. There are three of us left. We are turning back at once.”
Bruno glared at Colonel Walz. “Tell them their orders are to stay and fight. I’ll have them executed by firing squad if they disobey a direct order from me!”
Walz’s hand trembled slightly holding the microphone. “Go back. Engage the enemy. These are orders from General Field Marshal Bottger himself. Your MIGs are only minutes from destroying Marsh and his battalion. Do not give up now, for I am sure the tide will turn quickly in our favor.”
“But Colonel, they are blastin
g us out of the sky. Marsh’s forces are camped in some sort of stone city on a hilltop, as Captain Gruber said. They are behind large rock walls which our machine gun bullets can’t penetrate. Their anti-aircraft batteries are in massive stone towers above the city, and are unapproachable.”
Walz felt as if he were going crazy. All his beautiful plans were coming to nothing, all because of a few cowardly pilots. “Drop your napalm, you idiots! Burn them out!”
“Colonel,” the voice continued, and even over the radio Walz could hear the scorn in it. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Marsh’s forces are in a stone city, walled in like a fortress. Stone does not burn, Colonel. Repeat, stone does not burn!”
“Do not talk back to me, Captain! I order you to go back and finish the fight, to the last man, if need be!”
“But sir, I repeat, we can’t find anything to shoot at, our napalm has no effect, and the Rebel ground batteries are chewing us to pieces every time we pass over the stone city.”
“Turn and fight!” Walz bellowed. “You are soldiers of The New World Order. Where is your courage, your commitment to our great cause?”
“We all have plenty of commitment, sir, but our aircraft is not equal to theirs. This was a trap. We were lured into a crossfire between their ground-to-air rocket launchers and their cannons. They were waiting for us.”
General Ligon turned to Bruno. “Tell them to turn back, General Field Marshal, while we still have some MIGs left. If the assault has failed, we can still use them as a final defense against Raines and his 501 Batt when they get to the border of South Africa.”
Walz, sweat pouring from his forehead, nodded, showing his agreement. “Yes, General Field Marshal. I still have Captain Kohl in reserve with his HIND M24s, and they can be ready to attack at first light tomorrow.”
Bruno nodded, for the idea sounded good enough, and even if the last M24 pilots were lost ultimate victory would be theirs at last. “Give the order, Colonel Walz. Radio our pilots to take evasive action and come back to Pretoria, away from Marsh’s camp.”
Triumph in the Ashes Page 21
