Anarchy in the Ashes ta-3

by William W. Johnstone

  “Tell our engineers to bring earth scrapers in here,” Ben told Lieutenant Macklin. “And scoop out mass graves for the IPF.”

  She walked away, happy to be leaving the immediate area, for the stink of the dead and mangled bodies was ugly to her nostrils.

  Ike appeared at Ben’s side. Ben glanced at him. The

  stocky ex-navy SEAL had come through the fight unscathed. Ike wore a long face.

  “What’s up, Ike?”

  “Hector’s dead, Ben. He took a round right through the head.”

  Ben sighed heavily. Another friend lost. Hector Ramos now joined all the others who had died to defend liberty. “I’m sorry, Ike. Hec was a friend of mine, too. Have him buried apart from those bastards.” Ben jerked his thumb toward the piles of dead IPF troops. Something told him that Ike was not through with his report. “All right, ol’ buddy. Drop the other shoe.”

  “OK, Ben, but it ain’t good. Prelims show we took a thirty percent loss. Another four hundred too badly hurt to fight. We lost twenty tanks to suicide teams from the IPF, six mortar carriers. One long torn completely out of it, another that will have to have major repairs. One PUFF was shot down, all aboard dead. Two spotter planes down-crews still missing, presumed dead.

  “In other words, we’ve got about eighteen hundred troops still able to fight?”

  “That’s stretching it, Ben. Make it fifteen hundred. Be more like it. And some of them are more badly wounded than they want us to know.”

  “Very well,” Ben said, mentally tallying up the troops still able to fight. “So what it boils down to is this: Pursuit is out of the question.”

  “Nil,” Cecil said, walking up. He had commanded the west flank. “The last intelligence report we received stated that Striganov had at least another six to eight thousand troops in reserve-but not all of them on American soil. We may have the spirit and the

  cause, but Striganov simply and flatly has us outgunned and out-manned the way we are.”

  “Stopped dead in the water,” Ben mused. “At least for a time.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I’m betting Striganov and his people won’t stay in the North. I’m betting he’s already given orders to pull out and relocate. But where?”

  “To the west,” Juan said. He and his people had just pulled in from their positions on the west side of the Mississippi River, just above that area defended by Ike’s Rebels. “Or to the south. I think those are the only two logical moves left him. You said some time back, Ben, the Russian would probably have eyes and ears out and know we are planning a move to the east. He couldn’t move into the once-heavily-industrialized Northeast, for those areas-many of them-will be hot for another thousand years. He certainly would know the work you people did in the new Tri-States, the building and the cultivation of crop-lands. He might go there, but I’m hunch-betting he’s pulling out to the west.”

  “California, Oregon, Washington areas, maybe,” Ben said, more to himself than to the others. “Putting as much distance between us as possible, knowing we would be very much overextended by attacking his people with that much of a supply gap between us.”

  “Yeah,” Ike said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. “And with three thousand miles separating our base camp from the Russian, we’ll be in a hell of a bind as far as supplies went. You’re right, Ben.”

  Ben thought of Gale, and how she would take this news. “Mary?”

  Lieutenant Macklin stepped forward. “Sir?” She had delivered Ben’s orders to the engineers and returned.

  “Mary, have Colonel Gray send out teams of LETTERRP’S. Stay well south of the IPF column but give us daily radio communiqu`es as to their progress. Juan, radio your people in New Mexico and Arizona, warn them the IPF is heading west. Maybe that news will help them find their courage and get them to fight.”

  “Don’t count on it, Ben,” Juan warned.

  “I’m not. Mary, have Colonel Gray ask for volunteers for a hit and rescue mission on Striganov’s HQ up north. I want it mounted quickly, while the IPF is in a mild state of panic and confusion, getting ready for a massive pull-out west. I want them to rescue as many of the captives as possible.

  “All right, people, here it is. We are going to stay put for a time. Let Striganov think we’re here to stay in this area. It just might confuse him. I doubt it, but there is always a chance. Let’s get to the job of burying our dead.”

  Ike stood by Ben’s side as the others left. The two men stood side by side, gazing out at the smoke drifting up from the torn landscape.

  “Kinda reminds you of things past, doesn’t it, Ben?”

  “Yes,” Ben replied quietly, his thoughts flying back over the years. “Yes, it does.”

  The battle for Tri-States took thirty-five days. Just over a month of savage fighting. Ben’s people quickly resorted to guerrilla tactics and scattered. Ben’s Rebels hit hard and ran, and they booby-trapped everything.

  The government troops who stormed Tri-States soon learned what hell must be like. Everything they touched either blew up, shot at them, bit them or poisoned them.

  Earlier, the medical people in Tri-States had discovered packs of rabid animals and captured them, keeping them alive as long as possible, transferring the infected cultures into the bloodstreams of every warm-blooded animal they could find. The day the invasion began, the rabid animals were turned loose on the government troops. It was cruel. But isn’t war always?

  The government troops began their search and destroy missions. They entered hospitals and nursing homes but the patients had been armed. The very old and the very sick and dying fought just as savagely as the young and strong and healthy. For those people who chose to live in Ben Raines’s Tri-States wanted only to be left alone, to live their lives as they saw fit. And they would fight to the death for that right. And did.

  Old people, with tubes hanging from their bodies, some barely able to crawl, hurled grenades and shot at the government troops who had invaded them. And the young men in their jump boots and berets wept as they killed the old people. Tough marines cried at the carnage.

  Many of the young government troops threw down their weapons and walked away, refusing to take part in any more killing. Not cowardice on their part-these young men would have fought to the death against any threat to liberty, but the people of Ben Raines’s Tri-States had threatened no one’s liberty. All

  they wanted was the right to live and work and play in peace and personal freedom-and to govern themselves as they saw fit, infringing on no law-abiding citizen’s rights.

  Many of the young government troops deserted to join the Rebels; many were shot by their own officers for refusing to fight against a group of Americans whom they believed had done no wrong.

  The universal soldier syndrome came home to many of the government troops: without us, you can’t have a war.

  And the children of the Rebels, they fought as well and as bravely as the older, more experienced Rebels. Some as young as ten and twelve stood with weapons and fought it out with the government troops … wondering why, because they thought they were Americans. The children hid with sniper rifles and had to be hunted down and killed. A battered and bleeding little girl might just hand a medic a live grenade and die with him.

  Rightly or wrongly, Ben Raines’s decision to school the young of Tri-States in the tactics of war had been driven home. They had been taught for as long as Tri-States stood-nine years-to defend their country, their beliefs, and that is what they did.

  The hospital finally had to be blown up with artillery rounds; it was unsafe to enter because the patients were armed and ready to die for Ben Raines and his form of government. Everywhere the U.s. troops turned, something blew up in their faces. With thousands of tons of explosives to work with, the Rebels had wired everything possible to explode.

  Tri-States began to stink like an open cesspool. The

  U.s. troops were forced to kill every warm-blooded animal they saw. There was no way of knowing what an
imals had been infected, not in the early stages. The government troops became very wary about entering buildings, not only because of the risk of a door being wired to blow, but because the Rebels had begun placing rabid animals in houses, locking them in. A dog or a cat is a terrible thing to witness leaping at a person, snarling and hissing and foaming from the jaws.

  U.s. troops could not drink the water in Tri-States. Doctor Chase had infected it with everything from cholera to forms of anthrax.

  There were no finely drawn battle lines in this war, no safe sectors for the U.s. troops. The Rebels did not retreat in any given direction, leaving that section clean. They would pull back, then go left or right and circle around, flanking the government troops, harassing and confusing them, slitting a throat along the way. For the Rebels knew this territory. For nine years they had been training for this, and they were experts at their jobs.

  The bloody climax came when the government troops could not even remotely consider taking prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel, of any age or sex, getting that close to them.

  Then the directive came down the chain of command, beginning at the White House, from the mouth of President Hilton Logan: total extermination.

  For many, this was the first time for actual combat. The first time to taste the highs and lows of war. And there are highs in combat. The first taking of a human life-all the training in the world will not prepare a person for that moment.

  Sometimes in combat, the mind will turn off, and a soldier will do things to survive without realizing he is doing them or remembering afterward. Rote training takes over.

  Fire until you hear the ping or plop of the firing pin striking nothing. Fresh clip in. Resume firing, aiming at the thickest part of the enemy’s body. Your weapon is jammed. Clear it, cuss it, grab one from your dead buddy. Fire through the tears and the sweat and the dirt.

  Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until it’s empty and never reload, so caught up is he in the heat and horror. He is killing the enemy with imaginary bullets.

  You can’t think. Too much noise. Don’t even try to think. Kill the enemy. An hour becomes a minute; a minute is forever. God, will it never end. No! don’t let it end. The high is terrific. Kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, approaching climax.

  One soon learns the truth: You didn’t cum-you shit your pants.

  And when did it start raining red? Thick red.

  You imagine yourself indestructible. They can’t kill you. Laugh in the face of death. Howl at the Reaper. A man running for cover is decapitated by a mortar round. The headless, nonhuman-appearing thing runs on for twenty more yards, flapping its arms in a hideous silent ballet, the music provided by machine guns, the applause the sound of screaming. In your head. It’s you, but you don’t know that. Look at the headless man. Fascinated. It falls down. St.

  Someone else is trying to stuff yards of guts back into his belly. He falls down, screams, dies. Good. At

  least it shut the son of a bitch up. His guts are steaming in the cool air.

  God, you shot a woman. It’s a good hit. The cunt falls funny, kind of limp and boneless.

  Then the thought comes to you: How long has it been since you’ve had any pussy?

  What a time to be thinking of that.

  Turn to speak to your buddy, just a few feet away, in a ditch. That red rain you felt? That was his blood. He’s still alive, but just barely. The blood is really gushing out. No time to worry about the dying. You’ve got to concentrate on staying alive.

  Eyes smart and sting from the smoke and dust of battle. Get it all together, pal, “cause here come the enemy. Close.

  There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one who used to brag about all the pussy he got. He won’t be getting any more. Took a slug right between the eyes. All that yuk leaking out of his head.

  Suddenly, too quickly, you’re mixing it up hand to hand. This is stupid; the enemy looks just like you. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells bad. Your eyes meet. Brains send the message. Kill.

  You’re off your knees. (how did I get on my knees? What the fuck was I doing, praying?) Legs support you. You’re going to be all right.

  Squeeze the trigger. The enemy is dead. No, he isn’t! The goddamn rifle is empty! Slam the butt of the M-16 into his balls. He doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down on his neck and pray the goddamn plastic stock doesn’t break. If it’s from Mattel, it’s swell. Hear the neck pop. He’s dead. A fresh clip in the weapon.

  Shoot him just to be sure.

  Turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your lungs, can’t get enough air. Another Rebel has just killed that guy … what’s his name? Third platoon. You notice the strangest things. The guy needs a shave. Force your bayonet into the Rebel’s back. (when did you fix the bayonet on the lug?) Damn-it’s not as easy as in the movies; the guy is screaming and jerking around and pissing on himself. Oh, shit! The bayonet is stuck in the guy’s back. Blow it free. There it is.

  Suddenly, you’re on the ground, flat on your back. How’d that happen? Am I hit? Oh, God! Don’t let my balls be gone!

  “Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!” a sergeant is yelling.

  Is he yelling at me? Hell, I’m not yellow. I just killed a couple of Rebs. Damn, Sarge, I didn’t get down here deliberately, you know. The sergeant takes a slug in the back. Must have gone right through the spine. He falls funny. You can’t remember his name.

  Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this, a replay? You just did this.

  Some troops have captured a Rebel woman, pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys! She’s screaming as they mount her. They’re hurting her. That’s not right, guys; we’re not animals.

  “Want some pussy, Jake?”

  They’re talking to you, stupid. “No.” Turn away. Don’t have to look at this.

  The woman is really screaming in pain.

  A man is on the ground. A Rebel. Some government troops are sticking him with bayonets.

  “Beg, you mother-fucker!” they yell at him.

  “Go to hell!” the Rebel shouts his defiance.

  The Old Man said no prisoners. So the Reb is shot. But they didn’t have to shoot him there. He’s screaming in pain.

  It’s quiet. You look around you. Is it over? Yeah-almost. Holy-Mother-of-God-Jesus-Fucking -Christ-Almighty! Look at the bodies. All the blood and stuff. Oh, Lord-the sergeant is walking around, shooting the wounded Rebels in the head. Someone tells you that you’re now a sergeant. Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. You want to scream: “But I don’t want the promotion!” Then suddenly there is a .45 in your hand an you’re stepping through the gore and the pain and the moaning and the pistol is jumping in your hand, ending the moaning and the screaming ands the pain.

  No prisoners.

  That was the rule on both sides of the conflict.

  That woman Reb was still screaming. They were sodomizing her. And calling out crudely as they did so.

  You walk away from the sights and sounds of the rape. You could tell them to stop and they would have to. You’re a sergeant. But you don’t want to lose the respect of your men this early in the game. What the hell? She’s only a Rebel. The enemy.

  All around you the enemy is lying dead on the ground. And that woman is still screaming. Wish she would shut up.

  A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest. He’s looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You shoot him in the head and try not to look at the wedding band on his left hand, third finger. Maybe that was his wife the guys are screwing up the ass.

  Don’t think about that.

  Rationalize the situation. Look, you say silently to the dead man, don’t blame me. I’m just following orders, man.

  The enemy is defeated, most dead, and it’s just too quiet around here. Somebody say something. But everybody you look at averts their eyes. Guys are breathing too hard; somebody tosses his breakfast
, puking on the ground. Someone else is praying. The Lord’s Prayer. You feel like laughing. Man … you think God is listening to this shit? “It’s too goddamned quiet!”

  You spin around. “Who said that?” you demand in a harsh voice.

  Nobody will answer.

  Our Father which art in Heaven …

  A Rebel is moaning in pain.

  Hallowed be Thy name…

  You point to the Rebel. “Shoot him!” you order.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done… Bam!

  The gunshot is so goddamned loud.

  In earth, as it is in Heaven …

  There is a guy from your platoon, kneeling, holding a tiny, blue-colored bird in his dirty hand.

  Give us this day our daily bread …

  The bird is dead.

  And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors…

  Everybody gathered around to look at the bird. No one speaks. It’s quiet.

  And lead us not into temptation …

  There isn’t a mark on the bird. No blood. Seems

  funny to see something with no blood on it. Wonder what killed the bird?

  But deliver us from evil…

  “Hey, Sarge?”

  “Yeah?” Your voice sounds funny. Odd.

  For thine is the kingdom, and the power …

  “You know what, Sarge?”

  And the glory…

  “What?”

  Forever…

  “We won.”

  Amen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gale was silent for a time that evening of the IPF’S first major defeat on American soil. Then, after an hour had passed, with Ben leaving her alone to work it all out in her mind, she came to him.

  She stood looking at him for a moment before speaking. “We did the best we could, didn’t we, Ben? I mean, the fighting?”

  “Better than I thought we’d do, Gale. Better than I could ever imagine, in fact.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “No.”

  “Your people-our people, the Rebels-they knew they would suffer losses, didn’t they?”