Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  A short burst from an M-60 stitched across his chest and ended his anxiety. The infantry fared better. A daisy-cutter took off a leg here, disemboweled a man there, machine-gun fire raked the open spaces and sent deadly ricochets off tank obstacles. Slowly, sheer mass began to tell.

  “We’ve stopped their armor cold,” Price informed Sanchez.

  “Now what’s the good news?” Captain Sanchez asked facetiously.

  “There’s a hell of a lot of them out there. More than a company, for sure. I think we’ve got our nuts in a crack.”

  “You’re saying we should pull out?” Sanchez probed.

  “No. Not yet, Vic. We can hold, like the general said. For a while.”

  A similar drama unfolded outside what was left of Pueblo, Colorado. Two full battalions of infantry flung themselves at the Rebel defenses. Backed by tanks and light armored vehicles equipped with twin 40mm autoloaders, they slashed through the lesser defenses to a depth where individual riflemen engaged each other at eyeball-to-eyeball range. These massive attacks had not been in the planning done by Ben Raines.

  It went against everything his efficient intelligence personnel had developed. Peter Volmer was spreading men thin through a wide corridor, intended, Ben believed, to suck him in and then slam shut on his main Rebel command. That, or force him to weaken his own position to counter them. Then Hoffman hit two vulnerable Rebel outposts early and with massive strength.

  He had set Ben up all right. Gotten his attention and hooked him and now played with him like a big bass on a limber rod and nine-pound line. Ben fumed in impotent anger while he listened on the radio as the attacks unfolded. It was all his fault, he chastised himself. Hoffman and this Volmer had played him for a sucker, sure enough. And he’d gone for it. He should have anticipated this, Ben cursed silently as he listened to the last broadcast out of Pueblo.

  “They’re in the compound now, Eagle. We — we didn’t have time to pull out, over.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to, you gutsy bastard,” Ben said thickly, his throat working hard.

  “What’s that, sir?” Corrie asked. “Do you want me to transmit that?”

  “What? Uh–no, Corrie. No.”

  A loud blast came over the speaker. Coughing followed, and a weak voice. “Th — they’ve blown the manhole cover, General. I’m going to wait until this place fills up and . . . send them . . . all to hell.”

  “No!” Ben shouted. “Don’t waste your life like that.” His eyes felt hot and dry. Funny that his vision was distorted by a liquid film.

  “Jesus, I’ve got an SS major down here,” came the voice of the last living Rebel at Pueblo. “Here comes more of the bastards. I think now is a good — ” The sharp edge of an explosion and sudden burst of static filled Ben’s mobile CP.

  Torn by powerful emotion, Ben stared at the speaker box. All of a sudden he wanted to put his head down on the table and bawl his heart out, something he hadn’t done since he was eight years old. Instead, he turned hot, haunted eyes on Corrie.

  “I want General Jefferys ASAP. Bump him now.”

  Corrie switched to the big, long-range radio set and spoke quietly into it. After a second she nodded.

  “Have you been following this thing, Cec?” Ben rasped.

  “As closely as possible, given the distance. What’s up?”

  “Hoffman’s screwed the pooch. He’s made an idiot out of me and I damn well intend to fuck over him for that. How fast can you get six Puffs in the air?”

  “Half an hour, Eagle.”

  “Do it. I want them up, carrying a full load of every nasty thing they have. Two of them to Colorado Springs and Pueblo. I want them to clean the goddamn black-shirts out of there. Kill anything that walks, crawls, or wiggles. They can refuel at the old McConnell Air Force Base in Wichita on the way back. The other four to the north, to cream Cheyenne. We’ll establish a refueling spot for them while they are en route. I want every one of these Nazi bastards dead. That goes too for their wives, kids, cats, dogs, and canaries.”

  Concerned for his old friend, Cecil Jefferys tut-tutted a bit. “You’re taking this personally, Ben.”

  “Damned right I am,” Ben snapped. “Just do it, Cec. I’m counting big on you.”

  A long moment of carrier wave answered. Then Jefferys spoke softly, a hurt tone in his voice. “I think you can, Ben. Without question.”

  Misery painted Ben’s face. “Oh, shit, yes, Cec. I’m sorry I gnawed your headbone. I’m so — damned mad. At me, at Hoffman, at everything that delays cleaning the clock of this Nazi dung pile. FACs and FAGs will be sent forward with the refueling team. The pilots will be briefed in flight. Eagle, out.”

  Ben reached Tina next. “Take one company, stripped down for speed. I want you to draw two fuel tankers from Thermopolis and set out at once. Make an end run around Cheyenne and locate a functional airfield capable of handling C-47s. Heavily loaded C-47s.”

  Tina’s eyes sparkled and Ben could see it in the tone of her voice. “You’re going to bring in the Puffs,” Tina said excitedly. She loved the big flying gun platforms. “They . . . smash things up so . . . efficiently,” she had commented once.

  “I’m tired of wasting lives,” Ben answered curtly. “Hoffman seems to have an inexhaustible supply of ground pounders. What he doesn’t have is effective SAMs. Without a surface-to-air capability, we have him by the short and curlies. I want to kick his ass all the way back to the mouth of the Columbia River.”

  “I — heard about Pueblo,” Tina said cautiously.

  “That’s part of the reason,” Ben admitted. “The rest is plain common sense. We’re stretched so tight now that the balloon is about to pop. If we chase around to every little spot Hoffman’s troops choose to hit, we’ll run ourselves into the ground. I know it worked before. But Hoffman’s staff and field commanders have learned, even if he hasn’t. We aren’t going to pick up the marbles without losing a few along the way. I want to make it as few as possible.”

  “And I love you for it, Daddy. Every — well — I mean, that’s what makes you so special to every Rebel. I remember reading in one of your books that there was a time when it seemed British officers calculated how great their victories were by the casualty lists. The more casualties, the bigger their success. Sort of winnow out the lower classes, don’t chew know.”

  “Dan would be deeply incensed by that,” Ben chided with a chuckle. “Okay, sweetheart, lighten that company and haul out with those tankers soon as you can. And, Tina, duck your head and keep your pretty little tail down.”

  Scandalized, Tina all but shrieked. “Daddy! You haven’t seen my tail since Jack and I outgrew those evening bath sessions. You have no idea whether or not it’s pretty.”

  “If it’s attached to you, it is,” Ben kept up the repartee, his mood lightened by doing something. “Need I mention, we are going to make all possible speed for Cheyenne. Hoffman’s stuck his foot in our door, I’m gonna hand it back to him, chewed off at the knee.”

  ELEVEN

  Rolling south on Nebraska 71, Tina and her small convoy blew into Colorado an hour out of Kimball. It would be another hour and a half to Colorado 14, where they would turn west to what used to be Fort Collins. Hell of a way to bypass Cheyenne, Tina considered.

  Necessary, though. County roads closer to Cheyenne would be patrolled by the black-shirt army of SS General Brodermann. The whole trick was to avoid detection. Her tentative goal was the airport at Laramie. That or the small military airbase outside the metropolitan ruins of the city. They would be spotted at either, she had no doubt. And there would be fighting. Like before, her musings reminded.

  That had been back before the crusade to liberate Europe. Back when the Rebel army fought the Night People. Tina recalled the desperate situation that had developed at the airbase. Memory of the fetid odor of the creepies could still wrinkle her nose. They had swarmed like a black human tide from the large hangars, to be chopped down with automatic-weapons fire. For once, Tina remembe
red, there had been more meat than air to shoot at. She had commanded a company then. Damn fine troops.

  It still hurt to think of those who hadn’t survived. A sudden chill rippled over Tina’s skin as she saw images of the loathsome creatures grabbing and pulling at her in the security building. A young Rebel had given his life to save her from becoming creepie breakfast. But they had whipped the Night People, kicked the snot out of them, and exterminated their odious confraternity. Not only in Laramie, but everywhere in the United States.

  “We’ll have to make a refueling stop at Ault,” the driver beside Tina informed her.

  “Better make it along the roadside before there. Might find some Nazis in the ruins of Fort Collins.”

  “Right, Colonel, I never thought of that,” the blushing driver responded. Although she had only a company along, Tina still commanded a battalion and retained her rank. The young Rebel wasn’t used to having lieutenant colonels riding in the lead truck of a convoy. Especially one who carried a wicked-looking little gun like that.

  Tina had noted his frequent darted glances at the compact automatic weapon she carried and softened her face into a smile as she decided to enlighten him. “It’s something Ike McGowan picked up down in the Southwest. Albuquerque, as a matter of fact. It’s called a Sidewinder. Nice thing is, it’s a convertible.”

  “Huh–urn–sir?”

  “Using the tools built into the sling fasteners, you can change it from .45 AGP to nine-mil in a little over thirty seconds. I’ll spare you all the details, but you can see the advantage of being able to use more than one caliber ammunition. The cyclic rate is twelve hundred rounds per minute in both configurations and it has a progressive trigger. Fires single shot, three-round burst, or full auto.”

  “M’god, that’s a whole lot in a little package,” the driver observed.

  “You’re O’Brien, right? Well, O’Brien, the Sidewinder gives a whole new meaning to nasty. The front barrel retainer plug is threaded on the outside to fit a suppressor. They found twenty Sidewinders, and the suppressors for them, in an old root cellar that had been converted into a vault. Whoever built those silencers sure knew what he was doing. All you hear is the cycling of the bolt and the brass hitting the ground. When Da — the general said to strip down a company to travel fast and light, I thought it might be useful to have along.”

  “I’ll say,” O’Brien answered enthusiastically. “What’s it take to get ahold of one of them?”

  Tina’s smile was gentle and not at all patronizing. “They’re special issue out of Headquarters Company, R Batt, I had to promise Captain Thermopolis my right arm to draw this one. They are rare birds and very much special operations equipment.”

  “I, ah, I’m kinda glad you’ve got it with you, Colonel.”

  “So am I, O’Brien. I’ve got a feeling we might need it sooner than you’d think.”

  Tina had sent two scouts ahead of the column, on silenced motorcycles. Painted fiat black, they purred along with no more sound than an electric lawn-mower. Nightfall had come by the time they ghosted into the rubble that had been Fort Collins, Colorado. Dressed in dark clothing, their faces coated with ebony camo stick, hands gloved, the scouts could not be seen except for their movement.

  Their precautions proved wise shortly after drifting through the center of the old town. The Nazis had come to Fort Collins. They traveled in style, the scouts made note. A large gooseneck trailer served as a barrack. It had an oddly foreign essence to its design; it had come up from South America, no doubt. With his companion covering him, one scout stealthfully opened the door and slid inside.

  He came back three minutes later. In a soft whisper, up next to his partner’s ear, he revealed what he had found. “There’s a dozen of them sacked out in there. Must be the American brand of shitheads. They have cammies exactly like ours.”

  “Why no sentries?” the other asked.

  “Count your blessings. There isn’t anything in there to cook with, so there must be more of these around.”

  They found them within a hundred yards of the bunk trailer. Two had been pulled into the hollow shells of old buildings — a decidedly unsafe undertaking, in the scouts’ experience. Another, parked behind the solitary rear wall of an old muffler shop, showed a dim light and emitted a variety of tweedles and squeaks that they interpreted as radio communications. Nodding thoughtfully, they returned to their bikes and tooled out of Fort Collins before contacting the column.

  Tina’s RT operator sat tailor-fashion in the sleeper bunk behind the contour seats of the military-style tractor. She tapped Tina lightly on one shoulder and passed over the handset. Tina got the skinny on Fort Collins in short, terse sentences.

  “Hold where you are,” she told the scouts. “I’ll be up shortly.” To O’Brien, “Signal for a pull-over. I’m taking one of the BFVs.”

  Small and speedy the Bradley Fighting Vehicles had been hailed as the battlefield answer to moving infantry quickly and in at least minimal protection. Once in general issue, back in the 80s, from top brass to rear-rank grunt, the Army didn’t quite see it that way.

  They only held six troops, aside from the crew, which required committing two of the rather-expensive wheeled vehicles to each squad, with a vacant spot in one. Most considered the BFV a prime example of military-industrial complex boondoggles. Then some ordnance johnnies got to playing around with them, retrofitted the light armored vehicles with 4-inch mortar tubes and 30mm gatling guns. The mortars could fire on a flat trajectory, which effectively made them a 75mm tank gun. With “smart” ammo, and LTDs, they became awesome. The gatlings could traverse better than 200 degrees from the right-side hatch, providing adequate covering fire. When resurrected by the Rebels, with their more liberal rules of engagement, the BFVs survived contact with the enemy and generally spread terror on the battlefield. Tina had chosen wisely for what she had in mind.

  “Corporal,” she told the driver. “I want to be in Fort Collins yesterday afternoon.”

  “Can do, Colonel,” he responded cheerily.

  She gave further instructions about watching for the scouts while she took the suppressor from her alice pack and screwed it on the muzzle of her Sidewinder. One of the crewmen gawked at the potent weapon and blinked.

  “Am I imagining things, or does that magazine rotate?” he asked.

  “Sure does, trooper. There’s several positions, controlled by ball detents around the receiver housing. To make it short, that allows the shooter to fire right-or left-handed around the corner of a building without exposing himself.”

  “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that,” he blurted.

  “Haven’t yet met anyone who would,” Tina replied dryly.

  In fact, the weapons being so scarce, she had only qualified with it. This was the first time she would use it in the field. If it proved out, production would gear up at Base Camp One. Tina had brought along the other three scouts with the company and turned now to the sergeant in charge.

  “We’ll leave the Bradley where we contact your scouts. Unlimber that bike stowed on the outside and we’ll go in piggyback. I’ll ride with you.”

  They completed the handoff without incident and arrived in Fort Collins twenty minutes later. Tina used a small hand-held radio to direct their operation.

  “We’ll take the comm van first. I’ll do the shooting, the rest of you use knives. That way we can leave sleeping dogs lie,” she added with a dry chuckle.

  Tina eased open the door to the trailer five minutes later. A chill night draft of air drew the attention of one Nazi radioman. He looked up into the end-wipe of the suppressor. A silent .45 slug took him in the forehead. Immediately, Tina leapt into the communications van, followed by two of the scouts.

  She shot another man at the counter along one wall, where he frantically tried to get off an alert transmission. Knives flashed to either side of her and the remaining two Nazis died with only soft, pained sighs. A burst from the Sidewinder trashed the radios.<
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  “The way I like it. Not a sound.” The scout sergeant noted a strange light in Tina’s eyes. “Now we move fast. Neutralize that machine-gun position first. One of Carson’s thermite tabs in the receiver should do the job. Then we hit that sleeping trailer and call in the Bradley.”

  Hans Brauer had been with the American Nazi movement since his teenage years. Growing up in the general anarchy that followed the Great War, he had developed into a selfish, bigoted, ignorant lout. Membership in the movement did little to change that, except for the worse. He hated the regimentation that had suddenly been thrust upon him by this call to arms. Although he felt great serving the new Führer. Jesus Diguez Mendoza Hoffman was like unto a god to Hans. Except, the dull-witted Hans wondered, why did he have to have all those spic names?

  That question came to Hans after he had awakened in the middle of the night with a full bladder. Grumbling at the anticipated cold outside in the Fort Collins area, Hans pulled on trousers and boots — he had never toughened his feet by going barefoot; only subhuman children went barefoot, his parents had admonished. Doing a little dance of urgency, he headed for the door to the trailer in which he slept.

  Only half-awake, Hans stepped out and instantly froze in shock. Three dark figures came purposefully toward him. About all Hans could determine was that their faces, as well as their clothing, were black. A low snarl formed in his throat and he sucked air to call the alarm.

  He wasted the effort. A silenced three-round burst from Tina Raines’s Sidewinder popped into his chest so fast blood had not flown from the first before the third struck his heart. In his death throes, Hans voided his uncomfortably full bladder before he went off to Hitlerland.

  “No sense in being quiet now,” Tina told the two scouts who accompanied her. “You, Evans, stay out here and pop any of them who try to jump out a window. We’ll go in blasting,” she told the other scout.