Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I am wounded. Please, O Radiant daughter of the Great Ben Raines, let my people perform the dance before you launch this counterattack. And,” Emil added with a droll rolling of his eyes, “it might help to call down your mortar cover on their anti-Semitic heads while we do it.”

  Tina could not help laughing. “You old fraud. I suppose the theme of the dance is a mortar crew in action?”

  Emil looked startled. “How did you know?”

  “Because I know you, Emil. And what I didn’t know, Daddy taught me.”

  “Oh, poo! But you will let us do the dance?”

  “They have snipers,” Tina stated, one eyebrow raised archly.

  “We have body armor,” Emil countered. “Come, children,” he called to his troops, who looked like what they were, grizzled combat veterans, rather than the docile sheep of a guru’s placid flock.

  Led by Emil, the former Children of the Eternal Light through Blomm spread out on the runways, in the no-man’s-land between opposing forces. Looking self-conscious, a young woman — assistant gunner on an M-60 — produced a tambourine and began to shake it and strike the head with strong fingertips. A bongo joined in. Two guitars made their appearances and produced the melody. Emil, standing in front of them, led his combat team in the dance.

  It came out something like a combination between the Shimmy, with a little Watusi and some Frug thrown in. Emil varied that with ungainly leaps into the air, wrists bent and fingers steepled together, pointed downward. No doubt the mortar rounds, Tina snorted. Nevertheless, she ordered the mortars to open up.

  The first sniper round took one burly dancer in the chest protector of his body armor. He sprawled on his butt, a surprised expression lighting his face. He came to his feet with an H&K assault rifle at the ready.

  “That does it. Enough, Emil. Enough of this. I wanna kill Nazis,” he growled.

  “Oh, spoilsport,” Emil pouted. “You’ll get your chance.

  Mortar rounds rained down in the Nazi assembly area where a new assault was being organized. One of the 81mm bombs must have hit an ammunition truck. It lit off with a tremendous roar while white smoke, flame, and debris flew into the air. At Tina’s order, the three tanks with her light company, and the one brought up by Thermopolis, surged forward.

  Main guns barked and sent out gorgeous smoke rings, transfixed with tongues of flame. The coaxial guns fired as the M-1 A Abrams MBTs snorted and ground upward to maximum speed. The Nazis had nothing like them. Their MBTs were more like old Shermans. Most of them mounted 90mm guns at maximum.

  One by one they were blown apart by the husky Abramses. Panic infected the infantry. Unheeding of the scything effect of machine guns, they jumped from their positions and joined the fleeing survivors of the mortar attack. At sight of this, Tina waved an arm over her head, signaling forward.

  “Let’s go,” she commanded.

  The Rebels ran far enough to become winded in their heavy body armor. At last the infantry closed with the black-shirts. Face twisted in fear, one of the demoralized hatemongers turned on Tina with a savage roar.

  She cut him down with the last round in her M-14. She bent and laid it on the ground. Then she swung the Sidewinder around from her back and drew back the bolt. At close range it did a better job, she reasoned. On both sides the fighting raged.

  Tina took stock and started toward the hottest center of action. She chopped into two Nazis with three-round bursts that left them spinning away to eternity. Another ran at her with an AK-47. The small bayonet on its muzzle looked like a toy.

  Unwilling to be played with by the likes of that, she raised the Sidewinder slightly and plunked three rounds in the American black-shirt’s sternum. He took two more steps, dropped his weapon, and sprawled at Tina’s feet. She heard a bolt fall on an empty chamber and turned that way.

  “Damn,” a young Rebel panted. “I lost count.” He reloaded as Tina turned her attention to the general situation,

  It appeared that Emil’s eager acolyte had gotten his wish. The feisty little guru had been surrounded by desperate men with flat eyes and the drool of terror on their lips. What they didn’t know was that it was they who were surrounded. Emil’s little band fought like wildcats. A thick billow of smoke covered the action for a moment.

  When it cleared, Tina saw Emil hopping from one foot to the other and prodding five prisoners with his rifle. A general silence began to fall on the battleground. Quickly, Tina evaluated the results.

  “Get the BFVs up here,” she commanded. “We’re going after them.”

  Their chase ended with only a handful of poorly trained American Nazis. Tina’s RT operator solved the mystery for her. “The SS received orders to scatter and rendezvous later. They’re headed for Oregon to preserve their numbers.”

  Tina looked at the pitiful remains of “Supermen” who crouched fearfully on their knees, hands behind their heads. “All right. We get a breathing spell. The Puffs took a heavy beating in that hangar. Check for me on repairs.” She started to walk off, to let the Rebel troops deal with the prisoners, then paused, a new idea blooming. “When he hears about this, I wonder what Daddy will decide to do?” she asked no one in particular.

  FIFTEEN

  Ben Raines’s decision on what to do came easily and, to him, seemed obvious and predestined. He ordered an all-out attack in the wake of the devastation left behind by the flying gun platforms. The Puffs had shredded the columns of reinforcements. That left the already shell-riddled occupiers of the Cheyenne triangle to overrun.

  “A piece of cake,” Cooper had called it, earning a scowl from Jersey.

  “Don’t be such a glumph,” she complained. “You’ve been around long enough to know what cornered rats will do.” Her green eyes blazed. To Ben, “We are not, I gather, going to take this one sitting down?”

  Ben favored her with one of his brilliant smiles. “Not at all. Coop, have the Hummer ready in fifteen minutes. We will, of course,” he added in a grumble, “have our usual shadows along.”

  A platoon from HQ Company, augmented by three MBTs and a pair of Bradleys, spent much of their time spoiling Ben’s fun for him. At least that’s the way he saw it. The artillery opened up just then, ending effective conversation except that at the shouting level. With Jersey in tow, Ben stalked out of the CP and headed for his armored Hummer.

  Dr. Lamar Chase met him halfway. “We’re down twelve percent of our effectives, Ben,” the medico complained. “What was that old saw they taught at the War College? That a loss of twenty percent was a total defeat, right?”

  Ben gave Chase smiling benefit of his wisdom. “The troops they were talking about weren’t Rebels, Lamar. Keep that in mind. Can you scrape together any sick-call victims and walking wounded to man posts in the rear?”

  “I could,” Lamar Chase began tartly, “if I was inclined to do so. Those men are entitled to as much care as the bed-ridden.”

  “Well, my old friend, the time has come, as the Walrus said, to talk of other things. Please incline yourself to rounding up those fit for limited duty. We’re going to push those Nazi bastards out of the triangle and send them running to Hoffman in Oregon.”

  “Casualties are heavy,” Lamar returned to his own pronouncement to reinforce his determination to prevent conscripting of the lesser injured. “But this is asking a lot of those men and women.”

  “And they’ll do it, by god, because they’re Rebels,” Ben affirmed.

  Georgi Striganov opened the assault on the north and eastern sides of the Nazi defenses. R Batt also pushed from the east, against the blunt short side of the triangle. Colonel West cut through the thin line to the south and swung around to attack from that direction. That opened a corridor for retreat to the west. Ben knew that Tina pursued the survivors of the airport battle in Laramie westward, with stragglers headed for Cheyenne. With a little luck and some creative radio operation, the demoralized black-shirt contingent might crash into their beleaguered comrades and each think the other the enemy.<
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  With Tina gnawing on the rear of one unit, the impression could be created that the stragglers were in fact Rebels. Those fleeing Cheyenne might exterminate them with minimal expenditure of Rebel ammunition. Balancing this and a score of other demanding details in his head, Ben Raines started off to follow the first wave into the breech. R Batt struck stubborn resistance at once.

  “Eagle, we have a light battalion in strength facing us,” came the report from Stan McDade.

  “Keep humping, Falcon. We’re right behind you and Georgi is going to swing in behind us,” Ben responded. “Let me know when you break through.”

  Jersey cut shrewd, calculating eyes to Ben. “You figure to go in with R Batt’s lead elements, General?”

  “Close to it, Jersey.”

  “Too damn close, if I know you,” she grumbled.

  “Now, Jersey, I’m following the restrictions imposed by subordinate commanders. I’ll put up with all these babysitters and I won’t lead the initial charge. I’m keeping to the letter of the law, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, but not the spirit,” Jersey gave acid tongue. “I’m willin’ to bet you expect to be not more than two blocks behind the lead squad.”

  “You heard the lady, Cooper. Make it so,” Ben announced with a chuckle.

  “Dang you, boss, you shoehorned me again,” Jersey complained.

  All around Rebels advanced, spread out as skirmishers. Squad control was maintained by hand and arm signals, while the radios got a good workout coordinating platoon actions and above. The mortars walked in a short fifty yards ahead of the advancing Rebel troops. A flicker of yellow flame from the basement window of a collapsed building caught the notice of a sergeant near Ben’s Hummer.

  He directed his squad’s fire on the machine-gun nest until his assistant squad leader lobbed a blooper round from an M-203. The firing pin of the GLAD (Grenade Launcher Attachment Development) round ignited the primer, which in turn set off the propellant charge, which developed 35,000 fp of energy. The high-low propulsion system functioned normally and the burning gases expanded into the larger chamber, which reduced the energy to 3,000 foot-pounds per square inch. Good enough to dislodge the 40mm projectile, propelling it through the barrel with enough force to travel to the target at a velocity of 250 feet per second, with a right-hand spin of 37,000 rpm, sufficient to arm the fuse.

  It struck the window casement with a loud crack, which got swallowed in the detonation of the grenade. When the smoke and dust cleared, the machine-gun barrel lay skewed downward and only dead men sat behind it. Ben Raines noticed and nodded approval.

  “Good shot,” he observed.

  Ben’s Humvee leapt forward, as Cooper made an effort to catch the advance squads of R Batt’s assault. Fighting the wheel, Cooper careened around shell holes and avoided exposed steel I-beams that jutted into the roadway from collapsed buildings. All of these, Ben noted in passing, had considerable sign of rust. More Rebel handiwork in eliminating the Night People.

  Charging Rebels recognized Ben’s vehicle and gave friendly waves and “V” signs of their confidence. When the expressions on Rebel faces changed to surprise and worry, Ben tapped Cooper on one shoulder.

  “Better stop here and wait for our hand-holders. We’ve about outrun our people,” he instructed.

  Jersey bit back a sharp retort, but could not resist a pointy needle. “About time you thought of that, boss. The next face we mighta seen could have been ol’ Herr Hoffman’s ugly puss.”

  “I’d be only too happy to get Field Marshal Hoffman in range,” Ben riposted dryly.

  Peter Volmer thrust the handset away from his face with enough force to make the RT operator stagger when it impacted his chest. “I have ordered every available Sturmgruppe to the relief of the defenses at Cheyenne, yet bur good field marshal demands more of me.” He turned to his executive officer, Gerhardt Yodel, a scowl deepening his high brow. “We are taking losses far out of proportion to the Rebel strength. Three Standarten have been repulsed at Laramie. We can’t afford to lose three companies!” he shouted in unconscious imitation of Hoffman’s rages.

  Yodel looked nonplussed. “What is it I should say? Our men are superbly motivated, well-trained, their courage is beyond question. Perhaps this final commitment will do it. And, there is that other matter.”

  “Yes, of course,” Volmer calmed himself, the glitter in his eyes changed from anger to shrewdness. “Bring in Standarteführer Dracher. It’s time we employed our Werewolves.”

  An orderly summoned the battalion commander of the special Werwolfen unit. An organization of highly trained, totally dedicated soldiers, they represented Peter Volmer’s extra ace in the deck. They had undergone intensive instruction from the age of eight. Every one of them was fanatically dedicated to Peter Volmer and to Nazism. A sharp rap on the door announced the arrival of Standarteführer Sigfried Dracher.

  “Come,” Volmer commanded.

  With a crash of hobnailed, glossily polished black boots, the battalion CO entered and marched smartly to a position precisely centered on Volmer’s desk. Dracher’s right arm shot forward and upward in a perfect Nazi salute.

  “Heil Hitler! Standarteführer Dracher, Sigfried Mannheim, reporting as ordered,” he piped in a voice still unaltered by the advent of puberty.

  Peter Volmer returned the fifteen-year-old’s salute. “At ease, Dracher. I am positive you shall be pleased by what I have to tell you. Your battalion is being activated at last. Every boy down to the age of eleven. Full field uniforms and equipment.”

  “We are going to Cheyenne?” Dracher asked expectantly.

  “No-o-o-o,” Volmer answered slowly. “Yours is a special mission. One of optimum importance to our victory. You carry a high enough clearance that I can speak frankly. General Ben Raines is not going to stop with Cheyenne. Oh, have no doubt,” Volmer hastened to add at sight of the consternation on young Dracher’s face, “Cheyenne is going to fall to the Rebels. After that, from my evaluation of Ben Raines, I am certain he will not be able to stand still for the duration of winter. You and the Werwolfen will remain on alert and mobile until it is determined where next Ben Raines will proceed.

  “It will then be your honor and duty,” Volmer revealed with relish, “to move swiftly and with great cunning in effecting the capture of Ben Raines. There can be no failure. I am counting on you and your magnificent young soldiers to do what many others have failed to accomplish.”

  Pride exploded on Dracher’s boyish face. “I am already greatly honored, Hen Hauptsturmbannführer. We will not fail you. I have been dream — er, devising plans that we could employ to do that very thing. Thank you for this trust and for the chance to prove our faith.”

  “Remember,” Volmer cautioned. “No failure will be tolerated. Death before dishonor. For the Führer and the Fatherland, Sieg Heil!”

  Resistance intensified as the Rebels pushed the black-shirts back on themselves. The range had closed to the point that artillery and mortars had to remain silent. That brought rejuvenated hope to the defenders. Fighting became hand-to-hand through the tumbled remains of Cheyenne’s suburbs. It slowed the Hummer containing Ben Raines and his team to a crawl. When yet another spatter of rounds sang off the armor, Ben’s patience evaporated.

  “You have it in reverse, Coop? I can walk faster. Let’s get out of this thing, kiddies, and have a little look around.”

  “Now, boss,” Jersey cautioned from beside him.

  “What’s to worry? We have a platoon all around us, three M-1As, and those BFVs. All I’m saying is I can keep track of what is happening better if I can see where we’re going, not where we’ve been.”

  In the usual manner, Ben Raines had his way. Jersey and Beth left the vehicle together, eyes alert, weapons at the ready. Ben followed, with Corrie at his side, while Cooper whipped the Humvee out of sight amid the rubble.

  “Where are we?” Jersey asked first.

  “That’s the junction of old U.S. 85 and I-80 behind us,” Ben indic
ated. “Which puts us in a suburban part of Cheyenne that must have contained a shopping mall. We’re on the edge of what used to be a large parking lot.”

  “When in doubt, shop,” Beth muttered.

  “Born to shop,” Corrie responded with a giggle.

  “What’s all this nonsense?” Ben demanded. “You are both too young to know anything about the compulsion to consume that advertisers directed at women before the Great War.”

  “But we had grandparents,” they chorused.

  “My grandmother told me all about it,” Beth carried on. “How the merchants put up Christmas decorations the first of November, the cartoon shows — whatever those are — aimed at merchandising children and creating demands for products. How every conceivable occasion had been turned into a holiday, complete with a wide variety of greeting cards and appropriate gifts to be purchased. And about how women were encouraged to believe that the ideal stress reliever was a shopping trip to the mall. And that there was only one organization that fought against it, called NOW. But I suppose it should be called THEN, now.”

  “Please, don’t add to the confusion,” Ben said, laughing. “Let’s spread out and find whatever the advance squads left behind.”

  They found it almost at once. Three camo-clad American Nazis reared up among the folded masonry walls of the complex ahead and opened fire. In perfect order, Ben and team went to the ground and returned the favor. Jacketed slugs struck sparks off the stone and stucco rubble and howled off into the sky. Right then, six more black-shirts popped up to their left and poured rounds into their exposed position.

  Slugs and chips of decomposed macadam flew past Ben Raines’s face. The big Thompson in his hands bucked and snorted and two of the Sieg Heiling bad guys in front of them went down, drilled by .45 caliber lead. He gestured their direction for the team’s benefit.

  “We have to move. Forward looks the best idea.”

  Cooper’s CAR-15 stuttered and another body fell, this time on their left. Three Nazis jumped up to race toward them. Beth downed one, Cooper another, the third did a Thompson tango as Ben ripped his guts open. As one, they came to their feet. Boots clomped on the crumbling paving as they streaked toward the sole, startled Nazi in their path.