Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s cuttin’ it kinda close,” Beerbelly objected.

  Leadfoot gave him a vulpine “V” grin. “Makes it more exciting. I’ve gotten sorta bored lately.”

  Leadfoot took three bikers into the headquarters building, a converted modular home that had somehow survived the years of depredations. There he strung a line of crap for the officer in command while his subordinates got busy planting plastic explosive in unobtrusive places.

  At last, satisfied that Leadfoot and his companions were genuine, the commander assigned them to an area of the perimeter and dismissed them. Back on their hogs, they rode laughing wildly into the darkness. It was the last the Nazis of Casper would see of them.

  With a ripple effect, the explosives blew the modular house into a cloud of splinters and totally eliminated the leadership of the black-shirt troops. A huge fireball rose in the night, and flames continued to burn while Thermopolis launched an attack that totally exterminated every last Nazi rat in the nest.

  FIVE

  Five Rebels died in the first assault on Raton, New Mexico. Ben Raines considered that an acceptable loss figure when three hundred goose-stepping Nazi slime died in the same three minutes. Resistance outside Trinidad had become a screaming rout after Ben and his team visited the second communications van of the black-shirt withdrawal from the area. Following quickly on the heels of the demoralized troops, they discovered the message had carried clearly to Major Miller, who commanded at the pass.

  Ben’s Rebels found the pass deserted. Only a few random rounds came from the last Nazi tanks to join in the race for Raton. Jubilant Rebels followed. The pace slowed when booby traps and land mines began to take a toll of vehicles and men. Ben Raines waited out the delay impatiently, knowing that it gave opportunity for the commander in Raton to strengthen his positions.

  He had done that, Ben learned in that first bloody three minutes. Unwilling to spend Rebel lives unnecessarily, the advance stalled out while landing gear got unchained and crewmen fitted main rotor blades into position on the Apache gunships. In less than half an hour, the ungainly warbirds received a checkout and cleared for flight. The AH-64s lifted off all but silently in clouds of dust and leaves.

  Ben Raines, back in the Hummer, watched their insectile shapes cruise past overhead and line up on the targets below. Ben admired the courage of the crews who manned these aged craft. Each had logged more hours on its airframe than the manufacturer had ever dreamed possible, yet they faithfully served the Rebels’ needs.

  Their four wing hardpoints flashed fire as mixed bags of eight Hellfire missiles and thirty-six 2.5-inch rockets sped off to bring mind-numbing destruction to the black-shirts. From turrets slung under their bellies 30mm chainguns made a path of destruction that Rebel troops could follow into the heart of the Nazi resistance.

  Shock and confusion became frantic disorder. Ben urged Cooper closer to the crumbling resistance. The Hummer leapt forward and slewed around a burning black-shirt tank. Everywhere death seemed to come with unexpected ferocity. The radio squawked and Corrie offered the handset to Ben.

  “Eagle, this is Rat. We’ve come on a large pocket of stiff resistance.”

  “What are you looking at, Rat?” Ben came back.

  “The bastards are dug into hillsides. A lot of them, and they have buried armor so we can’t use the ERIX missiles. Plenty of infantry, too.”

  “Hang on, Rat. Corrie, bump R Batt, I want to talk to McDade.” When Bull McDade came on the line, Ben explained what he wanted.

  “I don’t know, Ben,” Lieutenant Colonel McDade responded. “Those rockets aren’t as reliable as the old Sov BM-21s.”

  McDade referred to the 122mm 40-tube multiple launch unit mounted on a truck bed. Rebel R&D had made close duplicates from some General Striganov had with his army in Canada. Two batteries traveled with R Batt. Ike McGowan had more with his command. Trouble was, the Rebel version lacked much of the sophistication of the 1964 Soviet version of the old Stalin Organ of World War II.

  “I remember Georgi had some with him when we first locked horns,” McDade went on. “Some blew up as they left the tubes, as I recall.”

  “Yeah,” Ben agreed. “Only our R&D people have bore-safed them. It was a matter of Soviet indifference to human life and lousy quality control. Besides, Buddy needs something strong and nasty to crack bunkers with indirect fire. It’s worth the risk.”

  “A big ten-four to that,” Lieutenant Colonel McDade approved. “Well pull them up now.”

  “I knew you’d jump at the chance,” Ben replied.

  “I’m kind of curious to see them unload on something besides big buildings,” Stan McDade joshed back.

  Ben called Buddy next. “Rat, you’ve some special equipment on the way. Hold what you’ve got and wait for the roar.”

  When it came, the rockets in ripple-fire impressed everyone, even those who had experienced it before. In less than thirty seconds, the forty tubes of each battery unleashed their cargo. With a flight time of less than a minute for the maximum range of 16,395 yards, each salvo delivered .76 tons of HE on the Nazi bunkers in a tight pattern of repeated shocks.

  Not even reinforced concrete, of which the black-shirts had very little, could withstand such a cataclysmic pounding. The bunkers collapsed in fountains of dust, dirt, and cement chips. Along with them, the defense around the old town of Raton fell. Major Miller threw up his hands in alarm and despair and led the pell-mell flight southward to Santa Rosa.

  Ben Raines watched from a hillside as the rout grew in numbers of demoralized “supermen.” He had allotted three days to reduce Raton, given the refugees from Trinidad and the intact command from the pass as reinforcements. Buddy happening on and destroying their main line of resistance so early had provided them with time to spare. Ben gladly allocated a full day to preventive maintenance and R&R.

  An enterprising squad of Buddy’s headquarters company located a large herd of wild cattle in a side canyon in Raton Pass and had selected a few to provide fresh meat. That left enough to ensure the survival of the herd and to allow for a large barbecue for all hands. After weeks of Dr. Lamar’s patent glop, they quickly cleaned the piled-high tables and mopped up any stray juices with slices of fresh-baked bread. Some of the Rebels braved the cool highlands air to splash and cavort in the inviting waters of the north fork of the Cimarron River.

  Stuffed full of spit-roasted beef and vastly superior Nazi rations, Ben Raines relaxed for the first time since Cheyenne. Jersey stood watch and even diverted would-be visitors, while Ben lay under a bullet-scarred tree.

  “The boss is sleeping,” she declared. “Give the guy a break, huh?”

  Thermopolis and Headquarters Company did not receive such a break when their advance stalled out some five miles from Shoshoni, Wyoming. Thermopolis carefully considered his options and tactical choices, as he had been taught by Ben Raines. In the end, he summoned Leadfoot, Wanda, and Emil Hite.

  “Those Nazi pricks have us stopped cold,” he began his briefing. “Leadfoot, and you, Wanda, I want you to take your bikes and get around on the west side of their operation. Emil, you and your people will take the south. The rest of the company will handle the north and east. The idea is for you to make all the noise and confusion you can when we open up. We want those crud to think they are overrun and caught in a box.”

  “My girls will love this,” Wanda remarked. “Just thinking about us gets those black-shirt pukes pissed off.”

  Leadfoot produced his wolfish grin. “Me’n the boys can come on like Atilla the Hun. Well scare those fuckers so bad they’ll be crappin’ tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  “Never fear, O wise Day Star of Hippiedom, we shall perform to your specifications,” Emil chimed in.

  “Okay, okay. The thing is, you need to get right in among them before you open up with the diversionary action,” Thermopolis urged them. “Use suppressed weapons, knives, that sort of thing, to take out OPs and perimeter guards.”

  “When do we do
this?” Leadfoot asked.

  “Tonight. Well after dark, when the goose-steppers are sacked out. You’ll be in dark clothing and grease paint. Oh, and another thing. I’ve had the company armorer work up some gimmicks to help identify friend from foe.” Thermopolis produced a small, springy metal clicker, unaware he had reinvented one of the devices used by Allied troops on D day in World War II. “One click to question, two clicks to reply friendly.” He demonstrated.

  “Everyone will have one of these?” Wanda asked.

  “By the time you are ready to pull out, yes,” Thermopolis assured her.

  “I can hardly wait,” the leader of the Sisters of Lesbos responded.

  Ghosting along with the mufflers reducing the exhaust of their Harleys to whispers, the Sons of Satan navigated by the gridlike layout of country roads. Dressed in black, their faces smeared with dark camo grease paint, only the chrome on the motorcycles picked out the light of the stars. Leadfoot had a good feeling about this raid. After they had demolished the headquarters in Casper, he and his men had wanted badly to get roaring drunk.

  Although not teetotalers, the Rebels frowned on that. Particularly when armed and in a combat zone. Alcohol and gunpowder did not mix. Now he and his followers were out doing what they did best. Beerbelly, on point, braked his scoot and raised a hand to signal a halt. Lead-foot coasted up beside him.

  “What gives?”

  “Up ahead. That low mound.” Leadfoot could vaguely make it out in the dim light. “I’d say there’s two of them in there,” Beerbelly went on. “Only damned if I don’t think they’re both stackin’ z’s.”

  “Why not? They’re watching the back door. They don’t expect any Rebels to the west of them, right? What say we slide up and pay a call?”

  Experience gained even before they allied with the Rebels let the ex-outlaw bikers advance on their unsuspecting prey with ease. Close at hand, Leadfoot noted that a hollow had been dug out and the dirt used to form a breastwork. Branches had been laid over all and covered in leaves. Two black-shirts slumbered inside, lulled by a long period of inaction and boredom. Leadfoot raised the muzzle of his suppressed Uzi, and the bolt clacked as he stitched one Nazi with a neat three-round burst.

  Beside him, Beerbelly dispatched the other black-shirt with equal elan. “This must be State 789,” Beerbelly observed of the road they traveled. “That bridge we went over would be the one across Boysen Reservoir.”

  “Good figgerin’,” Leadfoot complimented. “We turn east now. You done good, Beerbelly. Keep a sharp eye.”

  Half a mile farther on, they came to a roadblock. A long, slender lodgepole pine had been trimmed and rigged as a drop bar across the road. Two bored sentries manned the barricade. Soft whaps from silenced weapons ended their lives before either could shout a warning or fire a shot. Leadfoot pointed to a small, ramshackle tear-drop trailer to one side of the road.

  On tiptoe, three bikers angled over to the door. Braced for anything, the one in the center reached out and opened the sagging, holey screen. The door swung out at a touch. A sleep-muffled voice spoke inquiringly from inside. Swiftly, the trio swarmed in and made short work of the off-duty guards with razor-sharp knives.

  “You do good work,” Leadfoot praised his men as they emerged from the trailer. “I wonder how Wanda is making out?”

  Wanda and the Sisters of Lesbos had skirted close to the northern edge of town, to avoid the problem of crossing the reservoir. With their backs to the water, they approached the shattered town from half a mile west. Two squat MBTs blocked the onetime residential street the Amazons scouted from behind rubble heaps. One of the girls touched Wanda’s arm after they had surveyed the actions of the inattentive crews who sat or stood outside their tanks.

  “Watch this and be ready,” the young Sister urged.

  She stepped out into the open and sauntered through the darkness toward the listless Nazis. Finally one of them, a sergeant in command of one tank, noticed her. “Who goes there?” he demanded.

  Without altering her pace, she walked right up to him. “Hi there, big boy. D’you like to fuck black girls?”

  Outraged at this insult to his racial purity, the black-shirt sergeant flushed scarlet and spoke with a voice choked by hate. “You degenerate slu — ”

  His outrage got choked on a gush of blood as the Sister of Lesbos shoved an eleven-inch knife into his gut and wrenched it upward. More of the deadly women materialized out of the night and quickly slashed the life from other unwary Nazis. Two of Wanda’s girls dropped down the hatches of the MBTs to slit the throats of the drivers.

  Greatly pleased with their success, Wanda rounded up her command. “Let’s move on into town, girls.”

  From the corner of one eye, Emil Hite saw furtive movement to his right. Tensed, he positioned his assault rifle and squeezed on the clicker in his left hand.

  Click!

  Click–click!

  “Oh,” Emil Hite sighed in relief. “You’re a friendly.”

  “Nein,” came a guttural reply. “I watched you Rebels infiltrating, learned how you identified one another, killed one, and took his noise-maker.”

  It was not the high priest of the Great God Blomm, nor even Emil Hite, con man supreme, who responded. It was Emil Hite, Rebel soldier. He shot the Nazi through the heart. The 22-inch suppressor on his assault rifle swallowed the detonation of the cartridge and the smug black-shirt fell on his face in the waste-choked street of Shoshoni.

  “That was close,” Emil panted.

  “You did all right,” one of his closest followers remarked as he appeared out of the dark. “We’d better move on.”

  “Ah, Ezra, it is you. That one, he tricked me.”

  “Could have been any of us. What time do you have?”

  Emil checked his watch. The faintly glowing hand pips and numbers indicated less than ten minutes to the assault by Thermopolis and the company. “We need to hurry. Is everyone spread out?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  Emil took three steps and tripped over the loose sling of his assault rifle. His inept foot caused the weapon to be yanked from his grasp. It clattered on the ground. At once a figure loomed in front of them.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” an American voice asked.

  Emil clicked at him and got no reply. The Nazi swung the muzzle of his rifle to cover Emil, and Ezra did the only possible thing. He shot the black-shirt through the head. Reflexively the man triggered a round that sounded like a 155 going off in the stillness.

  “Was ist das?” a muffled voice demanded.

  “We’re under attack!” came a frightened shout.

  A shrill scream came from Emil’s left. “They’re in among us,” another black-shirt shouted in alarm.

  Suddenly an intense flood of white light came from a large halogen flood mounted on a former telephone pole. Emil and Ezra stood out in its glare. Despite his klutzy nature, Emil could act swiftly when needed. He snatched up his rifle and did what any good Rebel trooper would. He shot out the light.

  New darkness changed to a red-orange glow as Headquarters Company mortars opened up.

  Howling like demons, Leadfoot’s Sons of Satan swarmed toward Emil. The little con artist clicked his clacker furiously. Laughing, Beerbelly swept up the minute ex-leader of Blomm’s children in a huge bearhug.

  “Get to killin’ Nazis, li’l feller,” he roared.

  Keening like the shades of the Inferno, Wanda’s Sisters of Lesbos brought terror and death to more swastika worshipers. Muzzle flashes began to light up the foreground as the stunned Nazis recovered their senses and started to offer resistance.

  Leadfoot lobbed a grenade through the window of a trailer and ended the lives of six muzzy-headed American Nazis. Thermopolis, with the second wave of his company, advanced steadily into town. Frightened, disoriented black-shirts tried to surrender, only to be gunned down by grim, vengeance-hungry Rebels.

  “Remember the kids from Kansas,” became an oft-repeated
rally cry.

  Within five minutes the first vehicles started a mad race for the causeway bridge over Boysen Reservoir. They met more of the Sons and Sisters, along with claymores and shoulder-fired rockets. An ammunition truck erupted in the heart of the demolished city and added a bright mushroom of roiling flame. At thirty-three minutes into the operation, Thermopolis declared the Nazi cantonment totally suppressed.

  Ben Raines spoke briskly into the mouthpiece of the handset. “That’s good news, Therm. I assume you have everyone patched up and ready to move out to Riverton and Thermopolis?”

  “Oh, yes. Emil got a broken toe. He’s limping around and making a big thing of playing the invalid. We took eleven KIAs and twenty-three WIA. Nobody missing, except some Nazis.”

  “They won’t be mourned. Keep it up. I want pressure on them in the north for as long as you can hold out. Resupply will be at the Casper municipal airport as soon as flights can get out of Base Camp One. I’ll have Georgi detail enough men to keep the roads patrolled and open. Eagle, out.”

  Ben returned the handset to Corrie’s keeping and picked up his binoculars. An excellent pair of twenty-power optics with superior light-gathering properties, the field glasses picked out individual details of the vista below their position on a ridge on the right side of U.S. 54/66, five miles outside Santa Rosa.

  Santa Rosa, being built on a series of hills and the valley floors between, Ben evaluated, would be much like laying siege to Rome. Intel indicated that the Nazis had one battalion of Hans Brodermann’s regular SS and one of American SS defending the partially rebuilt town. Added to that were the remnants of the black-shirt garbage that had abandoned Raton, Tucumcari and other, smaller outposts. Taken as a whole, it provided a formidable obstacle.

  Impatience chafed at Ben Raines. His commitment to aid Gen. Raul Payon weighed heavily as he considered the efforts made by the Nazis in Santa Rosa to make use of rubble, natural terrain, and man-made obstacles to consolidate their position. He was glad when Ike McGowan’s three battalions rolled into the assembly area. With him came Dr. Lamar Chase.