Flames from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Grinning, the three tough Rebels frog-marched a screaming, kicking Archibald Culp out to meet his deserved end. Jersey rolled her eyes and made a show of mopping her brow.

  “Jeez, boss, you sure told that shithead off. I knew you supported religious freedom in Rebel territory, but I never knew you felt so strongly about it.”

  “We learn something every day, Jersey,” Ben said lightly, feeling good about the disposition of Brother Armageddon.

  Corrie called from her place by the Hummer. “I have a Lieutenant Colonel Young on the horn, General.”

  “Hummm. Rats and sinking ships, Jersey.”

  Jersey winked. “Right you are, boss.”

  His voice came tinnily over the radio, set for a Nazi frequency. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Alex Young, an American in service to Führer Hoffman, and co-commander of the NAL forces in Santa Rosa.”

  “SS Obersturmbannführer Alex Jung,” Ben coldly pronounced in German. “Commander of a battalion of American SS filth.”

  A gulp and long pause followed. “Your intelligence is excellent, General Raines. It was not believed that you knew American Nazi units were present here.”

  “We even know what color shorts you’re wearing and what brand of toilet paper you use.” Then Ben gave him his best Bogart impression. “‘Of all the saloons, in all of North Africa, he has to come into mine,’ eh, Obersturmbannführer? Well, I’ve come, all right. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Ah — er — terms, General Raines.”

  “There is but one term for those who fuck with the Rebels. Unconditional surrender, followed by execution of all war criminals.”

  “Those are rather, ah, harsh terms, General,” Young gulped.

  “Not to those who are getting the shit shelled out of them right this minute,” Ben snapped. “Let me talk to the real commander of the Santa Rosa complex, Obersturmbannführer Kurt Nagel.”

  Shaken by the intimate knowledge of their inner workings the Rebels possessed, Alex Young paused several seconds before answering. “Obersturmbannführer Nagel is not available at the present, General Raines. He — he — ”

  “He’s running like a scared rabbit at the head of a column headed for Santa Fe,” Ben concluded for him.

  “Just — so. I am in command here at present. Can we not discuss more, ah, civilized terms, General Raines?”

  “No.”

  “But, surely, General–”

  Once more, Ben’s impatience flared. “Fuck this! Raines out.” He turned to Corrie. “Bump Base Camp One. I want Cecil to prepare all tactical air units. Buddy, Ike,” he addressed his son and Ike McGowan, who had just come up. “We’re going to pull out all stops. I’ve just called in air. I’m on my way to help General Payon.”

  SEVEN

  “Dammit all, this just doesn’t figure,” Thermopolis exclaimed as he turned away from the blank view ahead.

  Thermopolis was finding Thermopolis more to handle than he had expected. It had become rough sledding. Literally, he thought ruefully, sleds might be the thing. A low, leaden cloud cover spilled large, wet flakes over the ground. Icy gusts of wind created snow flurries that spun and danced across the hilly terrain, cloaking trees and turning the world gray-white. The radio crackled and he acknowledged.

  “This is Leadfoot. You said to report when we had the enemy in sight. Well, we do. A whole shitpot full. They come pourin’ outta the cellars in that wrecked town like the Devil himself was after them.”

  “Be precise, Leadfoot,” Thermopolis instructed. “How many?”

  “Dozens. Ah . . . I’d say at least three hundred. An’ they’re crack troops, too. Reg’lar SS scum from down South.”

  “Any sign of American Nazis?” Thermopolis queried.

  “Huh-uh. Not so far. We’re pullin’ back.”

  “Give us five, no, ten minutes, then do that.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Do your best, Leadfoot. Thermopolis out.” He cut hard gray eyes at the lieutenant next to him. “We take ’em off the road. Set up an ambush and let Leadfoot lead the black-shirts right into it.”

  “Good as anything in these conditions,” Lieutenant Walker agreed. “They sure won’t be able to see us.”

  “Get everyone into winter camo,” Thermopolis added as an afterthought.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Leadfoot and his bikers blew through the ambush site with 350 black-shirts gnawing on their behinds. When Leadfoot made out the snow-muffled outline of an M-1A, he guided his flock past and laid down his hog. Steam hissed a cloud from his muffler. He made a quick check of his trusty Uzi and had the honor of firing the first round in the ambush at an overeager Nazi who came pelting after the Sons of Satan on a battered old rice-burner Honda.

  Nine-millimeter slugs exploded the eager beaver’s head in a cloud of chips and pink spray. The Honda continued to carry him past the sprawled Sons of Satan. Leadfoot looked for another target. Thermopolis appeared at his side.

  “Nice going, but did you have to bring so many?” he asked the biker.

  “Didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Leadfoot. Generous to a fault,” Thermopolis quipped. “Now, what about the town?”

  Fire erupted from the ambushers, to be answered by the Nazis. Leadfoot winced. “There ain’t any. Torn down and scavenged off long ago. These dudes been living in cellars, basements, such-like. With this storm settlin’ in, they didn’t even know we were there until one of the boys got careless. They have a couple of small field pieces. We booby-trapped them. Also a couple of heavies with flamethrowers.”

  Thermopolis rolled his eyes. “Not what I want to get mixed up with. Total numbers? Any idea?”

  “Ummm, no. Could be a battalion in there. Could be more or less. From what we seen, they’re all SA regulars.”

  “That’s not good. That Brodermann’s SS and the others from Hoffman’s crowd are tough,” Thermopolis calculated out loud. Bullets cracked over their heads and bodies began to pile up fifty yards in front of the tank.

  “Time to be movin’,” Leadfoot observed.

  “Don’t I know it,” Thermopolis agreed. “Say, ol’ Thermy, time to get your old ass moving.”

  Faced with the knowledge of sure death, the American Nazis in Santa Rosa dug in and fought with the tenacity of the regulars who had deserted them. Buddy and Ike found themselves holding the heights of the old “Motel Row” at the eastern end of town. Their troops spread out for half a mile to either side of U.S. 54/66 and settled down to dogged slugging matches with the enemy. That lasted through a day and a half.

  Then the Apaches Ben had left with the main force joined with Puffs and light B-25 Mitchell bombers (rescued from the old Confederate Air Force) rained steely death on Santa Rosa. Fifty-caliber machine guns in the Mitchells kept down the heads of SAM gunners, which opened the pathway for the slow-flying C-47 Puffs. In a thirty-minute display of air power, the Rebels trashed more Nazi vehicles and armor than since the initial travesty invasion by Führer Hoffman’s pick brigade. Bombs flattened those buildings constructed since the Creepie War and set rubble heaps to blaze.

  Over the drone of departing engines, Ike McGowan made a grim announcement. “Now we go in and clean out the rest.”

  Buddy Raines had volunteered to lead the mopup with his reinforced regiment. He nodded to Ike’s observation and informed the senior Rebel commander, “I’ll be up front in my APC.”

  “Like father, like son,” Ike sighed in a way that made the cliche new and original.

  True to his father’s style, Buddy went in behind the point squad of the point platoon. Through the commander’s periscope, he kept sharp eyes on smoldering ruins and sprawled bodies. Their central thrust followed the highway through town. Down in the first valley, past the shattered remains of a truck stop, a rivet-gun clatter on the skin of the APC announced the presence of some live black-shirts.

  Buddy spoke into the boom mike of the headset he wore. �
��Thunderer, this is Rat. We’ve got an MG emplacement about two hundred yards to our right. Come on up and squash it.”

  “Ten-four, Rat. Be right there.”

  Buddy continued on, indifferent to the .30 caliber rounds striking the APC. They made it noisy, but not dangerous. An M-1A Abrams rumbled into place behind the personnel carrier and swiveled its turret to the north. The coax machine gun opened up to suppress return fire, then the tank commander popped up through the hatch and put the big .50 MG into action.

  It took only seconds, Buddy noted with satisfaction as he progressed into the lowlands of Santa Rosa. Near a small, ancient, adobe church, the APC jinked to the right to avoid the stubby, broken-off base of a fountain. Grenades crashed sharply outside and three of the point squad went down, two of them biting off screams of pain from shrapnel wounds. A split-second later, some thirty screaming black-shirts charged the survivors and the APC.

  Lt. Col. Alex Young stared bleakly at the rapidly changing symbols on the situations map. Dedicated to the monolithic Staff Command system, he rarely got out in the field with his troops. The little blue, green, and red grease pencil marks carried no human aura. It should be easy to watch the red ones growing more numerous and not experience emotional shock. Yet he had a growing sensation of being a man repeatedly punched in the stomach.

  “We outnumber them,” he stated wonderingly. “How can they do this?”

  “They fight like demons, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” an aide told him. “You saw what the Rebels did to the troops of that religious fanatic.”

  “We will not sacrifice the lives of these brave men for nothing. Order an immediate withdrawal. We will head west, take the interstate as far as we can. I should have accepted their terms,” Young added sadly. “None of my men have committed war crimes.”

  Obersturmbannführer Young’s order came too late for the units locked in battle in the church square. Black-shirt troops swarmed over the point squad and killed the survivors. Shouting in anticipation, they rushed the APC. Buddy Raines answered them with the chatter of a .50 caliber. Heavy, half-inch slugs ripped flesh and burst heads.

  “Back us out of here,” Buddy shouted to the driver through his headset. “We need a better position.”

  “No can do, Colonel,” came the answer. “The guys in back saw them put mines under the wheels.”

  “Put those troopers out the rear to clear the mines and scatter these assholes.”

  “Yep. Good idea, Colonel.”

  Buddy opened the breech cover and slapped a fresh belt of .50 ammo into place, then shut the lid and charged the gun. Once more its roar brought terror to the Nazis in the plaza. Buddy took three painful hits in his body armor, which momentarily blurred his vision. His hand relaxed on the toggle trigger of the .50.

  Anticipating this effect, a wide-eyed Nazi leapt onto the fender of the APC. He shoved the muzzle of his assault rifle toward Buddy’s face. Swiftly, Buddy snatched his 10-inch Ka-Bar and jammed the wicket point into the Nazi’s forehead. To his surprise and Buddy’s, the cold steel slid into the brain behind that shelf of bone and blinked out the lights. His trigger finger never even got the message to fire.

  Buddy yanked his knife free and shoved the corpse off the fender. “I always had doubts that would work,” he spoke wonderingly.

  “What’s that, sir?” the driver asked in Buddy’s ear.

  “Uh — I just stuck my knife in a Nazi’s head.”

  “Bet that smarted some.”

  That broke the grip of mortality that had dazed Buddy Raines. He began to laugh and to clean out the last of the black-shirts not eliminated by the twelve men from the APC. He completed the task in time to reply, “No, not as long as you keep your fingers off the blade.”

  Brigadeführer Peter Volmer exploded in a fountain of curses. He realized he was getting to sound like Hoffman and cut them off in midspew. “This will make me look like an idiot,” he snapped.

  In a gesture of confused impatience, he ran a hand over his bald dome. Sensitive fingers picked up the presence of stubble. He would have to get the barber to shave him again. His cold blue eyes pulsed with an angry glow as he considered the message form in his other hand.

  “Ben Raines has been positively identified on the road to Alamogordo! Not heading for Roswell and Carlsbad. Alamogordo! Why didn’t you jerkoffs in Intelligence anticipate this?”

  Nervous, his face pale and lips trembling, Volmer’s G-2 responded spasmodically. “I — I — we — er — we naturally assumed that the objective of the Rebel campaign was t-to reduce o-our East Wall defenses a-a-and open the Pacific Northwest to attack in the spring.”

  You do not ‘assume’ anything, especially when dealing with Ben Raines,” Volmer barked through thin, colorless lips. “There is an old canard that says, ‘Military Intelligence is a contradiction in terms.’ You people make it appear a truism. Find me Ben Raines and find out why he is going to Alamogordo.”

  “Zu Befehl, Hen Brigadeführer,” the frightened man cracked out with a click of heels. “Heil Hoffman.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Volmer blurted disgustedly. “Heil!” That outburst behind him, his keen brain began to settle down and consider options. After a while, he spoke to an aide. “Draft a message to Standartenführer Dracher. To Commandant, Werewolves. Target has changed positions unexpectedly. You are to move all Werewolf units to vicinity Alamogordo and Los Cruces ASAP. When in position you will await contact with target. All other orders stand as issued. Volmer, Brigadeführer, SS.” He paused, gulped water directly from a carafe. “Do you have that? Read it back to me.”

  His aide complied and waited expectantly for more instructions. “Copies to?” he asked tentatively.

  “To no one. My mistake is obvious enough by now, without rubbing the Führer’s nose in it.” Like his supreme leader, Volmer began to pace the floor as he verbally built a fantasy of eventual success. “Now, my fine Ben Raines. You have nowhere to go. There is only one connecting road through that desert. I know it. You have put yourself exactly where it most helps my plan. Within a week I will have you in my grasp.”

  Cooper gave a quick glance over his shoulder, relief over the news he bore clear in his voice. “That used to be La Luz we just drove through. At the bottom of this downgrade is Alamogordo.”

  “Thanks, Coop. Any word from the pathfinders, Corrie?”

  “Not so far. Should I rattle their cage?”

  “Might be wise, considering how close we’re getting,” Ben surmised.

  “Oh, dear,” he heard her say a minute later. “I’ll give you Eagle.”

  “This is Eagle,” Ben spoke.

  “Eagle, Bronkowski here. We’ve hit a whole hornets’ nest on the far side of Alamogordo. A black-shirt popped a scooter before we even knew they were there. We had to pull back, but they know we’re coming.”

  “Not your fault,” Ben consoled the unhappy scout. “Are you in contact at present?”

  “Negatory, Eagle.”

  “Then hold what you’ve got and wait for us to come up. How many are there?”

  “More than we can count. Probably a battalion in strength, maybe more.”

  “Don’t take chances. ETA with the lead element in two-five minutes. Eagle out.” To his team, he advised, “We’d better stop here and get into body armor. There’s a crowd of unhappy campers waiting for us down there.”

  Ben’s estimate of the situation proved violently true. As his Hummer and the advance company of R Batt churned through the damaged streets of Alamogordo’s northern suburbs they came under mortar fire. Twice the Humvee rocked on its springs from close hits. Shrapnel did a hailstorm on the light armor. Ears ringing, Ben gave the devastation around them a once-over.

  “Tell me, one of you, what kind of person would name a town Fat Poplar?”

  “Huh? What do you mean, Boss?” Jersey queried.

  “You speak fair Spanish, Jersey. Alamo is a poplar tree, right? And gordo means — ”

  “Fat. Gotcha, bo
ss. You’re right. It would take some wild sort of guy to come up with that for the name of a city.”

  “Chances are it was a bureaucrat,” Ben opined.

  “How do you figure that, General?” Beth asked.

  “Well, you kids wouldn’t remember. But back before the Great War, the only reason for the existence of Alamogordo was as a bedroom community for the workers at White Sands Proving Ground. That’s just southwest of us. We’ll be going through it in a couple of days.”

  “What did they do at White Sands?” Corrie asked.

  “Tested rockets. Also nuclear devices,” Ben answered. “It was established as part of the Manhattan Project way back in World War Two. Enrico Fermi worked there at one time. Also the American rocket pioneer, Goddard. At one point, more than twelve thousand people were employed at White Sands. Tract houses sprawled over all these mesas around town. The government project brought boom conditions to a sleepy little Mexican-American village, built around an adobe plaza with, yes, a big, ancient poplar in the center of the square. That, of course, was one of the first things that got sacrificed to ‘progress.’ Well, enough of the travelog. We have to lay plans for kicking hell out of the Nazi garrison.”

  “You can still amaze me with your vast knowledge of these out-of-the-way places, General,” Beth remarked.

  “Nothing to it, my little chickadee. Just have faith in your basic travel guide and Triple-A road atlas,” Ben responded, laughing. His remark abruptly sobered Ben. One hell of a lot had happened since the last days of the American Automobile Association. Too much of it lay on his hands.

  “First off,” he began, organizing his tactical situation. “We need to get the Apaches in the air to clear the mortar-battery forward observers off the heights to the northeast and southwest of what will be our IP. The troops can use the ruins of the city to mask their deployment. We’re going to want to hit them on a broad front. Shock effect all the way.” Ben paused, considering his next order of engagement. “Georgi would love this. All armor forward, including APCs. Just like the old Red Army in the Great Patriotic War.”