“What was so patriotic about the Great War?” Cooper asked.
“World War Two to us, Coop,” Ben explained. He examined the folded map on the clipboard strapped to one thigh. “Hummm. We can bring up R Batt’s snipers with the big .50s and put them on the mesas cleared by the Apaches. Target officers and lead NCOs. Time for the gloves to come off, I think. All 105s and above to load CNDM shells for first five salvos. HE and flechette rounds to follow. Apaches to be refueled and armed and fly close air support for the infantry, which will follow the armor into the black-shirt MLR. That, I think, should do it tidily.”
“Gosh, General, that even scares me,” Beth assured him with a crooked smile.
“Let’s hope it scares the head Hun defending Alamogordo,” Ben offered.
“General, counterbattery radar says they have the mortar batteries bracketed,” Corrie informed Ben.
“Good. Have them relay coordinates and order Perkins to open fire as soon as the guns are laid. We need to bust their butts before too many people are shoved into too small an area.” To Jersey’s quizzical expression, he added, “We could still lose this one, kid.”
EIGHT
Faced with only the remains of a battalion inside the ruins of Thermopolis, Thermopolis gauged his task to be easy. The ambush had gone perfectly, with over 275 enemy KIA. It would give any prudent commander cause to seek surrender terms. Not so the hardcore Nazi in charge at the small Wyoming town. In addition to the flamethrowers, he had another as-yet-unknown weapon. Although not professing to be Nazis, a large number of Americans had volunteered to join in the fight against the Rebel forces.
Their leader had sworn foul oaths against Ben Raines and vowed to sacrifice every last one of his followers, and himself, to ensure the destruction of all Rebels within range of the town.
“I could understand such a pledge if it meant the downfall and death of General Raines,” the South American Nazi had countered, curious as to motive.
“We once were many,” the hollow-eyed specter before his desk replied. “We lived as we chose after the Great War. Then Ben Raines and his vile Rebels came hunting us. They killed without mercy; men, women, children. They used nerve gas and other abominable devices. Those of us who survived . . . have been forced to — change our ways, our appearance, live again in cursed da — But that is another matter, not of your concern. We are experienced fighting men and women and hate Ben Raines and his Rebels to the point of distraction. We will not fail you.”
“Your assistance will be appreciated,” the black-shirt colonel had responded indifferently.
Now, with two-thirds of his force destroyed by a mere company of Rebels, he sought to turn these rather odd allies to his advantage. Maj. Ernesto Kruger was not prepared for what he encountered in the underground home of the American leader. He came to them at mealtime. An unfortunate choice, as he soon discovered.
His stomach churned at the sight of what appeared disturbingly to be a roasted human thigh laid out on a large platter in the center of the table. Perhaps it was bear, he hastened to assure himself. There were a lot of them around now that man did not occupy their former living space. And the — meat had been skinned.
“Join us in our humble fare?” the American had asked, deep-set eyes aglitter with some secret jest.
“No, ah — thank you. I just left my dinner table,” Kruger responded, stomach jittery.
“Oh, well.” The American leader passed slices of the meat to those around the table. It smelled sweet, like pork, Kruger thought. “You came about your defeat by the Rebels,” he fired at Kruger.
“That’s — yes, I did. They hit us rather hard in an ambush, the snowstorm, you see. I wanted to be certain that your people would still fight to keep the Rebels out.”
“Without question. We’ll fight. But I am sure you know that you will lose.”
“Why is that?”
“By our count, the Rebels have less than a company in strength, yet they wiped out twice their number in one fifteen-minute battle. And that in conditions of limited visibility. No, don’t take that wrong. Your troops are fine. Excellent, in fact. They performed outstandingly against the small, partisan armies of the countries you dominated in South America, and against native peoples, primitives with spears and blowguns. They did well against a determined enemy in Venezuela, Colombia, and the Central American Alliance. Even the venture in Mexico went well.”
“So, then, why is it inevitable that we shall lose?” Kruger demanded.
“Without exception, those nations were weakened by the presence of my — our — ah, co-religionists, if you will. My point is, all of this did not prepare you to face the Rebels.”
“That is patently ridiculous,” Kruger spat in outrage at this insult to Nazi superiority.
Suddenly the weird American’s face swelled and the cords stood out in his neck. “We almost ruled the entire world, you silly Nazi clown! We know what the Rebels can do.”
Kruger recoiled as though he had been slapped. Who were these strange people? A chill began at the base of his spine and grew to engulf his soul. At last he mastered enough control to frame a retort. “Then why are you willing to fight?”
“Because we hate Ben Raines. Anything that hurts him gives us pleasure. And, we are willing to die for it. Tell me where and when you want us and we will be there. Now, our food is getting cold and dining has very special meaning to us.”
Smarting at his dismissal, Ernesto Kruger departed from his allies with an impression of having escaped something dark and sinister. “Santa Maria, y todos los santos,” he breathed prayerfully, meaning it for the first time since childhood.
Somehow the Nazis got some rods shoved up their asses, Thermopolis thought at the sight of screaming, raging men charging the Rebel forward lines. Through the magnification of his field glasses, he discovered that women fought in the company of the maniacal defenders of the Thermopolis Quadrangle, as he had dubbed it.
Women? Maddened to the point of attacking with bare hands, at that. Where had he come across that before? He asked his executive officer.
“The creepies, man,” Bags — short for Bagh Savita — Rivers answered.
“Thanks a bunch, Bags, man. What we need is an instant replay of those bastards,” Thermopolis complained. “Have our people got those flamethrowers spotted?”
“Yep. Came in a minute ago. I sent snipers to deal with them. Should be hearin’ any time now,” Bags advised him.
Big custom .50 sniper rifles had a distinctive blast to them that set the bull-barrel, long-range blasters apart from any other firearm. Thermopolis heard one kick in a second later. Another followed in a heartbeat. He produced a broad grin.
“Scratch two firebugs.”
“What do we do about these dudes who are clawin’ and bitin’ at our people?” Bags asked.
A shiver ran up Thermopolis’s spine. “They really doin’ that?”
“True thing.”
“Bags, we could be in some deep shit, man “Thermopolis underestimated. “Back up every patrol with a light machine gun. Take no chances. Frag every hidey-hole that’s uncovered. And, no prisoners. None, no matter what. See that they are shot, and from a distance, not knifed.”
Bags Rivers developed a sickly expression. “Don’t lay that on me, man. It sounds like we’re fightin’ the creepies again.”
Thermopolis spoke with a slight catch in his throat. “I dunno. It could be.”
Electrified by the similarity in behavior of the defenders of Thermopolis to the Night People, the Rebels renewed their determination. Careful, calm deliberation by Thermopolis-the-man led to a sudden and final upset of the Nazi dream for the town. Within three hours, squad mop-ups on a block-by-block basis got under way. Thermopolis could count himself another victory.
Apache gunships blew the FOs off the peaks around Alamogordo like so many winter leaves. While they sanitized the area, Rebel units spread out across the middle of the wreckage of the town and prepared to advance agains
t the black-shirts.
Spearheaded by the armor, BFVs, and APCs, the Rebel assault struck terror into the hearts of the American Nazi defenders. Advancing behind the heavies, the infantry crunched over the ruins on the flat mesas that once were home to thousands of workers at White Sands. What structures had not been cannibalized for firewood were blown into clouds of splinters by the 4-inch mortars, firing flat-trajectory like tank guns, and the recoilless rifles of the mobile infantry.
“Eagle, we have a hot spot over here on the south side of town,” came a call to Ben’s headquarters.
“You’re that far already?” Ben asked in surprise.
“Roger that. They melted in front of us until we got here. There’s some kind of big compound, cyclone fence with razor wire on top. Wooden barracks, a mess hall. Also somethin’ that looks like big prefab ovens.”
“I’ll be right there,” Ben snapped.
With directions provided by the R Batt company commander, Cooper got Ben there in fifteen minutes. That came after much dodging of enemy mortar and machine-gun fire. What Ben Raines saw culled up images of grainy film shown at the Nuremberg War Crimes Trials.
“Another of Hoffman’s ‘improvements for America,’ no doubt,” Ben observed acidly. He took the mike from Corrie. “Yankee Two-four, Eagle here. Can you punch through to that place?”
“Roger that, Eagle. We’ve got the wire down on two sides. I’m taking some casualties, but we’re ready to jump off now.”
“Let me find you first. Eagle, out.”
Cooper raced the Hummer around one side of the apparent concentration camp. He tried hard to not flinch at the wall of flickers from small-arms fire. With his usual elan, Cooper slewed the Humvee into place beside a man who exuded command authority. Jersey, then Ben, emerged from the utility vehicle.
“Yankee Two-four?” Ben queried.
A warrior bred, the company commander nodded acknowledgment of his general instead of bracing and saluting. Ben liked that. “General. We captured a CP earlier. According to the marks on the map, this is a labor camp. Looks like old pictures of Dachau to me.”
“My thinking exactly. When we go in, watch out for collateral damage.”
The company commander’s eyes narrowed. “You think there are civilians in there?”
“There could be. Whether or not, we have to take this place. What say we go give Hoffman an enema?”
Ben and his Thompson, accompanied by Jersey and the team, went in alongside the company commander. Two hate-mouthing Nazis appeared in a second-floor window of one barrack and Ben ended their day, and their lives, with a spray from the heavy old subgun. Screams of agony, rage, and terror grew to a chorus of misery as more Rebels poured into the camp. Jersey shot a black-shirt who held a stick grenade poised to throw.
It dropped to the ground at his feet and went off. End of story for him and three others. A trio of walleyed Nazis tried to surrender. Snarling Rebels cut them down. Then, with a short spurt of fire from the far end of the building at the center, all resistance ended.
Ben wiped his face with the back of one hand and reached for his canteen. After a long gulp, he gestured to the sturdy structure where fighting had ceased. “Let’s go see what we’ve walked into.”
What Ben found raised his eyebrows and his anger by a few degrees. Pathfinders from the assaulting company herded a dozen small, uncertain, hesitant figures before them. In the smoke-darkened light of late afternoon, Ben discovered them to be small boys, he judged to be from ten to thirteen. All had smudged, tear-stained faces, grubby hands, and rags for clothing. But they were clear-eyed, with cherubic features and neatly crew-cut hair.
“What have we here?” Ben asked the corporal in charge.
“Internees, according to this boy here, General.”
“Y-yer General Ben Raines?” a towheaded lad of twelve or so chirped doubtfully. When Ben nodded affirmatively, he threw himself forward and hugged Ben around the waist with thin, dirty arms. “We’re safe! We’re really safe at last,” he wailed.
“I’ll — be — goddamned,” was all Ben could manage.
Ben Raines turned away from the field stove and handed a mug of hot chocolate to the towheaded youngster who had been so demonstrative. The boys had been cleaned up; the Rebels had found a total of twenty-four of them. Within the limits of a predominantly adult organization, clothing had been provided to cover their seminakedness. Fighting still raged in one corner of Alamogordo, but the time had come to discover what these children might know.
From some of the others, Ben and his interrogators had heard horror stories of enslavement, torture, parents killed by the Nazis before their children’s eyes. He had also obtained hints that there was another camp, somewhere up in the Sacramento Mountains to the south of town. Most had indicated that this lad knew the most about what had happened.
Ben had so far learned that this boy was named Jimmy Riggs. He was twelve and, apparently by tacit agreement, spokesman for the rest. He wore his patched and washed shorts, a Rebel camo T-shirt that hung to his bare knees, the armholes sagging well down thin arms, and worn sneakers. Jimmy accepted the cocoa eagerly and took a deep sip. It left a pale brown mustache on his puckered upper lip.
“Now, Jimmy, I have some questions I have to ask you,” Ben explained in a far-more-kindly voice than used for his regular interrogations. “Some of them may be painful to answer, but everything you can tell me will help. You can be sure of that. First off, how long did the Nazis hold you captive?”
“I — uh — I don’t know, Gen’ral Raines,” Jimmy piped. “It was a long time. At least a month.”
That tallied with what the others had said. “What about your parents? We didn’t find any adult prisoners in this compound.”
“Th-they — they — ” Tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes and he choked off his voice.
“I think I can guess the rest, Jimmy. The Nazis hurt them?”
“Y-yes. Some kids’ folks never came with them. My m-mom a-an’ dad — they — they went away. I — we boys think the nasties killed our folks.”
“I’m sorry, son, but I believe you’re right. Do you have any idea why we found only boys? There were no girls here.”
Th-the girls . . . they — uh . . . “Jimmy lowered straw-colored lashes over cobalt eyes and dropped his voice to a whisper. “They took them somewhere else. There’s another camp, where they have a lot of boys, and girls, too. To — to use for their dir — dirty fun.”
For all his compassion for the child, for any children, Ben’s anger exploded. “Goddamn them! Do you know where they took the girls?”
“I — I’m afraid to say. What if they found out I told you?”
Ben reached over and ruffled Jimmy’s brush of crew-cut hair. “Nothing will happen to you, Jimmy. We’re kicking shit out of them.” Ben bit his lip. You don’t say “shit” to a twelve-year-old, he admonished himself.
Jimmy giggled. “Good. I hope you get that Major Brauer an’ kick him in the balls. He — he tried to — ah — pester me.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Is Brauer a short, fat guy with a little mustache?”
“Y-yes.”
“No problem, Jimmy. I blew his brains all over the wall of his office with this.” Ben lightly touched the butt of his .50 Desert Eagle.
Jimmy sighed heavily. “Okay. Then — then I guess it’s safe to tell you what I know. I — I heard some of the guards talkin’.” His face twisted in childish disgust. “They were Americans, can you believe it? Spoke English good as me or you. There’s this place in the mountains to the south, the Sacramento Mountains, right? These guards were talkin’ about how the big-shot officers went there for R&R, whatever that means.”
“Rest and Recreation,” Ben provided.
“Huh! Recreation, all right. They had the girls up there, an’ some boys who wouldn’t make a fuss over it, to fool around with.”
He’d heard enough, Ben Raines decided. His blood boiled whenever he learned of kids being misused in any m
anner. When someone picked them for sex toys, he lost all composure when it came to dealing with the perverts. And right now he figured to deal with those responsible for this atrocity.
“Do you know where this place is?” Ben asked tightly.
“No — not exactly. But I could show you how to get most of the way there.”
“Would you do it, Jimmy?” Ben asked eagerly.
“Sure. I’d go with you if you want.”
A frown creased Ben’s brow. “I’m not so hot for that idea. The place is bound to be guarded.”
“This was guarded an’ you managed to get me an’ the others out,” Jimmy reminded him.
Ben fought a smile. “All right, well do it. Jersey,” he raised his voice. “Where’s the rest of the team?”
“Cooper’s with the love of his life.” She meant the Hummer. “Corrie’s chowin’ down. Beth is helping clean up some of the other kids.”
“Leave her, then, and Smoot. Get the rest together, get a light semiauto rifle for Jimmy here, and we’re going to hit the road.”
“No sport jobs around, General, but I can get him an M-16.”
“Do it.”
“Where we headed, boss?” Jersey asked.
“We are out to bust the Nazi big wigs’ brothel.”
NINE
At Ben’s repeated urging, Cooper put the pedal down on the Hummer. Little Jimmy Riggs sat up front and pointed out various landmarks with which he was familiar.
“Look! See — see that rusty pile of metal?” he chirped somewhere in the middle of the White Sands Proving Ground complex. “They say that was one of the first rockets tested here. It was up on a stand, once, to show off. Why did they test rockets?” he asked innocently.
Flames from the Ashes Page 25
