D-Day in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  In Ben’s CP, Corrie smiled with grim soldier humor as the airwaves filled with frantic messages.

  Ben noticed the smile and asked, “What do you find so amusing, Corrie?”

  “Panic in the ranks of Duffy’s army. The purge has begun.”

  “I wonder why I don’t feel a bit of sympathy for them,” said Jersey, whose ancestors ’way back were Apache Indian. She looked up from cleaning her M-16, her dark eyes unreadable, as usual.

  “What are they saying?” Beth asked.

  “Some of Bruno’s men met with Duffy earlier today. Made each of the gang leaders aligned with Duffy shoot a minority person to prove their allegiance to something called the MEF—I don’t know what that is. About a dozen or so minority gang leaders and their followers took off, fanning out over the countryside. Wait a minute.” She listened for a moment and then said, “The MEF is the Minority Eradication Force.” She shook her head and took off her headset. “I lost the transmission—it’s garbled. But there sure is a lot of panic going on.”

  “Nice folks, the MEF,” Cooper said. “They’re all heart. We’re about to be flooded with gang members, boss.”

  “Probably some of them will seek sanctuary with us,” Ben replied. “But they get no amnesty. If they choose to surrender, we’ll accept them, but only with the condition that they must stand trial for their crimes, either here or back in North America. Corrie, have communications start broadcasting that on an open frequency. I want those punks to know where they stand, loud and clear.”

  “The press is going to pick it up,” Jersey said.

  “It’ll give them something to write about. And I’m sure some of them will condemn me for this action.”

  With the arrival of all the battalions Ben had assigned to the taking of Geneva, the Rebels were gradually pushing the creepies toward both sides of the river. Ben was trying hard not to destroy the small city, but he was determined not to lose a single Rebel life just to save a building—not if he could help it.

  Ben and his people had fought their way to the north side of the Rue de Lyon, with one detachment slugging it out to the edge of the Parc Geisendorf, and Ben and his battalion fighting their way down the Rue de la Servette.

  Dan and his command had clawed their way to the north side of the Museum d’Histoire Naturelle—which had been looted and the interior spray-painted with slogans and obscenities—naturally. Punks and other assorted street slime had a thing about cans of spray paint. Over the years liberals maintained that the poor little deprived darlings were only expressing themselves, but conservatives had quite a different opinion . . . including the fact that it cost taxpayers a lot of money to clean up what the pus-brains sprayed paint on.

  “Goddamn lowlife good-for-nothing hooligans!” Dan cursed, standing inside the museum and gazing at the destruction. He had a few dozen other very choice words for people who wantonly destroyed such beauty.

  Then Dan hit the deck as creepies opened up with automatic weapons. He had a few more very choice words to say about them, too, before he crawled to his knees and gave the entire line of creeps a full thirty-round clip of .223’s.

  “You all right, Colonel?” one of his people called.

  “Just ducky!” Dan said, brushing the dirt off his BDU’s. He glared at the words spray-painted on the wall in huge block letters.

  FUCK YOU

  “Indeed,” Dan said. “How literate. How profound. The intelligence which moved the hand to create such a whimsical phrase surely must be of staggeringly high proportions.” He felt a breeze fan his buttocks and twisted around and looked. Somehow he had ripped the entire seat out of his BDU trousers.

  The Englishman stared at the words for a moment longer, then lifted his clenched right fist and extended his middle finger toward the words on the wall.

  He ignored the laughter of his people as he marched out the front door with as much dignity as he could muster, which was considerable when one considered that his drawers were hanging out.

  FIVE

  One of Bruno’s aides was pacing the polished floor of the general’s office as he spoke. “General Bottger, we are missing a golden opportunity. Our spies tell us that Ben Raines has not joined with any sizeable resistance force. Those silly Swiss have only a few hundred fighters at best. We could send our vastly superior forces in and wipe out Ben Raines and his battalions in Geneva once and for all.”

  Bottger shook his head and smiled, the smile never reaching his cold, very pale blue eyes. “No. And the reason is obvious, my dear Claude.”

  “It escapes me, General.”

  “Simple deduction, Claude,” Bottger said smugly. “It’s a trap. I have studied Ben Raines extensively—for years. Every campaign. I know the man better than he knows himself. He has carefully nurtured the image of himself as a chance-taker. He is hoping we will fall for this ploy. But we won’t. I think that Ben Raines has very furtively, over a period of weeks, moved several battalions of Rebels to just a few miles west of Geneva, and there they wait in hiding for us to try something like you have suggested. This is too obvious a trap—a trap set for us. We won’t play Ben Raines’s game this time.”

  “Ahhh!” Claude said. “I see. Of course. You are truly brilliant, General.”

  “Of course I am,” Bruno said. “General Raines has finally met his intellectual match.” He smiled. “Me!”

  Ben looked at the map for the one hundredth time and shook his head in disbelief. “This Bruno Bottger person is not as smart as he thinks he is. He’s passing up a golden opportunity by not coming in here and tangling with us. If he really has six or seven divisions of combat-ready troops, he could easily overwhelm us here in Geneva.”

  “That thought has occurred to me,” Buddy Raines said.

  “Then why doesn’t he do it?” Cooper asked.

  Ben smiled. “He just might believe it’s a trap. That’s the only reason I can come up with.”

  “We’re sitting here with six battalions spread out across the city and Bruno has seven divisions?” Jersey said. “What kind of trap could we have for him?”

  “One of his own making,” Ben said. “Let him think it. I hope he continues thinking it.”

  Ben and his battalions had pushed the creeps into a downtown pocket of a few blocks on the north side of the river, and Dan had done the same on the south side. The fighting was now close up and nasty.

  “One thing Bottger did was to kill every creepie he could find in the territory he controls,” Mike Richards said. “Of course he also killed every minority he could find, too,” he added dryly.

  Mike got along well with the minorities in the Rebel army, but he had no patience with people—of any color—who wanted something for nothing and who blamed all their woes on people not of their color. It had not always been that way, for Mike was deep-South born; but slowly, over the years, Mike had shed most of his prejudices and actually become very good friends with some blacks in the Rebel army, astounding Ben and probably himself.

  Ben was silent for a moment, then again met the eyes of his chief of intelligence. “How reliable is your information about the MEF, Mike?”

  “Very good. But we have no plants within his army.” Mike smiled. “Bruno took a cue from you and polygraphs his people. There is no way we can penetrate any of the five circles leading to him.”

  “Five circles, Mike?”

  “There will be a comprehensive report on your desk tomorrow, Ben. But the five circles start at company levels and work up to the inner circle. Five is company, then battalion, regiment, division, and finally the inner circle, which is one.”

  Ben grunted. “Bastard is smart, I’ll give him that. But how paranoid is he?”

  Mike smiled, snapped his fingers, and pointed his index finger at Ben. “Right on the money, boss. Bruno even has food tasters . . . when he doesn’t cook himself, which is not often. He considers himself to be quite a gourmet chef. He has a dozen lookalikes, and no one aligned with us has ever been able to pinpoint his e
xact location—with any accuracy.”

  “So that lets out any wet work on our part.”

  “You got it. My people have yet to figure out a way to kill the bastard.”

  Ben let that slide for the time being. If Mike’s boys and girls couldn’t come up with a way to kill Bruno, it simply couldn’t be done.

  “How long before Geneva is clean?”

  “About a week,” Ben replied. “Duffy and his people are being slowly pushed our way by Ike. The French Resistance Force is growing, and it won’t be long before it will be a large enough army to take some of the strain off us. Units of the FRF are already in place north and south of us with more coming in. Just as soon as Geneva is declared clean, I’m going to take my battalion and head west for a look-see.”

  Mike smiled. “Things getting too dull around here for you, Ben?”

  Ben returned the smile. “My people are covering me like a blanket, Mike. I can’t get into any trouble in this city. But in about a week, all that is about to change.”

  Ben left Dan in charge of the nearly completed task of clearing out Geneva, and with his 1 Batt and armor pulled out and headed south toward Grenoble. Dan raised no hell about him leaving, for he knew it would do no good. Ike bitched and cussed over the air, but he knew it was falling on deaf ears and soon said, “Oh, to hell with it!” and broke the connection.

  Ben and his battalion rode for two hours over incredibly bad roads without seeing a living being. All knew what had happened to the people, but all were loath to speak the words: The creeps had ranged out many miles from Geneva, in all directions, taken prisoners whenever they could find them, and eaten them.

  About thirty kilometers from the city, they left the main road when they saw smoke coming from many chimneys in the distance. Ben halted the convoy and sent scouts ahead to check it out. They came back shaking their heads.

  “They’re in bad shape, General. Many of them are starving to death. The gangs came through not long ago and took all the food. They don’t have anything in the way of medicines, either. Many of them are awful sick.”

  “Mean damn country for an airdrop,” Cooper commented. “And those winds are really rough.”

  “There is a pretty good-sized valley just over the way,” Beth said, pointing. “We could use that for a DZ.”

  While the scouts checked the valley, Ben walked through part of the village, growing angrier by the second. These were mostly old people, unable to fend for themselves, and a few young women with half-starved babies.

  “Old people don’t taste good,” a Rebel who spoke fluent French told Ben. “The creeps leave them alone. The gangs took all the young women to rape and then trade to the creeps . . . and some of the young boys, too,” he added. “The young men are used as slaves until they’re worn out and then traded to the creeps.”

  “Tell them we’re arranging to have food and medicine flown in,” Ben said. “Ask about Lyons.”

  “No creeps there,” the Rebel said, after a moment of French too fast for Ben to follow. His French was not all that good. “They pulled out to beef up the bunch in Geneva. He says he heard that the cannibals pulled out of the entire eastern part of France. Grenoble, Avigon, Marseille, Toulon, Cannes, Nice. Some went to Geneva, but most of the others broke up into small groups and ran for hiding.”

  “I hate to hear that,” Ben said. “The bastards will be popping up everywhere we go.” He was thoughtful for a moment. Then his eyes met those of Mike Richards, who had walked up in time to hear most of the conversation. Mike spoke fluent French—and some five other languages and a dozen dialects.

  Mike nodded his head. “They planned it, Ben. Has to be. They figured this was the only way to keep their movement alive. I don’t think they knew we were dropping in on them in Geneva. However, I do believe the breaking up was planned the instant we hit the continent . . . or perhaps long before. That’s guesswork.”

  “Pretty good guesswork, Mike. I agree. Shit!” Ben startled the old Frenchman, who stepped back, wide-eyed. Shit was a word recognized nearly worldwide. The other one rhymed with luck. Ben smiled and patted the elderly man’s bone-thin shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said, in very bad French. “We’ll take care of you.”

  The old man smiled and spoke in fast French. Mike laughed and gave the man a bag of tobacco and papers. “What’d he say?” Ben asked.

  Mike said, “He said the Americans took care of us in ’44, too. And then the French government and many of the people, as usual, turned their asses to their liberators. He was not one of those types of people. He fought with the French Resistance and has the papers to prove it.”

  “My God, Mike. How old is this man?”

  “He’s almost ninety.”

  Jersey walked by and the old man grinned, his eyes following her. He rolled his eyes, and said, “Oh, la-la!”

  Jersey laughed and said, “At his age, he wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.”

  “Don’t bet on it, chérie,” the old man said, in nearly flawless English, just before his wife whacked him across the butt with a straw broom.

  Several Rebel doctors and medics dropped in with supplies and immediately went to work. A small detachment of Rebel troops came in with them, and the following morning, Ben and his 1 Batt pulled out. Annecy was a looted and destroyed ghost town. The resort town of Aix-les-Bains was lifeless. They drove along the shores of the blue-watered and beautiful, mountain-rimmed Lac d’Annecy and continued on toward Chambery. This was wild and lovely country, with dark forests, deep valleys, and towering limestone cliffs. They found Chambery virtually deserted, except for a small gang of punks that had fled for their lives upon hearing of Bruno Bottger’s orders of extermination.

  “Carry your asses on,” the punk leader told a scout, the first Rebel to enter the city. Just as the words left his mouth, the punk, a man who called himself Junkyard Doggy Woggy Do Da Day, found himself on the ground, his mouth bloody from the butt of a rifle, and a dozen Rebels pointing various types of weapons at him and his followers.

  “Shitttt!” Doggy hollered. “How come you whuppin’ on me, man? You a brother!”

  The Rebel scout glared down at the punk in the snowy street. “I most definitely am not your brother.”

  “Well,” Junkyard Doggy Woggy said, spitting out part of a broken tooth, “I din mean no disrespect. I thoughts you was part of that mean-assed honky Duffy’s army.”

  The scout smiled . . . sort of. “No, but I am part of the meanest-assed army you’re ever likely to see.”

  “The Rebels?” Doggy Woggy whispered.

  “That’s right.”

  “Shitttt!” He took a deep breath. “Don’t nobody do nothin’ stupid!” he hollered to his people, his words echoing around the quiet streets of the old town. “Lay down your guns and step out so’s these nice people can see you. And keep your hands high up in the air.”

  “A very wise thing to say,” the scout told him.

  “I figured so. Can I get up?”

  “Slowly.”

  The scout could see that Junkyard was frightened, and he had every right to be.

  Junkyard Doggy Woggy cut his eyes as the tires on Ben’s Hummer slowly crunched over the snow. Doggy could vividly remember when he was a punk back in Los Angeles; back when punks had more rights than law-abiding citizens. Back when a brick used to bash someone’s head in was declared a nonlethal weapon. Back when a tiny percentage of the city’s population could form gangs and terrorize and intimidate an entire city. Back when liberal Democrats ran things. Back when people could riot and burn and loot and get away with it.

  Back before Ben Raines.

  Doggy watched the man with the salt and pepper hair get out of the Hummer and walk toward him. “That’s Ben Raines, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right,” the scout said.

  “I’m in deep shit, ain’t I?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bathed and fumigated, dressed in old BDUs with a large white P painted o
n the back, and wearing clean underwear, Junkyard was brought to Ben’s CP in the center of the town.

  “Sit down,” Ben told him.

  Junkyard sat.

  “What is your name? And don’t give me any street-talk bullshit.”

  “Clarence Wilson,” he blurted. “My daddy run off when I was just a little boy. My mamma din have no job, and she beat me. The cops picked on me all the time even though I was really a good boy. I din have no toys to play with. I—”

  “Shut up,” Ben told him.

  Clarence shut up.

  “You sound like a Democrat running for political office. Now you listen to me, Clarence. You’re going to tell me everything you know about Duffy Williams and his army.”

  “I is?”

  “You is. And if you don’t level with me,” Ben said, pointing to Mike Richards, “I will turn you over to that man.”

  Clarence cut his eyes and stared into the very mean eyes of Mike. The man reminded Clarence of the only L.A. cop he was ever scared of. That big honky bastard wouldn’t take no shit off anybody, and it didn’t make no difference what the color might be.

  Ben turned Clarence and his gang over to a small contingent of French Resistance Forces and pulled out of Chambery the next morning. He did not know for certain what the FRF would do with Clarence and his followers, but he thought he could make a very good guess.

  The monastery of La Grande Chartreuse, where the monastic Carthusian monks used to meditate, had been looted and desecrated, obscene slogans and phrases painted on the walls. But the old structure, built long before, still stood. There was no sign of the monks.

  Only a few elderly men and women had gathered to watch the arrival of the Rebels. They stood in silence, hunger etched deeply in their faces.

  Ben had his medics check them out and arranged for a drop of medicines and supplies.