D-Day in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The liberals had finally gotten what they wanted: a society totally free of any type of guns in the hands of law-abiding citizens, social programs that promised to be all things to all people all the time, political correctness down to the nth degree, and all the other foolish babblings of the liberal wing of the Democratic party . . . and the goddamn nation was in shambles.

  Factories were abandoning those states still under Blanton’s rule as fast as they could . . . heading for those states that had aligned themselves with Ben Raines’s form of government. Blanton could, and would for the remainder of his life, remember the words of Ben Raines spoken in this very office.

  “I feel sorry for you, Mr. Blanton. We’ve handed you the dregs of society. We’ve left you with the whiners, complainers, the slackers and the dullards and the underachievers. That’s one type we’ve left you. The other is the high-idealed and out-of-touch-with-reality person. They’re the smart ones—to a degree. They have lots of book sense but no common sense. They’re the ones who, for the most part, will form your staff and make up your House and Senate. They will write your speeches and pass the legislation and implement all the glorious and high-minded and totally unworkable and pie-in-the-sky social programs and foolish laws and regulations that will lead your government right back to the way it was when you first took office, more than a decade ago. The nation that I helped create is going to fly, Mr. President. We’re going to soar. Just sit back and watch us. While you flounder.”

  Homer sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers. He had a terrible headache. Thinking of Ben Raines always brought on a headache. He hated it when Ben Raines was right. Problem was, the son of a bitch was nearly always right.

  Homer was well aware that a great many of his good people were leaving him. Not all were going to the SUSA, but those that weren’t, and were going into the private sector, were leaving his administration rather than see it slowly sink into a morass of unworkable rules and regulations and total government control of citizens’ lives.

  And Ben Raines had predicted that, sooner or later, most of the fair-minded and reasonable people on Blanton’s staff would leave him. Homer had scoffed at the time. He wasn’t laughing any longer.

  Blanton rose from his desk to look out the window. Those damn demonstrators were still out there. He picked up his binoculars and scanned the lines.

  HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS.

  JOBS FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.

  EQUAL JUSTICE FOR ALL.

  “Crap!” Homer said, and closed the drapes. “You want a job, move to the SUSA. Plenty of jobs down there. I’ll even pay your way down there. One way. Problem is, Ben Raines wouldn’t have any of you.”

  “I can’t believe you said that,” his wife chided him. She had been standing just inside the door to the new Oval Office.

  “Why not? It’s the truth.” He pointed toward the window. “Those out there don’t want jobs, they want positions. Most of them aren’t willing to start at the bottom and work up, they want to start in the middle or at the goddamn top! And they’re not qualified to shovel shit in a manure factory!”

  His wife was shocked into silence. It would not last long. It never did. “Why you—” The First Lady found her voice. “You . . . damned . . . Republican!”

  “Good God!” Homer hollered. “Can’t you see by now that those people out there with their hands stuck out, waiting for the government to give them something, are nothing but whiners and complainers?”

  “Oh, boo-hoo!” his wife sobbed, quickly changing tactics. “We’ve failed the people who need us most.”

  “Horseshit!” Homer said.

  “It’s true!” the First Lady shrieked—she’d been taking voice lessons from Rita Rivers and Harriet Hooter. “You’ve changed. You are a filthy Republican!”

  “Oh . . . shut up!” Homer told his wife.

  The president of the United States then had to crawl under the desk as the First Lady started hurling various breakable objects in his general direction . . . amid numerous vocal invectives.

  Homer wondered if Ben Raines ever had to crawl under a desk.

  NINE

  Ben sure as hell was under a desk. About half a minute after he’d poured a fresh cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette, the creepies started a mortar attack that sent everyone jumping for cover.

  What Ben did not know was that Bottger’s commandos were now only a few miles from the DZ and were preparing to jump into the night . . . and the first drop zone was only a few miles from where Ben and his 1 Batt were bivouacked.

  Mike Richards ducked and dodged and zigged and zagged and made it to Ben’s CP without getting his head blown off by the incoming mail. He jumped into the room. “About fifty planes just showed up on radar, Ben!” he shouted to be heard over the crash of incoming. “They’re coming from the east. It’s got to be Bruno’s bunch.” He looked around the dimly lighted room. “Where the hell are you, Ben?”

  Ben crawled out from under the heavy desk just as Mike was getting down on his hands and knees. “Here, Mike. What’s this about jumpers?”

  “It’s got to be Bottger’s people. They ought to be leaving the door right about now, Ben.”

  “Damn!” Ben got to his boots and waited for a lull in the explosions that boomed all around them. “Corrie!” he shouted.

  “Right here!” she yelled.

  “Can you verify unfriendlies coming in from the east?”

  “Recon just reported the sky is filled with planes, boss. Wait a minute. All right. Hundreds of chutes, boss. West and south of us.”

  “Bug out!” Ben yelled. “Everybody head for Nimes. Make the bastards chase us. We aren’t strong enough to hold here. Bump Therm and tell him what we’re doing.” Ben looked around for Mike, but his intelligence chief was gone. Ben figured that Mike would stay behind—his French was as good as any Frenchman—and see what he could learn. “Grab what you can carry and leave the rest,” Ben said, picking up his Thompson. “Beth, rig the charges.”

  She grinned and gave him a thumb’s up. Rebels were not known for their kind and loving ways toward the enemy. Every building they occupied was routinely booby-trapped for quick withdrawal. The charges were usually removed when they moved on, but in this case, they would remain active. The creeps and Bottger’s men were in for a very unpleasant surprise.

  The mortar rounds had ceased and quiet lay dangerously about them. Ben yelled, “Watch out. The bastards will be coming in now.” The wind shifted, and he caught the familiar smell of creepies blowing in through the blown-out window. He turned and lifted the muzzle of his Thompson just as robed figures raced into in the yard, dimly visible in the moonlight. Ben held the trigger back and fought the rise of the powerful old weapon. The screaming charge of the half dozen robed shapes suddenly changed into a painful howling dance of death as the fat .45 slugs tore into flesh and shattered organs and bone.

  “Let’s go!” Ben said, waving his team toward the front door. Cooper was in the Hummer and ready to roll.

  On the far south end of the town, a massive explosion rocked the night, foo-gas flames leaping high into the sky. Creepies or one of Bottger’s commandos had touched off a booby-trapped building. The Rebels believed in using an ample amount of C-4 or Semtex . . . something to remember them by.

  “Cassie—” Beth said, climbing into the Hummer.

  “She’s a big girl,” Ben replied, placing one big hand on Beth’s butt and shoving her into the seat. The discussion was closed before it could get started.

  Lieutenant Bonelli’s company had thrown up a defensive line around Ben’s CP. As soon as Ben’s Hummer had vanished into the smoky night, Bonelli ordered his people out, after laying out claymores. Another little surprise for the hostiles.

  Beth struggled into body armor and pulled herself up, standing behind the roof-mounted 7.62 machine gun on the Hummer. She jacked a round into the slot and freed the weapon to swing. Jersey worked her arms up between the hole, and Beth fitted a throat collar around her. Beth
was now protected from head to waist, only her eyes visible behind the clear impact-proof face shield. The body armor would stop anything up to a .50-round slug. Jersey then wormed her way to the rear of the Hummer and took up a cramped position, her M-16 ready.

  While it irritated the hell out of the Rebels to be forced to give ground, when they had to do it, they did it swiftly and professionally. When in bivouac, the Rebels unpacked only that which was absolutely necessary for some degree of creature comfort, and no more. Consequently it did not take them long to pack up and bug out.

  Cooper drove past Emil and his people, hastily throwing up defensive positions, and Ben told him to stop. “Emil!” Ben yelled. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “My position is rear guard, General,” the little man said. “And that is where I shall be. Now get to safety. Be gone with you!”

  Ben saluted Emil and received one in return. Cooper pulled away into the violent night.

  “You can’t short the crazy bastard for guts,” Jersey spoke from the rear of the highly modified Hummer.

  “For a fact,” Ben replied.

  “If they take Emil prisoner,” Cooper said, “they’ll regret it about fifteen minutes after the fact.”

  Ben smiled and said nothing. He clamped a tiny flashlight between his teeth and directed the sharp beam onto a map, studying it for a moment. “Corrie, bump our people and tell them to forget the airport at Nimes. It’s too far out of town to fool with. We head directly into the city and take up positions. Where is the nearest squadron of 51’s?”

  “Toulouse.”

  “Tell them to be over our area at dawn with full payloads and be ready to raise hell. Right now, the paratroopers haven’t a clue as to where we’re bugging out. But they’ll put it together soon enough. Bottger’s people will commandeer vehicles and be after us. With any kind of luck, our people will catch them on the road at first light, and they can come in right on the deck and raise hell with them. Order our transports to start air-dropping us supplies and equipment at Nimes ASAP. Tell them to drop it right on the city. We’ll find it. Field rations, water, medical supplies, and ammo for everything we’ve got. Did Chase get clear of the area?”

  “Right, boss. He went back to Ike’s sector.”

  “If Bottger’s people follow us, they’ll be making a very bad judgment call,” Ben muttered. None of his team said anything; they were used to Ben talking to himself. But they all knew what he meant.

  Bottger’s commandos had jumped in with only light arms, with nothing heavy to back them up. Ben had set up his Rebels so that each battalion carried massive armor and artillery. The Rebels would be far outnumbered against the commandos, but they would be far superior in terms of withstanding any attack by the lightly armed paratroopers.

  Travel was slow because of the abysmal road conditions, and it was hours before the long columns reached the outskirts of the city—the Rebels had split up, taking several different routes to reach the city. Cooper had worked his way to the head of the Rebel column, and Ben ordered him to pull over.

  Standing outside the Hummer, stretching his legs, Ben glanced at his watch. Several hours to dawn.

  “Mike and his people are positioned all along the roads to the city,” Corrie told Ben. “They report that Bottger’s jumpers are still several hours behind us but coming hard.”

  “Brave men behaving rather foolishly,” Ben remarked. “All right. Let them have the first dozen or so blocks of the suburbs. Tell the tank commanders to get into hiding. Here. Mortar crews dig in. Here. Heavy machine guns stretched out along this line.” Ben used a finger to lay out the positions on a map. “We keep falling back to this point. Suck them in. Order the pilots to lay back until they get word from me. See this relatively open area that stretches for blocks? That’s where I want Bottger’s people to reach. Then have the 51’s come in and napalm the hell out of it. I want a wall of a fire followed by PUFFs. Got it?”

  The last bit was unnecessary, for Corrie was already relaying the orders.

  “You people rest,” Ben said. “I’m going to check on things.” As he was walking away, he glanced over his shoulder and found his whole team trailing along behind him. “I said get some rest!” he ordered.

  “When you do,” Jersey said.

  “Oh, hell!” Ben muttered. “We’ll all get some rest, then, damnit!” He glanced up at the sky. It had been starry, now it was overcast. “I think our luck is about to run out,” he said.

  When Ben woke up about a half hour before dawn, the weather had turned from crappy to shitty. Fog lay everywhere, thicker than two-day-old soup; nothing was going to fly that morning.

  * * *

  Just as soon as he laced up his boots, Ben immediately started doing some fast reshuffling. The fog was so thick that FO’s were useless; nobody could eyeball anything so mortars and artillery were out. You could just barely see your hand in front of your face.

  “The commandos have reached the outskirts of the city,” Corrie said. “It’s a large force, boss. Those planes our people thought they heard during the night?” She waited for Ben’s nod. “More of Bottger’s people. They landed to the north of us. Looks like they’ve got us boxed.”

  Ben winked. “Wouldn’t be first time, now, would it?”

  She smiled. “Not by a long shot, boss.”

  The commander of the paratroopers halted all advance at the outskirts of the city. He was very leery of the Rebels. He had spoken with people who had fought the Rebels at one time or another, and to a man, they had the utmost respect for the fighting ability of Raines’s Rebels.

  However the halt would not be for long. He had to commit his people. He knew the Rebels had plenty of armor and artillery, and he had nothing at all to match it. If he waited until the fog lifted, the Rebels would destroy his forces . . . and the colonel was professional enough to fully realize that.

  He also knew what might happen to him should he fail and somehow manage to survive after the failure.

  He turned to his radio operator. “Take the town,’ he ordered.

  “Let them come,” Ben said to Corrie. The fog was so unnaturally thick, he had ordered his people to fight with pistols and knives in order to prevent Rebel killing Rebel. He stood by an open window, a .45 autoloader in each hand.

  On the north and south sides of the city, the thin ranks of Rebels silently stood or lay in position. Mike and his people had reported that Bottger’s jumpers had not only landed lightly armed, they also wore no body armor, so any hit from a Rebel bullet would be a good one . . . for the Rebels.

  Ben, as was his custom, had stationed himself right on the edge of the southern perimeter—on the first line of defense. He had pulled back all forward observers and recon and scouts. He wanted everyone on line for this hand-to-hand, eyeball-to-eyeball fight.

  The men of the MEF were now so close, the Rebels on the front line could hear the occasional faint scrape of boots on brick or concrete.

  “Hold your fire,” Ben leaned close and whispered, and Corrie relayed the message to the Rebels on the south side. Ben had no way of knowing what was taking place on the other side of the city.

  Then the Rebels sensed more than saw the first line of MEF troops suddenly stop. Ben guessed accurately that the first troops were no more than a hundred feet away . . . the point men closer than that. A cough or sneeze now would mean death for the offender and those close to the person.

  The Rebels could hear the faint sounds of hoarse whispering.

  Then . . . silence.

  There was no breeze to stir the thick fog.

  From the northern edge of the city, Ben could hear gunfire, light at first, then heavier as the Rebels and the MEF mixed it up.

  Ben stared at the fog and blinked at the sight. A face had appeared in the window, the eyes under the lip of the helmet staring at Ben.

  Ben lifted a .45 and pulled the trigger. The face blossomed into crimson and the fight was on.

  TEN

  Cooper used his entr
enching tool to halt the advance of a MEF trooper trying to climb into a window. The sharpened shovel almost took the man’s head off. Jersey stood in a window, a 9 mm in each hand and let the lead fly. Beth, knowing that any in front of her were enemies, was tossing grenades into the fog. Corrie knelt on one knee, a pistol in each hand, and let the lead sing its songs.

  The men of the MEF went down like pins in a bowling alley.

  “Shift!” Ben said, and Corrie relayed the prearranged directive.

  The Rebels quickly shifted left and right, darting across sidewalks and alleyways and slippery streets.

  Ben had guessed that the MEF would not have jumped in without rocket launchers and bloop-tubes. He was correct. But the mini-bombs exploded in empty buildings, thanks to Ben’s orders to shift positions after the first contact with the enemy.

  After the explosions, the MEF rushed the ruined and smoking buildings . . . and found nothing.

  They ran out of the buildings, fearing booby traps, and stood in the fog, looking all around them. They could see nothing. They were fighting ghosts.

  But well-armed and highly organized and trained ghosts. Ghosts who, a few seconds later, caught the MEF flat-footed in a killing cross fire.

  “Back! Back!” the platoon leaders shouted the orders to what was left of their men.

  But in the cotton-thick fog, no one was sure where back was. Turned around and confused, many of the MEF commandos ran right into Rebel positions and were slaughtered.

  Then the sun suddenly began breaking through, highlighting pockets of MEF troops. The Rebels cut them down. Tanks roared into life and smashed through the walls of the buildings in which they had taken refuge. The Rebels stayed in their positions as the tanks, guns yammering and spitting lead, ran down the MEF troops and squashed them like bugs under a steel boot.