The back of the attack had been broken as the MEF troops ran for their lives. Those who ran to the south ran right into Mike Richards and his people, and Emil Hite and his group . . . waiting in ambush. The MEF men died in bloody heaps on the roads and in the ditches.
The fight for Nimes was over.
* * *
For Bruno Bottger it was a devastating defeat. One battalion of Rebels had destroyed almost all of three of his MEF battalions. Only a handful of men had managed to escape the slaughter in the fog at Nimes.
But unlike Hitler, the man he admired most in the world, Bruno did not go into a towering rage and screaming temper tantrum. Instead he sat quietly at his desk and tallied his losses and began revising his thinking as to how to stop Ben Raines and the Rebels.
He sat looking at a blank sheet of paper for a long time.
In Nimes the Rebels collected every piece of enemy equipment that might someday be used and cleaned, tagged, and stockpiled it. Old earthmoving equipment was found on the outskirts of the city, and the bodies were buried in a mass grave. Over twelve hundred bodies were buried in the scooped-out grave. The wounded were given medical treatment and held under guard at the airport, awaiting transport east for internment and questioning.
The commander of the three battalions of commandos had been captured and was now standing at rigid attention in front of Ben Raines.
The colonel had seen pictures of General Raines, but they had not prepared him for this face-to-face meeting. Ben’s eyes burned with an unsettling intensity. There was an aura about the man that the colonel had never before witnessed surrounding any human being.
“Stand easy, Colonel,” Ben said. “Sit down. Coffee?”
“Thank you, General,” Colonel Housemann replied, taking a seat. “A cup of coffee would be most welcome.”
Coffee and sandwiches were brought in, and Housemann ate and drank gratefully. He assumed this was to be his last meal, and he was, by God, going to linger over it and enjoy it. He looked over at Jersey. A lovely young lady, with some Indian blood in her. Unreadable eyes. Unquestionably loyal to General Raines. And dangerous.
It was especially galling to Housemann to be defeated by an army made up of all sorts of inferior beings. But defeated he had been, and defeated soundly.
“I am to be summarily executed, correct, General Raines?” Housemann asked.
“Not by us,” Ben told him. “Are you wanted for any crimes in France?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. I do not think I am wanted by the authorities anywhere.”
“Then you are a prisoner of war and will be treated accordingly . . . with all due respect to your rank and position.”
“I thank you again.”
Ben did not question the officer about Bottger’s strength or territory claimed, for he had a suspicion that he would get name, rank, and serial number from the man and that would be all. When Housemann had finished eating, Ben refilled both their coffee cups and sat back down behind his desk.
“Amazed that my people so easily took yours, Colonel?” Ben asked.
Housemann smiled, after a fashion. “To be frank, yes, I am.”
“You are aware that the Rebels have never been defeated, Colonel?”
Housemann arched an eyebrow. “‘No, General, I was not aware of that.”
“We’ve lost a few battles, but never a campaign.”
“That record might be broken when you cross over into Germany, General.”
“I doubt it.”
Housemann smiled. “If you are trying to anger me, General, you will not succeed.”
Ben returned the smile. “It was worth a try. You can go visit your men, Colonel. We’ll have hot showers up and ready to use in a few hours. And as you have no doubt noted, supply planes are landing at the airport now. POW camps are being made ready to receive you and your men. They are not being staffed with my people. They are being guarded by European Jews who escaped before Bottger’s purge got into high gear—and some during the actual purge. As long as you do not attempt escape, you will not be mistreated. If you attempt to escape, you will be shot. And no Rebel will interfere. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, General Raines.”
After Housemann had been escorted out, Ben took a walk. Nimes was an ancient city, first settled in 121 B.C. Many remains of Roman occupation were in abundance in the form of old ruins, including a Roman amphitheater located in the center of the small city, a sight which Ben would not visit on this day because that part of town had not yet been cleared.
Rebel intelligence had been correct: There were no creeps in the city and had not been for some time. What people remained were mostly middle-aged and elderly. Rene Seaux had sent some of his FRF in and was arming the people. Any country that the Rebels had a hand in freeing—from whatever occupation force that was there against the will of the majority—would never against be the same. Although Blanton had almost blown a fuse and thrown a liberal temper tantrum, he had finally agreed: two of the stipulations Ben had insisted upon with the secretary-general of the United Nations before he would even consider taking the job were (1) the complete arming of the general population, and (2) his political teams could have a hand in setting up the government and framing the constitution. Any nation that objected to those terms would be not aided by the Rebels—so far, none had.
The prisoners were flown out to camps in western France, and the Rebels waited until the other battalions had pulled up more or less even on a north to south line with their position. But even then they could not push on because of the prisoners the other battalions were taking. Many of those punks who had boasted they would fight to the death were giving up. The winter had been a brutally savage one, and many of the gang members faced starvation and/or freezing to death in the bitter cold. There were only a few holdouts left, and they were waiting in Ben’s sector.
Mike had showed up and dropped that news on Ben. “These people aren’t going to surrender, Ben,” the chief of intelligence told him. “We figure about eight to ten gangs left, total strength about three thousand—maybe less. But they’ve come together under one leader, they are heavily armed, and all have taken blood oaths to kill you or die trying.”
“Who heads the group?”
“A punk named Tony Green. Known as Big Stomper.”
“Duffy Williams and those aligned with him?”
“On the French/German border, waiting for us.”
“And you can bet they’ve been beefed up with other expendables from the dregs of Bottger’s followers.”
“Right on the money, Ben.”
Ben smiled at the man. “Drop it all on me, Mike. How strong a force are we facing at the border?”
“Ben, they keep shifting around. It’s a ploy to prevent my people from getting any sort of accurate count. But I would guesstimate a force at least equal to our own. And this time they’ll have armor and some artillery. Lots of mortars.”
Ben mentally digested that news for a moment while Mike poured a fresh cup of coffee. When he had again seated himself, Ben said, “And the creeps are between us and the border.” It was not a question.
“You got it. They have no place to go and nothing but death facing them in any direction. Nobody likes a creepie,” he added.
After Mike had left, Ben sat at his desk for a time, studying maps. There really was no hard decision to make; the Rebels had to push on, regardless of the obstacles. Ben turned to look at the map behind him, the red pens denoting the last position of his battalions. Two more days at the most, and the other battalions would be rid of the many prisoners they had taken.
Then the Rebels would have no choice but to push on.
Those members of the world’s press that Ben had kicked out had appealed to the transitional government of France for permission to once more enter the country. But this was a much different government than that of the old. The members of this government owed their very existence to Ben Raines and the Rebels. This government chose to
ask for Ben’s permission.
Ben had always believed that wars could be won much easier if the boo-hooing, hanky-stomping, hand-wringing liberal press was kept out. It had always infuriated him to view or read reports from members of the press who visited enemy camps to interview members of the very army that the forces of democracy were currently fighting. As far as Ben was concerned, it was collaboration and treason and should be punishable by death.
With a great deal of misgiving, Ben finally agreed to let the press back into the country. With some very grim words of advice from him. “If I catch any of you in front of our advance, collaborating with the enemy, under the guise of getting a story, I’ll have you shot on the spot. And don’t doubt my words for an instant. You stay behind our lines at all times. You get caught in a cross fire, that’s your problem. If a Rebel gives you instructions, you obey instantly—or you’ll be on the next boat back to whatever country you came from . . . providing you’re still alive.”
“Is he serious?” Cassie was asked.
“Oh, yes,” she told them. “Quite serious. Ben Raines is very easy to get along with,” she added with a smile. “Just do what he tells you to do.”
Those listening to Cassie’s words tried hard not to look in the direction of Dick Bogarde, who was standing with another group of reporters some few yards away. Back in the good ol’ days—when certain members of the press tried to dictate both foreign and domestic policy, through sometimes not-so-subtle innuendo and felt themselves above any restraints—had a commanding general of any branch of the armed forces dared to kick the shit out of one of their own, that officer would have been crucified. The thorough thrashing of Dick Bogarde at the fists of General Raines had not even caused a small ripple.
Times were changing.
For the better, the majority believed.
The Rebels had landed at Normandy in the fall of the year. The new year had passed, and February was turning out to be the coldest on record, with snow, ice, and bitterly cold weather. From Amsterdam to the south of France, as the Rebels moved out to the east, they reported finding pockets of punks and creeps frozen to death.
The majority of the press was learning, too. They reported the findings without weeping, engaging in verbal or printed snits, or twisting hankies concerning the dead. Several made the mistake of bemoaning and lamenting upon the fates and deaths of the poor, misguided, misunderstood, politically deprived, society-mistreated, probably-abused-as-children, and surely good boys and girls who just took a slightly wrong turn and certainly didn’t deserve such a horrible death. They quickly found themselves on ships back to their home country.
Two more press types made the mistake of slipping through Rebel lines (they really didn’t slip through; the Rebels just made no attempt to stop them), and got themselves captured by a gang of punks.
When asked if he was going to send out a rescue party, Ben’s reply was uncommonly blunt and physically impossible for those on the receiving end—no play on words intended.
The remains of the two were found the next day. The punks were so desperately short of food, they had eaten the choice cuts of the two.
“Remember,” Ben said sarcastically to a group of reporters. “Always take the keys out of your car. Don’t let a good boy go bad.”
Cassie stood with a smile on her lips and shook her head at Ben’s deliberate baiting of the press.
ELEVEN
At last the long line of Rebels that stretched all across France was ready to push eastward.
“The walled city,” Ben said, as Cooper stepped on the gas, pulling away from Nimes.
“Beg pardon?” he asked.
“Avignon, Cooper,” Jersey said. “The whole town’s got a wall around it.”
“That’s cool,” Cooper said. “But what’s behind the wall?”
“Starving people, Coop,” Ben told him. “No creepies and no punks.”
“Well, where the hell are they, boss?” Jersey asked.
“Between Toulon and Monaco. It’s warmer in the south. Don’t worry, we’ll get to mix it up with them. Then comes the more difficult part.”
His team said nothing. They knew what he meant: Italy and Germany and Bottger’s Minority Eradication Forces. Bottger’s MEF had slammed down as far south as Rome, overwhelming the small Italian Resistance Forces. Bottger was now a force that threatened the world.
And there was only one army in the world that had even a remote chance of stopping him: Ben Raines and the Rebels.
“We sure get all the shit jobs,” Jersey summed up the feelings of all the team.
“We sure do,” Ben said.
“Did it ever occur to you, boss,” Ben said, “that just maybe Blanton and the UN secretary-general might be secretly hoping you’ll get killed over here?”
“Jesus, Beth!” Cooper said. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, she is, Coop. And yes, I have entertained that thought, Beth,” Ben replied. “Several times. But I finally dismissed the idea as false. Blanton is not a bad fellow. Not really. He’s matured over the year that we’ve known him. He has, unfortunately, got some real shit-for-brains people around him. But I have a strong hunch that he’ll slowly divest himself of them or push them far into the background where they can do no harm. He knows now that his nation cannot survive under a one hundred percent liberal rule. And he is far too intelligent to see his portion of America crumble and fail while all the other states aligned with us prosper and grow.”
“You kind of like Blanton, don’t you, boss?” Jersey asked.
“In a way, yes. I didn’t at first. But I’ve grown to have some respect for the man. He desperately tries to do the right thing.”
“Yes, but he tries to do it for everybody,” Corrie said. “And that’s not fair for those who will work at any job to get by and have to pay for those who won’t work at anything.”
That started a good discussion between the team members—one that Ben stayed out of as the miles rolled by. Corrie, Beth, Jersey, and Cooper were all too young to have many clear memories of the way it was before the Great War. They could remember family and friends and school, but were all too young to have any knowledge of economics or the day-to-day struggle of their parents to get by under the ever-increasing yoke of taxes laid on them by the democratic liberal government in Washington, D.C. What they knew of that they had learned from older Rebels—especially Ben. And he was an excellent teacher, being adamantly opposed to liberalism and socialism: two philosophies without a modicum of difference.
Avignon, the walled city, had suffered little physical damage from the punks and creeps. But here, as in so many larger towns, the citizens were mostly middle-aged and elderly. Their stories were the same: The young had been taken away to serve as slaves and whores for the gangs of thugs or traded to the creeps to be fattened and used as food.
It was at Avignon that Ben noticed, with some amusement, that his 1 Battalion had been gradually growing in strength by several full companies: armor, artillery, and ground troops. He knew perfectly well that his team was fully aware of the enlargement but had said nothing. He also knew who had ordered the buildup: Ike. He had taken several squads from each battalion and sent them in to beef up Ben’s 1 Batt. Ben elected to say nothing about it. But it amused him.
Several Rebel battalions had reached the easternmost French border, and Ben ordered them to halt and hold at the line until all of southern France was clear. Antwerp and Brussels had been cleared, and those battalions had moved to the German border. Ike and his 2 Batt had occupied Geneva and Dan and his 3 Batt had moved in to seize and clean up Lausanne. Other Rebel battalions, beefed up by French, Belgium, Dutch, Italian-Swiss, Luxembourg, and Free German Resistance fighters, were holding at Luxembourg, Metz, Nancy, Epinal, Besancon, Chambery, Grenoble, and Gap.
Ben had not seen Mike Richards in more than a week when the man strolled into his CP for that night and poured coffee and picked up a sandwich, then flopped down in a chair in front of Ben’s makeshift desk.
“The gangs of punks under the command of Tony Green have been supplied, quite mysteriously, it seems, with heavy machine guns, rocket launchers, and mortars. They’re waiting for you at Cannes and Nice.”
“Bottger supplied them?”
“That’s my guess. And they’ve been beefed up with the dregs of society. A fairly sizeable force, Ben. And they’ve also destroyed the runways.”
“The runways can be repaired. But we need those ports.” Ben frowned and drummed his fingertips on the desk. “So far, this has been a milk run. Marseille and Toulon are clean. But a suspicion keeps nagging at me that we’re heading into a set up of some sort. It’s just been too damn easy so far.”
“I feel the same way but have no concrete evidence of it. What’s your thinking on it?”
“The punks have made some sort of alliance with the creeps, and they’re dug in deep, waiting for us to walk in before they spring the trap.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that philosophy, Ben. But if that’s the case, they’ve done it smooth.”
Ben nodded. “Very smoothly, Mike. And that makes me think the creeps did it. Those punks don’t have enough sense to plan something that complex.” He looked over at Corrie. “Get some of Buddy’s special ops people to go in and give me a recon of Nice and Cannes and surrounding areas. We’ll continue moving eastward a few miles each day so as not to tip off the creeps and punks that anything is wrong.”
Mike stood up. “I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep. See you, Ben.”
Ben smiled as he watched Mike leave. He might see the man in a few hours . . . or a few days or a few weeks. With Mike, you just never knew.
Ben leaned back in his chair. Buddy would have his people in place within hours. In a couple of days, Ben should have some idea of what the creeps and the punks had in mind for him. Ben had no way of knowing that Buddy was going in himself.
Buddy and his special ops people jumped into hostile country a couple of hours after receiving the request from his father. Buddy’s team slipped through the night until they were within easy distance of the city, slept for a few hours, and were in position on the outskirts of Cannes just after dawn, while the other team was closing in on Nice.
D-Day in the Ashes Page 21
