D-Day in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “All Rebels clear, sir,” Corrie reported.

  “Son Moon and his people?”

  “Clear.”

  “Eyes in the sky?”

  “Everything we have that will fly is working in a widening circle on the edges of the city. Nothing yet.”

  “And there won’t be anything,” Ben said. “Bet your ass on that. Bottger and his people and President Blanton surfaced and were picked up ten minutes after they entered the tunnel. Everything was prearranged.” Ben stood and cussed for a full minute. Didn’t help much. “How about those troops of Bottger’s that were reported moving closer to the city?”

  “They’re slowly backing up, eastward.”

  “Do you know what this means?” Ben asked Son Moon. The man was standing with his security people a few feet from Ben.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, General,” the secretary-general replied. “The kidnapping of the president of the United States is serious enough. What else could be worse?”

  Ike was standing beside Ben. “I think I know,” he said. “Jesus. Talk about things gettin’ worse!”

  Ben glanced at him. “Yeah. It means that Vice President Harriet Hooter is now going to assume the president’s chair in the Oval Office.”

  A senior Secret Service agent paled. “God help us all!”

  The ground beneath their feet shook as a mighty explosion under the hotel belched out dust and smoke. Those Secret Service agents aboveground went running across the street.

  Two more explosions ripped the earth under the hotel. The building shuddered and began coming apart. Cracks appeared on all sides as Rebels and others began quickly backing away from the structure. A huge groan escaped from the basement followed by yet another explosion, and the front and one side of the hotel caved in and collapsed into huge mounds of rubble. That was followed by the other half of the building collapsing. When the dust had settled, the old hotel was no more. Only some naked steel girders were left, twisted and stark against the amazingly bright blue of the sky.

  “Give the bastard credit,” Ben said, staring at the rubble. “Bottger planned it well. He sure outfoxed everybody.” Ben grimaced. “Me included.”

  “I can’t wait to hear how Vice President Harriet Hooter reacts to this news,” Dan said.

  “I beg your pardon?” General Bodinson, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, said, after Hooter’s short statement to him in the Oval Office.

  “I said, ‘Prepare our armed forces to invade the SUSA,’ General!” she roared, rattling all the windows in the office. Hooter had a voice that would crack brass and a face that would stop a P-51E in a power dive.

  After Bodinson’s hearing had recovered, he replied, “Yep. That’s what I thought you said.”

  “Do it!” Rita Rivers yelled.

  “Yeah!” Representative Dumkowski hollered.

  “Right on!” Senators Benedict and Arnold chimed. They were both a bit behind times . . . in more ways than one.

  “Destroy those damned filthy Republicans!” Immaculate Crapums shouted.

  For a brief moment General Bodinson felt he had been somehow transported deep into the twilight zone and plopped down in a nuthouse. “I thought we were discussing the nation of the Southern United States of America?”

  “What’s the difference?” Zipporah Washington said. “Rebels, Republicans, conservative malcontents, racists . . . they’re all the same. Invade the SUSA and kill them all. Including those goddamn Uncle Toms down there.” Zipporah had somehow managed to get herself elected to the House despite the fact that she was barely literate, and years before the Great War had served a two-year stretch in a county work farm for burglary.

  “You’re all nuts,” General Bodison said.

  “What . . . did . . . you . . . say?” VP Hooter shrieked.

  “I said you’re all nuts,” the general repeated. “The Rebels have missiles trained at this very location. They have other missiles programmed to strike at every one of our bases. Four minutes after the order went out to invade the SUSA, Charleston would be a smoking ash heap. Forget it.”

  “I gave you an order!” Hooter hollered.

  “Stick it where the sun don’t shine,” Bodison said, then got up from the chair and walked toward the door.

  “I’ll have your job!” Harriet bellered. “You chauvinistic pig son of a bitch!” Bodison flipped her the bird and walked out of the office.

  “Well . . . I never!” Harriet fumed. She probably hadn’t. She was rumored to have once propositioned a famous porn star. He refused on the grounds that he drew the line at bestiality.

  The Secret Service and the FBI took over the case of the missing president, a move which amused Ben. “That’ll last about seventy-two hours,” he said to Ike.

  “If that long,” Ike replied.

  Two days after the kidnapping, the Bureau and the Secret Service came to see Ben at his CP in Geneva.

  “You want to help us in this matter, General?” the director of the Bureau asked. He had flown over immediately after hearing the news. He asked the question as if the words hurt his mouth.

  “Homer is still in Switzerland,” Ben said. “Probably not more than a hundred miles from here.”

  “How did you reach that conclusion?” the Secret Service man asked.

  Ben smiled. “Call it a hunch.”

  “I don’t believe that,” the Bureau man said. “I think you know exactly where President Blanton is being held.”

  Actually, a hunch was all it was. Ben shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t about to confirm to anyone that Mike Richards had people inside Bottger’s New Federation. Deep inside. And not just a few people.

  While Bottger’s government and army and police did set the decrees and enforce the harsh laws with an iron hand, the majority of the people did not agree with Bottger’s policies. But for the most part, the people were helpless to act. For Bottger had taken a cue from America’s liberal government and disarmed the people, thereby effectively rendering the citizens powerless to act except by the ballot. But when elections are few, and the few are rigged, the people are virtually helpless to change anything.

  Nothing had been heard from the planeloads of press types that had taken up the invitation to visit the New Federation. Cassie Phillips and a few others had backed out at the last minute and stood on the tarmac and watched their colleagues leave. Ben had told her then she was malting a wise decision.

  “Do you think they’re dead, Ben?” she asked him, a few days after President Blanton’s kidnapping.

  “No. But I do think they’re being fed a load of horseshit and kept from the truth. Bottger doesn’t have a free press. It’s state controlled. Or Federation controlled. Same thing. I’ll wager they know nothing about Blanton being snatched. They’re probably being told that Blanton and Son Moon ordered me to declare war on the Federation and they’re being detained deep inside Federation borders for their own safety . . . or something along those lines. And most of the bunch that went in with Bottger will jump at the chance to paint me as the bad guy.”

  Cassie shook her head at Ben’s cynicism. “Those reporters are not stupid people, Ben.”

  Ben surprised her by saying, “You’re right.” Then he smiled and added, “They’re just out of touch with reality.”

  Homer Blanton had not been harmed. Indeed, he was being fed well and treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. But he was a prisoner. Problem was, now that Bruno Bottger had Homer, he didn’t know what to do with him. On paper, the idea of kidnapping the American president had seemed a good idea. When the deed was done, Bottger realized what a stupid move it had been. It had accomplished nothing for his goals and served only to bring together Americans who, heretofore, had been widely separated by political and ideological views. Now Bottger not only had an American president prisoner, but two planeloads of reporters who were rapidly getting on everybody’s nerves with their seemingly incessant questioning. Bruno didn’t know what the hell to do with them, either. />
  One of Bottger’s most senior people, a man who had been friends with Bruno since childhood, put it this way: “You fucked up, Bruno.”

  Bruno glared at the man. “Don’t point out the obvious, Hans. Tell me how to get out of this mess.”

  “Free the man and let him go. He hasn’t seen you. He has no idea you even had a part in this. He doesn’t even know where he’s being held.”

  “What about the press?”

  Hans shrugged. “They can have an accident.”

  “All of them?”

  “Certainly. We know of several of our pilots who are secretly opposed to you. Have them pilot the transports and we’ll shoot them down; blame it on Ben Raines and the Rebels.”

  Bruno was thoughtful for a moment. Then he smiled. “Excellent, Hans. Excellent. Yes, of course. It would work. But add this little touch to the play: We’ll have a fake firefight among our people and ‘rescue’ President Blanton. We can say that malcontents from Ben Raines’s Rebel army, working with Swiss and other resistance groups in Europe, kidnapped President Blanton and our own brave lads volunteered to risk their lives to rescue him and return him to safety. The shooting down of the transports carrying the reporters is good. They are such a meddlesome bunch. Yes. I like it. Everything can be blamed on Ben Raines and the Rebels. That will put Raines in a very unfavorable light in the eyes of that damn United Nations gook, Son Moon, and then Blanton just might order the American army in to kick the Rebels out of Europe.”

  “I’ll start working on the plan immediately.”

  “Very good, Hans.”

  Mike Richards returned to Geneva and met briefly with Ben. After Mike left to grab a few hours sleep, Ben called for a meeting of those Rebel batt coms in the area.

  “Blanton is being held in an old castle overlooking a lake right here.” He pointed to a wall map. “In the town of Thun. I don’t know exactly where the press is being housed, but Mike’s people think they’re just across the border in what used to be called Germany. My 1 Batt, Dan’s 3 Batt, and West’s 4 Batt are going after Blanton. Buddy and his special ops people are already in. They’ll be laying out the DZ’s here,” he thumped the map, “just west of the town in these flats. Ike, you’re in charge here.”

  “What do we tell the Bureau and the Secret Service?” Beth asked.

  Ben said, “We’ll brief the senior people only. I . . .” He looked at Georgi Striganov. The Russian was frowning. “What the hell is wrong with you, Georgi?”

  “It smells like old fish, Ben. For days we don’t have a clue. None of Mike’s operatives can pick up anything. Then all of a sudden it just falls into our laps. I don’t like it.”

  Ben sat down and was silent for a moment before replying. “You’re right, Georgi. I should have picked up on that.” He smiled. “Beth, after we brief the Bureau and the Secret Service, get Cassie Phillips, Frank Service, and Nils Wilson in here.”

  “The press?” she questioned, clearly startled at Ben’s decision.

  “The press,” Ben said. “They’re going to be fully briefed and allowed to go in with us. Maybe Bruno is trying to set us up for a hard fall. If so, the press will be right there with us.”

  Ike blinked in surprise. “Well, I’ll be goddamned!” he said.

  “We all might,” Ben said, a grim note to his voice. “We’re going in tomorrow, just before dawn.”

  FOUR

  “Once you’ve been briefed,” Ben told the three reporters, “you will not be allowed to leave this hangar. There will be no communication with the outside. Period. If that is not acceptable, say so now.”

  “You’re actually going to allow us to go with you on a rescue operation?” Cassie asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “To get the president?” Nils asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Frank said excitedly, rubbing his hands together and grinning. “This could well be the high point of my career.”

  “There might be more truth in that than you realize,” Ben said with a smile.

  Cassie narrowed her eyes at that remark. She knew Ben well enough to know that he could pull rabbits out of his bag of tricks when he set his mind to it. She felt a tightness in her belly when Ben asked Corrie, “Everybody in place?”

  “Right.”

  “Clamp the lid on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben turned to the reporters. “Any of you ever jumped before?”

  “You mean like . . . out of an airplane?” Frank asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hell, no!” Nils said.

  “All that is about to change.”

  “Oh, shit!” Cassie said.

  “Nothing to it anymore,” Ben told her. He motioned to a Rebel standing in the shadows inside the hangar. “Sergeant Mason here will give you some pointers. I suggest you pay attention. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  He walked quickly out of the hangar before they could ask him anything. But if looks could kill . . .

  Ben and his 1 Batt were taking off from Geneva. West and his 4 Batt from Annecy. And Dan and his 3 Batt from Bellegarde. Enough planes had been found so that all three understrength battalions could go in together.

  “What if this damn thing doesn’t open?” Nils asked Cooper as they were walking to the planes in the predawn darkness.

  “Pull your reserve.”

  “What if that doesn’t open?”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “About 175. Why?”

  “’Cause if both your chutes fail, scoopin’ you up after you hit the ground is gonna be like pickin’ up 175 pounds of Jell-O.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Nils muttered.

  As soon as the jumpers had left the door, Buddy and his special ops people were going to storm the old castle—and it was old—built in 1191. At precisely 0600 hours, every fighter plane Ben had was to begin bombing and strafing Bottger’s western lines; about two full divisions of troops, strategically placed on a north to south line, running roughly from Biel in Switzerland, down to the Italian border. In addition to the planes, Rebel long-range artillery had been quietly moved into place, and they would start shelling as soon as the bombing and strafing runs were through.

  To avoid detection, the planes carrying Ben and Dan’s battalions had to fly north and then cut east, and the planes carrying West’s battalion had to fly far south and then cut east and north.

  “How are we going to get out once we get the president?” Cassie shouted to Ben over the rush of wind and the roar of the engines.

  He looked at her and hid his smile. “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  “Oh . . . shit!” Cassie said.

  Ben did know, of course. His intelligence people had learned that Bottger had no troops located between Bulle and Chamonix, and only a small contingent guarding the tunnel at Col du Grd St. Bernard. Ben planned on grabbing the president and beating a hasty exit southwest to Monthey, then down to Martigny, then through the tunnel to safety. He hoped. But Ben knew that war could change plans abruptly . . . often for the worst. He was fully prepared for the eventuality that the Rebels just might have to play this one by ear.

  A crew member motioned to Ben and held up three fingers. Ben stood up and waddled back to the rear of the plane. The huge door opened ponderously and the plane filled with cold air. Then it was time to stand up and hook up and check equipment. Ben was not acting as jumpmaster this time—he was going to be the first one out. His team was right behind him on the left stick, Cassie among them. Lieutenant Bonelli was on the other side of the plane, leading his stick out. The green light popped on and Ben was out. The sky blossomed with chutes. Below, Ben could see flashes from the muzzles of guns. The attack was on. Then several miles to the north and west came a tremendous flash of fire and light. Ben had no idea what had happened, only that a plane had exploded in midair. But he knew it was not one of his. Then another flash of light fired the sky, almost in the same locati
on as the first.

  “What the hell?” Ben said aloud.

  Then there was no more time for wondering about the strange explosions, for the ground was coming up fast. Ben hit, rolled, and came to his boots quickly. As he had during the previous jump, he had left his Thompson and now carried a .223 CAR.

  “Buddy reports some strange doings at the castle,” Corrie panted in his ear. “There was a firefight going on when he got there. Then when his people stormed the place, the people who were fighting each other both turned on him.”

  “Let’s go find out what’s going on,” Ben said, ripping open an equipment pack. “This is looking more and more like a total screwup. Anybody hurt landing?”

  “No, sir. Nothing serious. They’re getting Nils Wilson out of a tree now. He’s scared but not hurt.”

  “Lots of headlights coming up the road,” Beth called.

  “I hope they’re being driven by Buddy’s people and not Bottger’s,” Ben said grimly, looking at the line of vehicles heading their way.

  It was Buddy and his special ops people driving the cars and trucks. Buddy hopped out of the lead truck and shook hands with his dad.

  “The castle and town are ours, Father,” he reported. “And President Blanton is safe. Bottger and his staff left earlier for Berlin, and the castle was only lightly manned. But some of Bottger’s men were dressed in uniforms similar to ours, and both sides had blanks in their weapons. Taking the castle was a piece of cake.”

  Ben was stunned at the report. He could not make any sense out of Buddy’s news. He shook his head and said, “Where’s Blanton?”

  “In the middle of the column. What were those flashes in the sky a few minutes ago?”

  “I don’t know. How many vehicles did you find?”

  “Not nearly enough for three battalions, Father. I’ve sent people to check out those explosions. Do we occupy the town or head for the border?”

  “Let’s hold what we’ve got until full light and your people come back with some news about those flashes we saw. I’ve got to try and make some sense out of what happened here tonight.”