Crisis in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Maxwell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It would damn sure be the cheapest weapon we ever deployed against Ben Raines . . . if it’ll work. But how’s it gonna look when I ask the President of the United States to drop millions of bugs on the southern part of this country?”

  “I know the treasury is depleted,” Harlan continued. “This is a very cost-effective way to halt their advances and bring them to bear. What difference does it make if the host for this destructive bacterial weapon happens to be the common flea?”

  “All right, Harlan. Bring Yiro Ishi to my office. All I’ll agree to do is listen. But if the goofy son of a bitch can’t convince me this isn’t some sick joke, I’ll have him shot before sunrise tomorrow.”

  Harlan stood up. “He will expect to be rewarded for his efforts, I’m sure.”

  “If dropping bugs on Ben Raines can stop him from blowing us off the face of the earth, I’m quite sure President Osterman will pay him handsomely. The first thing he’s gotta do is convince me and the president that this will work.”

  “I’ll send for him at once, General. You won’t regret hearing what he has to say. At first I was a doubter, as you are. But when you see the data his grandfather left him, I think you’ll change your mind. Ishi is an odd little man, but he most certainly is not crazy.”

  “It still sounds mighty stupid to me. Dropping fleas on an enemy just doesn’t have the right ring to it. It isn’t the old-fashioned way to win a war, in my mind. I can see it now . . . all the newspaper headlines. The SUSA Rebel army died scratching themselves to death on account of an executive order from President Osterman. That part will be mighty damn hard to explain.”

  Harlan shrugged. “Who will care, sir, if it works? All the president cares about is ridding this planet of Ben Raines and his Rebels.”

  Maxwell scowled. “That’s the trouble with you, Millard. Too damn many times, you’ve turned out to be right. Send for the crazy Jap. I’ll listen.”

  “I’ll contact him at once, sir. He should be here within a few hours.”

  Maxwell waited until Harlan was through the door before he let out an impatient sigh. Millard wasn’t a military man, so how could he understand the humiliation a general of the armies would face if he won a war using sick fleas?

  Of course, on the other hand, if the strategy worked he’d be a hero, and President Osterman would have no choice but to make him Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces. And, he chuckled as he thought about it, only a short step away from being president himself if something should happen to Madam President . . . an occurrence he’d make sure didn’t take too long to take place.

  FOUR

  General Maxwell sat at his desk for several minutes after Harlan Millard left, thinking deep thoughts. All this bullshit about fleas was hard to digest, even harder to believe. Max knew Yiro Ishi, a wimpy little Jap, a scientist type who probably carried a slide rule in his undershorts. It would take big balls to ask for an appointment with President Osterman to tell her that his latest military strategy for crushing Ben Raines’s Rebel army involved dropping fleas on Rebel units.

  But Harlan was the president’s confidante, and she trusted him. Max secretly believed Harlan had to be screwing her to acquire so much influence. That notion had made the gossip rounds lately. “Sugar Babe” didn’t seem to care what the press had to say about her. She had absolute power, and nothing Max could foresee would stand in her way until she controlled all the major countries in the world . . . what few remained after the Final War.

  He made up his mind to call Captain Broadhurst about this Ishi business. As soon as Broadhurst stopped laughing, maybe he could tell Max what to do. Broadhurst had extensive knowledge of biological weapons. He could be trusted.

  And the simple fact was the USA would gain very little with its present course of action. All of SUSA’s military and a great proportion of its populace was inoculated against their current BW weapons. It wasn’t going to help them a whole lot to kill a few civilians if the SUSA army could still fight.

  He dialed the captain’s private number, drumming his fingers on his desktop, wondering where to begin with such a preposterous proposal. Broadhurst was in charge of the USA’s biological warfare program. He would know if Yiro Ishi was nothing more than a crazy Nip, or if there might be a grain of truth to what Harlan said about him. There were hardly any records of what took place before the Final War, thus no easy way to prove whether Ishi was out of his mind or inventing the entire story to save his Japanese ass—now that President Osterman’s policy of ethnic cleansing had begun . . . albeit very quietly, for the time being.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Max. Got a minute?”

  “Certainly, General.”

  “Tell me what you know about that little Jap goofball, Yiro Ishi.”

  “Ishi? He’s a lab freak, but a smart one. Why the hell are you askin’ me about him? He’s an outcast. Nobody listens to him anymore. He’s from the old school. He believes in all that prewar crap having to do with the transmission of viral and bacterial disease. I think he’s also a Buddhist, and as you know that makes him a marked man. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t already been ‘taken out.’”

  “Harlan just left my office. He says Ishi’s got some secret biological weapon that was developed by his grandfather over in Japan during World War II. It’s the dumbest thing I ever heard, but I wanted to run it by you. Ishi’s grandfather was in charge of a program the Japs were working on when the atom bombs blew them off the face of the earth. It was called Unit 731. Harlan insists there’s something to what Ishi says. He claims Ishi knows what he’s talking about.”

  “It’s possible. What is it?”

  “You’re gonna die laughing.”

  “I need a good laugh. Those damn Rebels have pushed one of my top commando units out of northern Georgia. They killed all but seven of my crack troops. No one can figure out how Raines knows where we are . . . where we plan our next offensive. I’m of the opinion we’ve got a mole in our midst, and whoever it is, he or she has to be pretty high up—unless Raines is simply lucky.”

  “Raines has got guts. The trouble is, he doesn’t act like a soldier. He makes the dumbest mistakes, if you look at ’em on paper, but they work most of the time. We should have been able to flank him on the Mississippi River last month. The son of a bitch vanished overnight. Not a goddamn trace of him when we closed the circle around him . . . around where he should have been when we got there. We had good intelligence on his position, and the bastard wasn’t there when we showed up.”

  “Tell me more about Ishi’s idea. I know all I care to know about Ben Raines.”

  “Let’s start with fleas.”

  “You mean the kind a dog has? Maybe I didn’t hear you right?”

  “Harlan said Ishi has a bomb we can drop on SUSA filled with fleas carrying some strain of bubonic plague the rebels won’t be inoculated against. Something from World War II. I know it sounds screwy as hell, but Harlan usually has his facts straight.”

  A silence.

  “When are you gonna start laughing?” Max asked. “How come you didn’t even chuckle?”

  “I’m not laughing. It might work. Bubonic plague is a type of bacteria. The big problem with it in the past has been its fragility. If you don’t deliver it just right, it dies off. But with fleas as the host insect, it just might work. Have you ever tried to kill fleas in your carpet, Max? You damn near can’t do it. They lay millions of eggs in an hour or two. I drowned my wife’s cat in the bathtub because we couldn’t get rid of its goddamn fleas. I told Bernice it must have run away because she didn’t love it enough. Shift the blame . . . that’s my motto.”

  “You’re telling me Ishi’s bomb might be a plausible weapon against Raines?”

  “It’s possible. I’d have to hear all the details, and I’d want some top men from our biological warfare unit to listen in on it.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “You sound unhappy, Max.”
>
  “I’m just thinking about what it’ll be like, trying to explain this to the president. How the hell am I gonna convince her we need to spend what little money we have left in the defense budget to build flea bombs? She could strip me of my rank . . . even have me committed to an asylum. It sounds like a stupid idea.”

  “C’mon, Max. You know it’s more than that, if what Ishi says is true. We’d be delivering fatal doses of bubonic plague to SUSA troops and thousands of civilians living in the territory controlled by Ben Raines.”

  “It’s gonna look real bad on my military record.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If it says I was the general in charge of an army that won a war using fleas, I’ll look like a damn fool. It doesn’t sound like workable military strategy to me.”

  Another silence.

  “I doubt if anyone will care how you do it, Max. The main thing is to get rid of those Rebels. Despite all our efforts, they seem to get stronger every day.”

  “I’d rather use napalm, or damn near anything besides a bomb full of fleas.”

  “Max, they are incredibly resilient insects. Every time someone develops a spray, or any form of chemical to eradicate them, they come back with an immunity to it. They may be the world’s most perfect example of adaptation to a hostile environment.”

  “You aren’t telling me what I wanted to hear, Broadhurst.”

  “What did you want to hear, Max?”

  “That the idea is crazy. We could have the little Jap executed for treason. Who the hell is gonna listen to such a plan?”

  A longer silence.

  “But what if it worked, Max? It would make you look good in high places. And if it failed, you could blame Ishi and have him put before a firing squad as a traitor to the United States of America. Sugar Babe would love it. Think of the public relations value. And remember this . . . Harlan brought you the idea. If anything goes wrong, blame him.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I could always point a finger at Millard if it backfired.”

  “Now you’re using your head. Let Ishi build his bombs, and we’ll drop them on Raines and his Rebels. If it works, you get all the glory. Forget Yiro Ishi’s name, and claim the idea was your own. It’s a winning situation either way. If the damn fleas don’t kill anybody, then execute Ishi in front of all the news cameras in the USA. Label him a subversive with bugs on his brain, and blame Harlan for the whole thing.”

  “It does have a certain amount of public relations value to it. If Ishi screws this up, we can hang him from the Washington Monument. And Harlan would have to explain to the president why he thought it would work.”

  “Of course! That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand. Ishi loses and you win, no matter how it turns out. You’ll be a national hero, and Ishi will be as dead as his ancestors. Harlan will be in deep shit up to his eyebrows, and you come out clean as a whistle.”

  “Harlan is bringing Ishi over in a couple of hours. Why don’t you sit in on the meeting? I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  “Call me the minute he shows up.”

  “I’ll do it, although I’ve got plenty of misgivings about this whole idea.”

  “Forget ’em. If Ishi is crazy—and he probably is—and if the flea bombs don’t work, then I’ll back you up when you make a public statement that you knew it would fail all along. You can say you were tricked.”

  “I could say he lied to us about how the bombs were gonna kill Rebels.”

  “Right. And who the hell is gonna believe some Nip over the word of a three-star General?”

  “It’s the president I’m worried about. How can I convince her to give us the money to build these bombs? She’s sure to ask questions.”

  Broadhurst hesitated for some time. “Here’s the best way. Tell her that Yiro Ishi has a biological weapon his grandfather developed back in World War II. Don’t mention the fleas. Say bubonic plague will be dropped on key cities inside SUSA. There’s no reason to tell Sugar Babe the rest . . . unless the bombs work.”

  “I like that. It won’t make me sound so goddamn stupid.”

  “It’s an old axiom in the military, Max. Protect your ass at all costs. If you have to kill a meaningless Japanese scientist in order to do it, it’s a small price to be paid for coming out smelling like a rose. Hell, it’s like throwing a bowl of stale egg rolls out a window. Who’s gonna miss him? The only way he helps you is if his bombs kill Rebel soldiers . . . maybe even Ben Raines himself.”

  “Gotcha. I like the way your mind works, Broadhurst. I figured you’d have the right angle on this, so I didn’t get my ass in a sling.”

  “Look at Yiro Ishi as a sort of sacrificial lamb. Lead him to slaughter. If his plan works like he says it will, then take all the credit and have someone on your top execution squad feed him to the fishes.”

  “Kill him either way?”

  “Of course. You don’t want him credited with the success, do you?”

  “I’m not all that damn sure it’ll work.”

  “Try it. Call me when Ishi gets there. If his science is sound, give it a shot.”

  “The way you put it, I really don’t have anything to lose, if I do it right.”

  “Precisely. Call me when the meeting is arranged, so I can be there with a couple of experts.”

  “We have experts on fleas?”

  “Not exactly, but they’ll be able to tell us if the bombs will work.”

  “I’ll call you. This has got to be the strangest thing I’ve ever done in my entire military career.”

  “The thing to remember, Max, is that in order to have any kind of military career, you do whatever is necessary in order to win.”

  “I’ll call you. Thanks, Broadhurst. I’m sure I don’t need to say it, but not a word of this to anyone.”

  “Only the scientists I intend to bring to the meeting, and I’ll only give them a few details.”

  Max hung up, wondering. Would history regard him as the first and only military leader to successfully use a bomb full of fleas to win a war?

  He had serious doubts. But as a backup plan, if things went wrong, he would point an accusing finger at Harlan Millard and let the chips fall wherever they may. If he ordered Ishi’s death there would be no one left alive to say otherwise. Harlan could stew in his own juices over ways to explain such a dumb idea to the president. Max would take an oath he had been against the plan all along . . . unless it worked.

  FIVE

  The Big Bird, as the C-130 Transport plane was called, flew through the darkness—lumbered would be a better word—staying just above cloud level to help ward off any attempts by USA SAM batteries to bring her down. It was following the wave of bombers and attack jets which had been sent to teach the USA a lesson about the rules of civilized combat, and to show Sugar Babe Osterman there was nowhere in the world where she was safe from retaliation.

  Ben and his team sat on hard metal benches along the walls, each with his or her own thoughts about the upcoming drop behind enemy lines.

  Ben was wondering if they’d be able to make contact with the New York militia groups before the Black Shirts of the USA found them.

  Jersey’s eyes were like flint in the darkness as she sat slowly sharpening her K-Bar assault knife on a soapstone from her backpack. She wanted to kick some USA ass. She hated BW, and thought anyone who used it deserved no quarter. None would be given.

  Cooper, relaxed as always, sat with his eyes closed, wondering if the women in the militia in New York were as beautiful as the women in the Rebel movement in the south. He was too young to remember New York City before the big war, before it was destroyed, but he’d seen plenty of old videos and films, and in those it seemed as if every female was unbearably lovely. Perhaps the girls in rural New York state were just as pretty. A man couldn’t think of war all the time.

  Anna cast worried looks at her dad. Ben had been through so much, and as the commanding general of the Rebel forces, he would lean on no one
. Men! Sometimes they could be so damned stupid and macho. A woman who’d lost her lover would have a good cry on a friend’s shoulder and get over it. Men, on the other hand, would hold the grief inside, letting it eat on them like a cancer until they made themselves sick. She hoped Ben wasn’t harboring any delusions about Lara. Dead was dead . . . he must move on.

  Beth, whose hobby was collecting old travel brochures from before the big war, was wondering if the land looked like the pictures she’d seen of upstate New York—green, forest-covered, beautiful country. She hoped the fighting hadn’t destroyed too many of the quaint old towns of the area, and that she’d have time to poke around in them looking for relics from before the great war. Ben had told her most of them were deserted, so perhaps she’d get her chance at them.

  Ben glanced at the ready light over the door to the pilot’s cockpit. It was still red. Just before time to jump, it would begin to blink. When it turned green, it was ass over elbows out the door and into the night.

  It’d been some hours since the C-130 had separated from the main bomber and fighter group, making a long slow turn to the right to head for the northeast. Several other Ranger teams had already exited the bird. Soon it’d be their turn to get up close and personal with the enemy.

  He stood up and addressed his team. “You guys all got your headsets on?”

  Heads nodded. The earpieces and speaker bars were all fitted to the head so Corrie could bump any of the team who might get separated in the drop—not unusual in a night ops.

  “Weapons locked and loaded?”

  Again the nods.

  Dressed all in black with camouflage black greasepaint on their faces, the team would be invisible from more than a few feet away. Their chutes were made of black silk to minimize reflection against the night sky. Unless they landed right in the middle of an enemy squad, they’d be okay.

  The ready light began to blink, and Ben felt the Big Bird go into a slight decline as the pilot eased the stick forward into a shallow dive. He was risking his plane to let the team jump from as low an altitude as possible, to minimize drift and help keep them bunched tight.