Crisis in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  How did they get behind us? he wondered again, until a deep wracking cough filled his mouth with blood.

  His eyes batted shut, and the pain was gone.

  Buddy Raines walked out of the woods and stood over Federov’s bloody body. He cradled his CAR in his arms and glanced around at the other Scouts as they emerged from their hiding places. “Jimmy,” he called to his second in command, “police the area and make sure there are no survivors.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy Gardiner said, turning and making a sweeping motion with his arms, signaling his men to check the bodies for signs of life.

  Buddy sighed. Though he was in charge of Bat 508, he’d volunteered to lead this group of Scouts in a drop behind enemy lines, to carry out his father’s orders to wreak as much havoc in the USA’s backyard as they could.

  “Hurry up, Jimmy. I want to get back under cover as soon as possible, before any reinforcements show up. We’ve still got that power plant to take out.”

  Jimmy grinned. “Yes, sir. I wonder how the citizens are gonna like being without electricity.”

  Buddy smiled back. “I imagine they’re gonna raise hell with Osterman. She’s going to have to do some explaining to her loyal followers about how this could happen so far from the front lines, just like Ben wants.”

  TEN

  Hans Bosner gripped his SAM rocket launcher, sweeping it back and forth, certain that an attack of this magnitude was being directed from the sky. And yet the skies above them were clear. Radar reports from USA headquarters indicated there were no Rebel planes showing up on any of the screens at the command post near Indianapolis, not so much as a blip coming from radar installations across Pennsylvania.

  “I don’t see any airplanes,” he said to Albert Zimmermann in German, in a clipped Bavarian dialect they had both spoken since early childhood.

  Zimmermann listened to the chatter of guns around them. “I do not think there are any aircraft, Herr Bosner. They are on the ground, these damn Rebels, circling us. Someone had to inform on us, to tell them we were coming. This is no accident. They know exactly where we are.”

  “We would have heard them . . . or seen them. No one, not even those so-called Scouts of the Rebel army could move so silently. There must be a plane somewhere. This can’t be ground reconnaissance, or we would have heard or seen something. They could not have known this was our objective.”

  “I say there is an informant on General Maxwell’s staff, a man who has access to secret information,” Zimmermann said, his eyes flickering back and forth across the battlefield. “There has to be—”

  A mercenary stumbled out of the trees with his belly cut open, dragging his intestines like coils of purple ropes tied to his spine. He made muted sobbing sounds, following a bone-chilling cry, with noises coming from his throat like those of a wounded rabbit, hard to hear above the thunder of rifles echoing across the valley.

  “Look!” Zimmermann exclaimed. “He has been gutted like a pig! Someone is behind us with a knife or a bayonet. I heard nothing, not until he screamed just now. Look at him!”

  Hans watched the merc stagger, clutching loops of his organs. “Son of a bitch. How did one of those bastards get behind us?”

  “I see him, the Rebel killer,” Zimmermann whispered, raising his AK47 to his shoulder. “There, in the shadows below that big oak tree . . . a man with a rifle.”

  Hans saw the shape. “Don’t shoot!” he cried, just as Zimmermann let go with more than a dozen rounds of ammunition. “It is Koslov—”

  One of their own, wearing a black vest and black beret, was swept off his feet by a hail of lead. He danced to an unheard melody before he fell, feet flailing, landing hard on his back and neck.

  “You killed one of our men, Albert.” Hans said, quieter, watching the Russian collapse in a heap beneath the oak.

  Zimmermann lowered his rifle. “We were told to stay in a line,” he protested softly, watching Uri Koslov, a friend, go down in the grass. “What was Uri doing back there when we were given orders to stay in lateral lines?”

  The thudding of heavy weapons fire distracted Hans for the moment. They were surrounded. He turned to the hill where Captain Federov and Sergeant Larinov should be at the point of their assault wing, signaling the others when to move, and when to hold their positions. “Where is Alexi?” he asked, noticing a body slumped below a rocky ledge. From this distance, he couldn’t be sure who it was.

  “What?” Zimmermann asked, unable to hear Hans due to the pounding of gunfire.

  “Where is Captain Federov?”

  “I don’t see him. Could these Rebel bastards have gotten behind them, too?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” Hans replied, lowering his SAM rocket launcher with nothing to shoot at.

  Then they heard the rhythmic pop of a helicopter’s blades north of their position.

  “At last,” Hans muttered, returning the hand-held Soviet missile launcher to his shoulder. “I will blow this metal bird into a million pieces. I will light up the sky with his fuel, and his anti-tank rockets.”

  Zimmermann said in a high-pitched voice, “Wait until you are sure it is a Rebel ship before you fire.”

  Hans was in no mood to wait, not with Black Shirt squadmen dying all around him.

  “But,” Zimmermann reminded him, “only Captain Federov and Sergeant Larinov have radios. We are to wait for their signal.”

  Hans sighted the outline of an American Apache helicopter gunship—known in years past as the “tank killer”—rising over the treetops.

  “Screw them,” he snapped. “I won’t take the chance of being turned to pulp by that craft’s machine-guns.”

  Major Adolf Wertz prided himself on his piloting skills and his evasive tactics when under fire. The exploding guns below him could mean only one thing . . . the Rebels had set a trap for his highly trained Black Shirt assault group, as impossible as it seemed.

  But he could quickly turn the tide with his saddle-mounted machine-guns, he thought, strafing the area with a heavy concentration of .50 caliber slugs.

  He knew some of his own men would surely die when he unleashed his airborne firepower, but a few lives would be lost in a pitched battle, anyway, a calculated risk, the sad fortunes of fighting a war. Most of his men were Soviet mercenaries, anyway, and as a German he had no love for Russian soldiers, even if they were on the same side in this conflict. They were only here because of the money.

  Above all else, he hated Ben Raines, the self-styled general of SUSA, and everything he stood for—a senseless conglomeration based on old-fashioned ideas in which men were not required to follow orders or mandates from the government if it didn’t suit them. The entire concept was a stupid one, one that could breed insurrection and rebellion among the masses if it went unchecked. President Osterman and General Maxwell understood the dangers of allowing every man and woman to think and act on their own in a society where free choice was allowed.

  He pushed his radio transmit button, to let his ground crew know what was going on. “Alpha Red One,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “Go ahead, Alpha One.”

  “A Rebel attack on our Pennsylvania objective. I’m going in with rockets and machine-guns.”

  “Ten-four, Alpha One. We will relay this information back to base.”

  The whirring of his chopper’s blades was a drone in his ears, and he liked the sound. It was a noise befitting an all-out war machine like the Apache.

  A crackle of static. Someone from Command Central was being patched in.

  “Alpha One. How could a Rebel force be there without any detection?”

  “I have no idea,” Wertz said, his teeth clenched in bitter anger. “Someone erred. We have our share of idiots in Security and Intelligence.”

  A pause, and Wertz knew that higher-ups would not like what he said. He didn’t give a damn.

  “How heavy is the fire?” the same voice inquired over the headset.

  “It sounds very heavy . . . but nothing
I can’t handle in this Apache.”

  “Are there other aircraft in the vicinity?”

  “No. Nothing shows on my screens.”

  “Be careful, Major. The Apache you are flying is very important to the president.”

  “I’m always careful, you damn fool. You didn’t give me your rank, but I am a major. Identify yourself!”

  “This is General Leland Maxwell.”

  Now it was Wertz’s turn to pause. “Sorry, sir, but I am under fire at the moment.”

  “Let our ground troops handle it. Isn’t Captain Federov in charge?”

  “Yes . . . but—”

  “Don’t fly into any risk areas. See what Federov and his men can do with the situation.”

  “It sounds like they’re being blown to bits, General. I’ll be very careful with this tank killer. As you know, I am an experienced helicopter gunship pilot.”

  “I’m well aware of your qualifications, Major. However, I need to impress upon you how valuable the Apache you are flying is to our war effort.”

  “I am aware of its value, sir.”

  “Ground troops, especially these . . . Russian mercenaries, are in so many words, expendable. Let them fight it out with the Rebels first.”

  Wertz ignored the order, sending his gunship over a wooded ridge, moving closer to the battle. “Of course, sir. I have been well-trained to follow orders.”

  “Good. Just don’t put that Apache at risk. We need it, in case Raines gets too close to the capitol.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Wertz glimpsed a wisp of white smoke rising from a thicket of oaks, moving toward him.

  “No!” he cried, sweeping the Apache’s controls to the left for an evasive maneuver at full throttle.

  “What is it, Major Wertz?” a voice over the radio demanded. He’d forgotten to turn off his mike.

  “A SAM,” he said, as the heavy armor-plated Apache tilted to the east.

  “You should have known they would have rocket launchers!” General Maxwell shouted into the earpiece. “Whatever the hell you do, Wertz, don’t lose that goddamn Apache!”

  Wertz saw the missile coming, his mouth went dry, and he heard a strange ringing in his ears. The gunship was turning too slowly to avoid the SAM, and he knew it.

  “Shit,” he breathed in his native tongue, his feet trembling on the control pedals. “This is Alpha One. I’m going down. No way to—”

  The explosion sent Adolf Wertz tumbling through the windshield, his helmet ripped from his head by the blast. He fell toward the ground, wishing he could be back in Bavaria on his grandfather’s dairy farm, doing nothing more dangerous than milking a surly Holstein trying to kick over the milk bucket.

  Back at headquarters, General Maxwell turned to Captain Broadhurst, who was standing behind him at the radio console. Maxwell’s face was beet red. “I hope that stupid bastard is dead, ’cause if he isn’t, he will be when I get through with him!” he growled.

  “Max, do you think Wertz lost the gunship?” asked Broadhurst.

  Maxwell gave him a look, his eyes flat. Where does Osterman come up with these idiots? he thought.

  “Of course he lost the ship, you fool. Have you ever seen a SAM miss at such close range?”

  “Uh . . . no, sir. I was just hoping—”

  “Hope in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first, Broadhurst,” Maxwell said, suddenly tiring of the conversation. Damn! If he had men only half as good as Raines did, he’d have this war over within a month.

  “Are you going to tell Madam President about the loss of another of her helicopters?” Broadhurst asked.

  Maxwell gave him a pitying look. “Of course not. Do I look stupid, Captain?”

  Broadhurst shook his head. It seemed no one wanted to be the one to give Sugar Babe bad news. It was a surefire way to end your career, if not your life.

  ELEVEN

  Ben and his team followed Lara and her Freedom Fighters on roads that seemed to be little more than overgrown cow paths winding through dense forest and brushy overgrowth for more than two hours. Finally, they pulled into a cleared area which contained a dilapidated farmhouse and a barn which looked about to fall down.

  Lara bounded out of the lead vehicle and trotted back to Ben’s SUV She leaned her head in the driver’s side window and smiled. “Don’t let the appearance fool you. The walls are reinforced oak, and the doors have a solid sheet metal backing.”

  Ben glanced around. “What is this place?”

  “It’s one of our safe houses. We keep it looking like this so the Black Shirts and the locals who are in the pay of the USA won’t give it a second look if they happen upon it.”

  She stepped back. “Come on in. We’ll put some grub on the fire and see how hungry you folks are.”

  “Myself, I could eat a horse,” Anna said as she scrambled out of the car.

  “I second that,” Corrie said. “Nothing like a good fire-fight to improve the appetite.”

  Within a few minutes, Lara’s comrades had steaks grilling on a portable barbecue pit with potatoes baking in the coals.

  “Looks like your people are pretty well-supplied,” Beth observed.

  Lara shrugged. “We take what we can from the Black Shirt squadrons after our battles. They eat better than most of the citizens who pay their salaries,” she said.

  “How are the locals making out?” Ben asked. “We’ve had reports the USA is short on funds, and have increased taxes to a point where many of the citizens are in open revolt.”

  Chuck Harris looked at Ben over the pit. “You’re not far from correct,” he said, “though not many have the courage to be openly rebellious. President Osterman and her cronies take a dim view of anyone expressing doubt about her leadership abilities. There have been some public hangings just for griping about the amount of taxation.”

  “Of course, they call it treason, and claim the protesters are aiding and abetting the rebels in the war,” the man named Dave added as he passed out paper plates to everyone.

  “It never seems to change,” Ben said. “The Socialist Democrats claim to be the party of the little man, the average Joe, but it always seems to be the little people who get it in the ear. The fat cats who support the president always make out OK.”

  As Chuck passed out meat and potatoes for everyone, Beth asked, “Lara, how is it you and your friends are still alive? The last we heard, you’d all been captured and were being tortured and killed.”

  Lara’s face fell. “We were captured, and most of us were in the process of being tortured.”

  “How in the world did you manage to escape?” Beth asked, slicing her steak with her K-Bar assault knife and spearing a chunk and popping it in her mouth.

  Chuck pulled up a chair next to Beth and put his plate on his knees as he ate. “You remember Jimmy Smathers, Ben?”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, the skinny teenager with acne who was undergoing his early training last time I was up here.”

  “That’s the one. Well, he pretended to go to the other side. Cried a lot and said he’d be willing to go on TV and testify about the rest of us and how we were traitors to the USA.”

  Lara’s eyes filled with tears. “It was just a ruse. Once they took his shackles off, he attacked the two men who were taking him back to headquarters, stole their weapons, and broke the rest of us out.”

  “In the process, he took almost a full clip from an AK47 in the chest before blowing the rest of the jailers to hell with a grenade,” Harris finished.

  Ben nodded. “Seems he passed his training with flying colors.”

  “Yeah,” Lara said. “Every one of us owes Jimmy our lives.”

  “We didn’t hear anything about the escape on the news,” Corrie said, “or from any of our spies in the USA.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Harris observed drily. “Osterman doesn’t like to advertise her mistakes, or our victories.”

  One of the other women, who’d been silent up until now, chim
ed in. “Guess she’s afraid any news of how many times we’ve kicked the Black Shirts’ asses would only encourage other locals to join us in our fight,” she said, fire in her eyes.

  “And she’s right to fear that,” Ben said, stuffing the last of his potato into his mouth. “A tyrant’s greatest fear is a free and informed public. Most people are of good heart, and most wouldn’t tolerate Osterman’s excesses for a moment if they knew the truth about them, or if they thought they stood a chance of resisting.”

  “Is that why you’ve come back, Ben?” Lara asked. “To spread the word about us?”

  “In part, but only in part. As I told you before, Lara, I want to help establish teams like yours all across the USA. And while doing that, I’ve parachuted dozens of teams of Scouts into various locales. Their mission is to sabotage any and everything that makes the USA work . . . power stations, dams, telephone wires, TV cable towers, satellite dishes—in short, to do everything they can to make the average citizen clamor for peace and an end to this senseless war Osterman has created.”

  “Any chance of getting some training along those lines for our members?” Harris asked, excitement in his eyes.

  “That’s the second part of the Scouts’ mission. To recruit and train Freedom Fighters just like you guys,” Ben answered. “The only way this war is going to be won, without totally destroying the USA and killing millions of innocent people, is from within. By patriotic citizens like yourselves taking up arms and changing the leadership of your country.”

  Lara shook her head. “It won’t be easy.”

  “Freedom has never in history come cheap,” Ben said, “but I’ve never heard anyone say the price was too high once they’ve attained it.”

  Jersey came awake slowly, blinking her eyes and wondering for a moment where she was. Then it came to her as she felt Coop’s warm breath on her neck, punctuated by soft snoring and occasional smacking of his lips in his sleep.

  She glanced down and saw his left hand gently cupping her breast. She started to move it, then realized she kind of liked the warmth of his grip on her body. With a deep sigh, she relaxed and let herself doze for a few moments more. After all, she thought, they’d be up and at ’em soon enough. In war, it was best to cherish the quiet times, ’cause there were so damn few of them.