Crisis in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  As she lay there, with Coop snuggled up against her, spooning her from behind for warmth, his left arm wrapped around and over her with his hand on her breast, she realized she was beginning to like the feel of him against her. She’d never stopped to analyze her feelings for Coop. He was just so damned arrogant, and condescending toward females—probably because so many of them threw themselves at him. After all, she reasoned, what was there not to like, at least on the surface? He was good-looking in a Marlboro Man way, with craggy features, wrinkled and tan from his many hours in the sun, and eyes so blue they could almost be sapphires. He usually sported a bemused, almost insolent, grin as if he knew some deep, dark secret only he was privy to. If not for his attitude, if he just didn’t act as if he expected every female within a hundred yards of his immense charm to just fall down and spread ’em for him, he’d be almost tolerable.

  Ever since they’d been marooned together, like this, in Africa she’d begun to look at him in a different light. Then, he’d been so considerate, so . . . nice, that she’d almost thought her feelings for him were changing—from a brotherly, teammate type of regard and caring to . . . something more. Something more like what a woman should feel for a man who excites her tremendously. Then, damnit, he’d open his mouth and spoil it all, come up with some male chauvinist remark that would just make her blood boil. And then, of course, she’d come back with one of her patented put-downs, and they’d be right back where they started.

  Oh well. She sighed again. Whoever said war was hell was right, and so, too, was love.

  Her sigh must have awakened Coop, for he released her breast and rolled over onto his back, coughing and coming fully awake.

  “Where the hell are we?” he mumbled, his voice thick.

  “Why, right where we landed, Coop,” she answered, having to bite back the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of her tongue.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, scratching his head and sitting up. “You screwed up, as usual, and I had to save your butt, and here we are.”

  Yeah, she thought to herself, right back where we started. Same old shit, different day.

  Jersey, her face flushed with anger and chagrin at her romantic thoughts, tried to get to her feet, groaning in pain as she tried to put weight on her injured right ankle.

  Coop’s eyes softened when he saw her face screw up in obvious discomfort.

  “Here,” he said, pulling her back down on the pine needles. “Let me look at that ankle.”

  “Why,” she asked, “so you can make some more shitty comments about my abilities?”

  He straightened her leg out and pulled her pants leg up, gently feeling the swollen, black-and-blue flesh around her ankle. “Jersey, I’m sorry about what I said before. I was just . . . kidding. You know how I am.”

  “Yeah, Coop. Unfortunately, I do.”

  He tried to move her ankle, but it was stiff and extremely tender, and she cried out in pain.

  He shook his head. “You’re not gonna be able to walk on that, at least not for a couple of days.”

  She gritted her teeth, tears filling her eyes. “And just what do you propose we do, Coop? We sit here and wait for the enemy to find us?”

  “No. Give me a minute, OK?”

  He pulled his K-Bar from its holster and crawled out of the lean-to.

  Jersey leaned back and slammed her fist into the soft earth next to her. Damn! Why did she have to go and sprain her ankle? It was going to endanger the entire mission.

  Cooper was back in five minutes, stripping the branches off a limb he’d cut from a poplar tree. It was about two inches thick, and had two smaller limbs at the top in a V-shape.

  He pulled her to her feet and placed the top of the limb under her right armpit. It made a passable crutch.

  “Now, give me your pack and weapon, and you should be able to hobble along using the limb as a crutch.”

  She wagged her head. “No. I’ll just slow you down too much. You go on ahead, and when you find Ben and the team you can come back for me.”

  His lips curled in a small grin. “Uh-uh. You know we never leave a teammate behind in a combat zone, Jersey. We’ll go together, or not at all.”

  He helped her out of the lean-to and picked up her pack and her CAR, slinging them over his shoulder. “Let’s go, girl. We’ve got a few miles to cover.”

  “But we don’t even know which way to go,” she protested, taking a few tentative steps on the makeshift crutch.

  He shrugged. “We’ll head northeast, toward where the drop was supposed to land. Along the way, if we’re lucky, we’ll find some Black Shirts and maybe they’ll lend us the use of their radio.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “You think I can fight like this?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Hell, Jersey, even at half speed you’re still twice as mean as anyone else. Let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

  They started off, keeping to small, overgrown trails through the dense forest, going overland when the trails didn’t go in the direction they needed.

  By noon, after slogging along for four hours, Jersey figured they’d only covered five or six miles, and her arm and shoulder were killing her.

  “Hold on, Coop. I’ve got to take a rest for a few minutes.”

  “OK. It’s time for lunch, anyway. I’ll break out some MREs, and we’ll have a picnic.”

  “I’ve heard Meals Ready to Eat called lots of things, but never a picnic,” she answered, smiling slightly.

  He examined the plastic containers after she’d gotten seated, her back against a tree trunk. “You want ham and navy beans, or corned beef hash?”

  “How about a filet mignon, with a side of French fries and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to wash it down with?”

  He popped open the ham and beans and handed it to her. “Close your eyes and pretend. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Great,” she said.

  “However, I’ll make you a promise. The next time we’re in so-called civilization, I’ll treat you to the steak and wine.”

  “That’s a deal,” she said, digging into the ham and beans with more gusto than she thought she’d be able to manage. I must be hungrier than I thought, she said to herself.

  Just as they were finishing their lunch, they heard the sound of a vehicle nearby. Cooper threw his packet of corned beef down and grabbed his CAR.

  “Sounds like company’s coming,” he said in a low voice.

  He pulled her to her feet, and they worked their way off the trail and back into the brush out of sight. Jersey lay prone behind a fallen pine tree and pointed her CAR over the top, jacking back the loading lever and getting set.

  Cooper crouched down and trotted to the other side of the trail, where they could catch the car in a crossfire.

  A few minutes later, an old army issue Jeep came down the road. It was carrying four young men, dressed in army fatigues. They looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty years old, and were laughing and drinking beer out of cans as they rode.

  At least they’re not Black Shirts, Jersey thought, knowing the regular army men were not nearly as dangerous as the mercs.

  When the Jeep got abreast of her, she opened up with the CAR, raking the side of the Jeep with bullets, bringing it to a skidding halt.

  The boys dropped their beer cans and grabbed for their M-16s, turning frightened eyes in her direction.

  Before they could fire, Coop stepped from hiding on the other side of the trail and fired a burst over their heads.

  “Drop your weapons and hold up your hands!” he yelled, lowering the barrel of his CAR until it pointed directly at them.

  Caught in a trap, the young men had no choice but to obey. They threw the M-16s to the ground and raised their hands, faces white with fear.

  Once Jersey saw that Cooper had the situation under control, she slung her CAR over her shoulder and took her crutch, hobbling out into the road in front of the Jeep.

  “Howdy, boys,” Coop drawled. He
motioned with the CAR and told them to get down out of the vehicle.

  While Jersey covered them, he tied their hands behind their backs and then had them sit down while he bound their ankles together.

  “You ain’t gonna kill us, are you, mister?” the youngest of the soldiers asked.

  “Shut up, Carl,” said a man with corporal stripes on his sleeves. “They ain’t nothin’ but Rebel trash.”

  Cooper squatted in front of the corporal and patted his cheek. “What’d you say, boy?”

  “You can’t do nothin’ to us. It’s against the rules of war,” the man said, his eyes flashing.

  Coop looked over at Jersey. “This boy is quoting the Geneva Convention rules to us, and after his boss broke every one of them by using BW.” He shook his head and got to his feet to look in the Jeep.

  There, attached to the dashboard was a radio transceiver. “Ah, we’ve struck gold, Jersey,” he said as he sat in the driver’s seat and twirled the frequency knob until he had it on the secret frequency used by the Rebel forces.

  “Keep it short,” Jersey advised from the front of the Jeep. “They’ll be monitoring the transmissions.”

  Cooper nodded and said, “Eagle Two, come in Eagle Two.” He used the call name of Mike Post, who was in charge at Rebel headquarters until Ben returned.

  A burst of static was followed by a faint transmission. “Eagle Two here. Who is calling?”

  “Baby Bird. We’ve fallen out of the nest. I need a patch to Eagle One, if possible,” Coop answered.

  “Wait one,” the voice replied, followed by a loud squeal and more static.

  Coop glanced at Jersey. “I think they’re trying to jam us.”

  “Give ’em a minute back at HQ. They’ll figure a way around it.”

  “While we’re waiting, see if you can find a map on one of those characters over there. I’d ask ’em where we are, but they’d probably only lie.”

  Jersey bent over the loudmouthed corporal and pulled a folded map from a leather case on his belt. “Here ya go,” she said, handing the paper to Coop.

  After he’d studied it for a few minutes, there was another loud squeal and some static, but it gradually faded and he heard a voice say, “This is Eagle One. How many Baby Birds are you?”

  Coop grinned. It was Ben.

  “Four, sir,” Coop replied, using the Rebel code of doubling numbers on unsecured transmissions.

  “What is your twenty?”

  Coop glanced at the map, “Looks to be about fifteen miles west of a river called the Brandywine.” They were in actuality, seven and a half miles east of the river, but with the code, directions were again reversed, and numbers were doubled.

  “Ten-four,” the voice said. “Back to you in a couple.”

  “Roger,” Coop said. He looked over his shoulder at the corporal, who had a smirk on his face, evidently thinking Coop was unable to read a map and had given HQ the wrong coordinates for his position. Coop wasn’t about to enlighten him.

  The voice came back on, was drowned out momentarily by an undulating squeal, and finally was clear again. “We are unable to come for you for four hours. Are you mobile?”

  “That’s a Roger,” Coop said, glancing at the soldiers’ Jeep.

  “Good. At that time, we’ll meet you six miles east of your present position.”

  “Ten-four,” Coop said. “Over and out.”

  He pulled Jersey to the side and said, “Ben’s coming for us in two hours, we’re to meet him three miles to the west of here.”

  She nodded and winked. “What’ll we do with these bozos?” she said in a voice loud enough for them to hear.

  Coop let his eyes go flat and mean. “Kill ’em, what else?”

  One of the soldiers let out a gasp, and began to cry. The corporal’s face blanched, but to his credit he threw back his shoulders and said, “Take it easy, men. Whatever they do to us, don’t let them see us sweat.”

  Coop walked over and stood before the man. “You’ve got more sand than I gave you credit for.” He shook his head, a look of sadness on his face. “It’s too bad you’re fighting for a psychopath.”

  “Don’t you dare say that about President Osterman. She’s a great lady.”

  Jersey threw back her head and laughed. “Hell, she’s neither a lady, nor great.” She inclined her head at the Jeep. “Come on, we’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  “OK,” Coop said, and he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “What about us?” one of the soldiers said. “You can’t just leave us out here to starve . . . or be eaten by some wild animal.”

  “Don’t worry, sonny,” Jersey said. “After we’re picked up, we’ll radio your president and let her know where you are, and just how helpful you’ve been to us.”

  “Oh shit!” the corporal said, as if he’d rather be eaten by wild animals, after all.

  TWELVE

  Claire relaxed in her new underground bunker below the old warehouse in Indianapolis, confident that her security measures were intact. The building had been fortified with two-inch plates of steel, firewalls made of rock, and a four feet thick layer of reinforced cement around the basement. Only a direct hit by a nuclear missile or a bomb would have any effect on her personal headquarters.

  After the direct hit on her old quarters during the attack a few days ago, in which she was practically buried alive, she wanted to be certain she would survive any form of future Rebel attack. At the time, no one had believed Ben Raines had the capability to pull off a hit on the nation’s new capitol, with its heavy anti-aircraft defenses. And yet he had, somehow, killing thousands of people . . . most of them members of her military staff and government officials.

  She poured herself a snifter of brandy, wondering where the hell Harlan was.

  A pair of bodyguards stood watch outside the iron door of her new living quarters . . . trusted men who knew her likes . . . and dislikes—Robert Olson, in charge of video surveillance around the perimeter, and Herb Knoff, a born killer on the verge of being psychotic, her personal protector as he had been for a number of years, since the Final War ended.

  That war had not been as final as everyone predicted. The mistake was leaving Ben Raines alive to organize another military force against her. Raines and his ragtag army of Rebels had been thorns in her side ever since, and there seemed to be no way to stop them.

  “Harlan Millard to see you, Madam President,” a voice said over the intercom.

  Good, she thought. I need a man tonight, even a man as inept and weak as Harlan. “Send him in,” she said, pushing a button on a box beside her bed.

  “Should I perform the usual security measures?” Knoff asked.

  “Not tonight, Herbert.” She’d slept with Herb any number of times, and anyone else who dared to call him Herbert was not likely to do so a second time, at least not with all of his teeth still in his mouth. “Just send him in. We have business to discuss and it . . . can’t wait.”

  The business was the heat between her thighs. It had been worse over the past few days, and she craved satisfaction, even from a wimpy little man like Harlan Millard, who allowed his bitch of a wife to dictate to him.

  At the sound of an electronic door moving back on steel rails and then footsteps, Claire felt the heat growing deep within her groin.

  The door closed, making a metallic noise when its heavy locks engaged.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded before he came into the bedroom.

  “First, I was at the infirmary, having the wound on my arm looked at, then at security headquarters. Claire, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “What sort of bad news? I didn’t order you down here to give me news of any kind. You know what I want—”

  “One of General Maxwell’s crack Black Shirt assault units was wiped out this morning.”

  “Wiped out?”

  “A batch of Rebels were waiting for them in the north Pennsylvania woods. They were the Soviet mercenaries Max wa
s so damn proud of, the unit led by Captain Federov, and some of the Germans.”

  “They cost us plenty of money, Harlan,” she said, as he came around a corner into the bedroom. “Tell me what the hell happened to them.”

  “Raines had minefields all over the place. Some of General Maxwell’s men went up in smoke when they tried to run. The Black Shirt unit was eliminated completely.”

  “The idiots,” Claire snapped, tossing back the last of her brandy, taking only brief note of the rounding of her belly where she’d gained a considerable amount of weight. Her breasts had begun to sag from her added bulk, more than they ever had in the past, as she recalled.

  Harlan stopped near the foot of the bed. “I’m afraid these Soviets were not idiots, Claire. They were some of the best European mercenaries we had.”

  She sighed, frustrated by news she didn’t care to hear at this hour. “So, tell me the rest of it. Bad news travels in bunches. I’m sure there’s more.”

  Harlan looked down at the floor. “The commanding officer, he was flying one of our helicopter gunships. The one we captured down in Georgia.”

  “So?”

  “It was shot down. The ship was destroyed, according to our latest surveillance reports.”

  She stiffened in the bed, raising up off the pile of pillows behind her. “We lost the goddamn Apache?” she spat.

  “I’m afraid so, Claire. They hit it with some sort of SAM rocket.”

  Claire threw her brandy snifter into a corner of the room. The tinkling of breaking glass kept Harlan silent, frozen at the foot of the bed for a time.

  “Ben Raines is a bastard,” she hissed, her jaw clamped so tightly that it made the fat below her chin quiver. “A lucky bastard, at that.”

  “There are more problems,” Harlan continued, his voice so soft she could scarcely hear him.

  “What the hell else has gone wrong? I told you to come down here to make me feel good, not to give me nothing but bad news about our war with the Rebels.”