Valor in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ian blinked in surprise; then his hard Scout training took over. He nodded his head. “Yes, Miss Raines. Of course.” He looked at Sergeant Wilson, squatting down, staring at him. Wilson waggled a finger and Ian obeyed the signal, walking away from Tina and Jerre.

  “If he ever again questions an order of mine,” Tina told Jerre, “he’ll be out of this unit in five minutes. Or hurt or dead, if he wants to get physical about it,” she added, a flat tone to the statement.

  Jerre shrugged. “We’re friends, Tina. Nothing more. You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  “I don’t know you. I don’t have to like you. As long as you do your job, we’ll get along fine.”

  Tina turned and Jerre followed her. “How is the general?”

  “The general is fine. A few more gray hairs on his head. A few more bullet scars. Other than that, he’s in as good a physical shape as any man years younger.”

  She waited for Jerre to say she’d like to see him. The woman made no such request.

  Blond-headed bitch! Tina thought, then softened that by reminding herself that she didn’t know much about what had gone on between her father and this woman. Just bits and pieces and rumors. And, she was forced to admit, she was more than a bit prejudiced. They came to Tina’s Jeep and stopped. Tina introduced Jerre to her driver, Sharon.

  “She can ride with Pam,” Sharon said, looking at Jerre. “That’s point. You uneasy about that?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Fine.” Tina took it. “You all geared up?”

  “Yes. Equipment is back at the truck with the others.”

  Tina hesitated, then stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the team, Jerre.”

  Jerre smiled and took the hand.

  “Oh, look,” Sharon said. “There’s General Raines. I’ll introduce you.”

  Tina was watching the woman’s face. Only a very slight narrowing of the eyes gave any indication as to her inner feelings. This should be interesting, she thought, watching as her father walked up, with Ike and West and Dan Gray with him.

  Ben didn’t wait for any introductions, not wanting to prolong the meeting. “You’re looking well, Jerre.”

  “Thank you, General. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Neither have you, Ben thought. You’re still so damned lovely. “Thank you.” He looked at Tina. “Where’s the other replacement?”

  “With Wilson.”

  Ben picked up on the flatness of her tone. “Some conflict?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Ben cut his eyes to Jerre. “These are small teams, Jerre. Each person must depend on the other. If there is something I need to know, say it.”

  “Ian was surprised that we were being separated. He opened his mouth before he thought. He . . . well, has read more into . . .ah, our relationship than is really there.”

  I certainly know that feeling, Ben thought. His gaze went to Tina. “Are you going to be able to get off this afternoon?”

  “No, sir. We’ve had some equipment malfunction. Tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

  Damn! Ben silently cursed.

  “May I speak with the general in private?” Jerre asked.

  West stood silently by. He knew there was something going on here that he didn’t really understand. But he would make it a point to ask Ike. Something between Ben Raines and this woman, he felt sure. He would tell his men that Jerre was strictly off-limits.

  It wouldn’t do for one of his men to try to cozy up to a lady that Raines had his eyes on. Or did he? West could feel the tension in the air.

  The muffled sounds of gunfire drifted to the small group standing in Battery Park.

  Jersey stood to one side. She had heard some of the scuttlebutt about the general and this woman. Well, that was the general’s business. Her job was to protect him, not mother him.

  “Of course, Miss Hunter.” Ben pointed to a bench some yards away. “Over there.”

  Ike started whistling music from South Pacific: “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  West looked at the man, a smile playing around his lips. Ike had more brass on his ass than a ship’s bell.

  Ben gave Ike a look that would wilt a plastic flower. It bounced off the ex-SEAL.

  Jerre stood quietly, with Dan wondering if the lady was familiar with that song.

  Ike continued whistling.

  “Don’t you have something to do?” Ben asked him. “Like fight a war, for instance?”

  Ike stopped whistling. “I’m taking a break. The pressure was getting to me.” He resumed his whistling. An old Dolly Parton hit: “I Will Always Love You.”

  Ben muttered under his breath and walked toward the park bench, Jerre following.

  “The man just doesn’t appreciate talent when he hears it,” Ike said.

  That was too good an opening for Dan to let slide by, since the two men were constantly putting the needle to one another. “Are you all through calling hogs, now?”

  Ike said some very uncomplimentary things about Dan while Tina and the mercenary stood laughing at the pained expression on Ike’s face and the smug look on Dan’s face.

  EIGHT

  “It’s been a long time, Ben.”

  “Just about a decade, Jerre.”

  They were sitting on the bench, a respectable distance between them.

  “That sounds like forever.”

  Ben offered no reply.

  “I’ve thought about you, Ben. Many times.”

  “I can truthfully say the same about you.” He wondered what her game plan was this time? He knew she had something up her sleeve. None of this was pure accident. He’d bet his boots on that.

  “You’re being very cautious, Ben.”

  “Let’s just say that I prefer not to unlock doors that have been closed for years.”

  “Can’t we at least be friends?”

  Ben had to laugh aloud. Same words, same music, same jukebox, different time.

  “What is your game this time, Jerre?”

  “That’s a pretty crappy thing to say, Ben. You were a grown man and I was in college . . . or had been. We had some good times. I didn’t exactly have to rape you, if you’ll recall.”

  True.

  “I never lied to you, Ben. And I never made any promises, either. Maybe things would have been different if you hadn’t showed up in the Tri-States with that woman . . .”

  Salina.

  “. . . The karma just wasn’t right for us earlier.”

  “Jerre . . . you wanna get off the East Indian mysticism crap?”

  “I seem to recall we talked along those lines.”

  “We talked about a lot of things . . . and sidestepped a lot more. Just about like what we’re doing here.”

  “You want to end this conversation, Ben?”

  “We might as well. It’s taking us nowhere, as usual.”

  “Tina is your adopted daughter, right?”

  “That’s right. Her brother was killed in the fighting out in the Tri-States. As was Salina.”

  She was silent for a time, then asked, “Did you love her, Ben?”

  “No. But we were comfortable together.”

  “Did you ever cheat on her?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a strange man, Ben Raines.”

  Ben stood up. Looked down at her. Beautiful. Still looked about nineteen. “I have a war to fight, Jerre. Correction — we have a war to fight. I wish I could say that I’m glad to see you. I’m not. I am glad that you’re alive — I think,” he added honestly. “Maybe I’ll see you around. Did you ever learn to cook?”

  She looked at him, blinked her blues, then laughed. “Oh, yes, Ben. I did that.”

  Ben nodded and walked away, waving for Jersey to follow. “I’ll see you later on, Tina.”

  Tina walked over to where Jerre was sitting on the bench. She looked like she might cloud up and rain at any moment. “Doesn’t appear to me that it was a very cheerful reunion, Jerre.”

  “Oh, jus
t like old times, Tina.” Jerre wiped her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One or the other turning their back and walking away.”

  Katzman leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. He pushed the stack of blowups of the city away from him and looked up at Ben. “I think you’re probably right, General. We probably are being monitored by these creeps. But which tower among half a thousand is picking up our signals? As far as that goes, General, they might be utilizing scanners; there might be one right across the damn street, for that matter. The building has only been cleared about halfway up.”

  Katzman leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  “What are you grinning about?” Ben asked.

  “Let them keep on monitoring, General. They won’t understand what’s going on.”

  “All right, Leo. End the suspense. Why won’t they know what’s going on?”

  His grin broadened. “Because I’ll bet you not a damn one of them speak or understand Yiddish.”

  When Ben stopped laughing, Leo pointed a finger at a young woman. “You. Beth. You’re the general’s personal radio operator. You stay with him and interpret for him.” He looked up at Ben. “That OK with you, General?”

  Ben shrugged. “Sure. I’m going to need someone. I damn sure don’t speak Yiddish!” He looked at Beth. Very, very nice. This was not going to be hard to take at all.

  Then Jerre entered his conscious mind and screwed it all up.

  The dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman picked up a backpack radio and buckled in, then picked up her CAR and waited for Ben.

  “I’ll find some more nice Jewish girls and boys and send them to your CP, General,” Katzman said with a grin. “Then we’ll have some fun with the night crawlers.”

  Ben motioned her on out and followed her, his eyes on her derriere. Nope, this was not going to be hard to take at all.

  Jerre’s blue eyes and smart-aleck smile bullied their way into his mind.

  “Leave me alone, damn it!” Ben muttered.

  Beth looked around. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing, Beth. Just muttering to myself. Watch me, though. If I start answering myself, we’re in trouble.”

  She laughed her reply and walked on.

  Ben checked in with his CP—located in the park — and found that West and Ike had wandered off somewhere. He did not spot Jerre and was thankful for that. Then he realized that he had heard no gunfire in half an hour or more, and that peaked his curiosity. Stepping out of his CP, he waved a Rebel over and asked him.

  “They seemed to have pulled back, General. The last several buildings we’ve entered show signs of a very hasty bug-out on their part.”

  “Curious. I wonder what they’re up to now?” He cut his eyes as a rusted old limousine turned the corner and stopped at the CP. Ben laughed and looked at the driver. “Where the hell did you find this old thing?”

  The driver laughed. “At a funeral home.” He indicated the half-dozen people inside the limo. “Katzman told me to bring these folks over. I’m rounding up another bunch later on. Ike and Cecil have several people with them who speak Yiddish. We’re going to have to transport some over to West.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Ben told him. “I’m pulling West around to South Street; his men will start working up and inward. Just bring the others here, please.”

  “Right, General.” He dropped the old limo in gear and went chugging and smoking off.

  Before the Rebels were through, every vehicle in the city would be torn down and every usable part tagged, catalogued and sent to a stockpile somewhere. The Rebels would leave nothing usable behind, from pins and needles to tractor trailer rigs. If it couldn’t be fixed on the spot, they towed it off to where it could be fixed. Name it, and the Rebels had it.

  At Base Camp One, and at other outposts Ben was setting up across America, factories and research labs were working around the clock, producing everything from clothing and medicines to better cows and hogs and seed grain.

  Ben had munitions factories and tire-recapping plants, producing oil and gasoline refineries, he had labs that worked on weapons of war and labs that worked to better what was left of humanity. His schools did what schools were supposed to do: they taught young minds. Rebel children had a book placed in their hands practically at the moment of birth. There was no illiteracy in any area controlled by the Rebels. Ben would not tolerate it. And Ben was keeping languages alive; it was not uncommon to see small children walking along chatting in French or German or Spanish or whatever.

  Ben had reopened several radio stations in outposts and at Base Camp One. He had ordered all TV equipment disassembled and stored. Those who knew Ben doubted the man would ever request that television be reintroduced to what remained of the population. If he did, those close to him knew that the format would be on the order of the old PBS. But that was years down the road — if ever.

  But for now, Ben and his troops were facing their greatest challenge, and no one was more aware of the risks involved in that gauntlet-throwing-down than Ben. If the gods of fate and chance and war did not smile upon them, the invasion of New York City might well destroy the Rebel army. But if the Rebels did not take that chance — and they were all aware of it — the Night People would slowly spread and finally devour the nation, literally.

  The hideousness had to be stopped. And there was no one around to do that except for Ben Raines and his Rebels.

  No one else.

  As Ben watched the translators being assigned to companies, he was reminded of Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.” His Rebels were facing no telling how many thousands of Night People within the city, but also a larger army then theirs bearing down on them from Canada.

  Ben Raines was a much-loved and respected man, but he was also a much-despised and feared man among the survivors who had banded together in hordes of outlaw gangs, roaming the country and the cities, raping and murdering and enslaving.

  If those gangs ever came together, under one leader? . . . Ben did not like to even consider that thought.

  And why had the Night People suddenly and silently pulled back?

  Another as yet unanswered question to worry and nibble at him.

  He turned his head as Beth began speaking very fast into her handset. Ben couldn’t understand a word of it. She ended the conversation and looked at him.

  “Katzman. Checking equipment.”

  Ben nodded, smiled. A germ of an idea had jumped into his head. “Tell him that I’m sending a five-person patrol up Broadway, all the way up to Trinity Church. But before you do that, let me get some spotters in position and we’ll see if the creeps understand Yiddish.”

  She grinned her understanding.

  Ben called a Rebel over and told her to get people in position as close to the hot areas as possible and what to look for. She took off at a run.

  When Ben had his spotters in place, he told Beth to get in touch with Katzman and to make sure he broadcast the message on several of their most-used frequencies.

  Ben and Beth, with the ever-present Jersey and the squad of Rebels Ike had saddled him with, began moving to a vantage point close to the hot area. His bodyguards didn’t like it, but Jersey told them they’d better get used to the idea if they were going to follow the general around.

  Ben had to smile at that. He heard running bootsteps behind and, yell to hold up. He turned. Ike and Dan and West.

  “I just got wind of your plan, Ben,” Ike told him, sliding to a halt. “Thought we’d tag along.” He was puffing from his run.

  Ben poked him in the belly with a fingertip. “You better start laying off the corn bread and black-eyed peas, Ike. You’re getting fat.”

  “Home cookin’, Ben,” he grinned. “You ought to try it.”

  Ben’s answer was a very thin smile. Ike realized that he’d hit a sore point and decided to very quickly change the subject. He fished in a pocket of his field jacket and pulled out a tattered book, turning it to
a marked page. “Anybody an Episcopal?” he asked, as the group made their way up the trash-filled sidewalk, walking toward Trinity Church. “That’s what this church is.” When nobody replied, he said, “Me, I was raised up a Southern Baptist. That means I can’t cuss or dance or take a drink or make love standing up.”

  Beth cut her eyes and stifled a laugh. “General Ike, that’s dumb! Why can’t you make love standing up — if you want to?” she added.

  “’Cause someone’s liable to see us and think we’re dancin’!” Ike laughed.

  Ben laughed and held up a hand. “This is as close as we’d better get, people.” They were at the corner of Broadway and Exchange. A bob truck had been driven up on the sidewalk, plowing into the building. The Rebels used that for concealment, some kneeling down, some crawling under the rusted old truck.

  Ben turned to Beth. “Have Katzman acknowledge that the advance team is now in position inside the church and explosives have been planted in buildings directly across the street.”

  Inside the gloomy and odious main HQ’s of the Night People, located in the old Columbia University complex, far north of the Rebels’ current position, radio operators were frantically trying to figure out what language was being aired.

  No one knew.

  “Get a Judge in here,” the request was shouted. “The Hated Ones are speaking in Russian or something.”

  “It isn’t Russian,” a Judge informed them, after listening to the radio chatter. “It’s the language of those damnable Jews. It’s Yiddish.”

  “Can you understand it?”

  “Nobody can understand that gutter garbage. God damn Ben Raines!”

  “Alexander Hamilton is buried over yonder,” Ike said, reading from his book. “I’ll be damned. Think about that, will you.”

  “Over where?” he was asked, the question coming from a Rebel under the bob truck.

  “Over there in the cemetery of Trinity Church. And Robert Fulton, too. You reckon that’s the same fellow who invented the steamboat, Ben?”