Valor in the Ashes
Page 31
Ben looked at him and smiled very faintly. “Well, Dan, I guess He heard one of us.”
TWENTY
No attack came. The Night People apparently were content to let the Rebels have free rein in the city while waiting for the arrival of Khamsin and the Ninth Order.
The Rebels made the most of their strangely unrestricted time in the city. They spread out all over New York City, setting up mini-bastions of defense, finding hidey-holes that led from one building to the other, caching supplies and ammo, working fast, preparing for the defensive fight they all knew they would be forced to wage. The reloading of empty brass went on around the clock.
The Rebels had captured several thousand of the enemy’s weapons — mostly AK’s — and thanks to Rebel ingenuity, they were turned into twin-mount machine guns: a little hard to handle but capable of spitting out a lot of lead.
And Ben finally met John Savie, the man who was afraid Ben was going to kill him.
Ben stood, looking at the small, frail, white-haired man, fear very evident in his eyes. Ben held out his hand and the man shrank back in fear.
“Mister Savie, you have nothing to fear from me. I’ve never met you; don’t know you. I don’t understand your fear.”
John Savie did not answer. He seemed too frightened to speak. Ben looked around the apartment, and knew where all the priceless paintings and other works of art had gone. The apartment, and the apartments of all the survivors, were filled with hundreds of paintings from the masters, busts and vases and rare books.
Kay Savie, Gene’s wife, brought them coffee, and Ben sat down on a leather couch. Kay sat down and said, “John was a book reviewer, General Raines.”
Ben blinked. If that statement was meant to explain it all, it went right past him. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
No one replied.
Ben sipped his coffee, really very good coffee, then started smiling. He placed the delicate china cup into the saucer and started laughing. “Did you review one of my books, John?”
“Yes,” the old man said, his voice no more than a whisper.
“And you didn’t like it?”
“No. I wrote that it was too violent. That it glorified war. That people would be putting their money to better use by giving it to a street person.”
Ben shrugged. “John, I never read reviews. I told my agent not to send them to me. Because I am, was, of the belief that anyone who would read or not read a book, or see a play or a movie, based solely on the opinion of one person probably isn’t too bright to start with. There is an old saying about the guilty fleeing before they are pursued. Well, you can stop fleeing. I never heard of you, Mister Savie.” Ben leaned over and patted the old man on the shoulder. “And that probably hurts you even more than if I’d hit you.”
Ben leaned back and rolled a cigarette. He really didn’t want one, but had noticed there were no ashtrays in the room.
“We don’t smoke in this apartment,” John said primly.
Ben fired up and puffed. He finished his coffee and then dropped the butt into the cup. He stood up and looked at the survivors. Kay was looking at the coffee cup as if Ben had stuck a big cow turd into it. “Nice meeting you folks. I think.”
He walked out of the apartment and down to the street. West was leaning against his Blazer, a smile on his lips.
“Nice folks, aren’t they, Ben?”
“Oh, just delightful. I get the impression they’re glad to see us but will be much happier when we’ve fought their battles for them and get gone.”
“Isn’t that the way it always is for soldiers?”
“So true, friend. So true.”
Special teams of Rebels worked long hours in the subways. Ben knew the night crawlers probably had thousands of holes they could pop in and out of, but he was going to make damn sure that 465 of those holes were closed.
His Rebels welded the steel doors closed, putting a bead around them that would take a bulldozer to break loose.
The Rebels studied maps of the city, committing as much of the city’s streets to memory as possible. Doing so might save their lives, and they knew it.
West sent a patrol over to the Columbia University complex and upon their return radioed an urgent request for Ben to come down.
West met him on the north side of the complex. “Empty, Ben. They’ve deserted it. Pulled out. But good God, that place stinks like nothing I have ever smelled in my life. I think we are alone above-ground.”
Ben stamped his boot on the street. “I’m not even sure they’re down there at this moment.”
“I wondered why you were holding back with the tear gas.”
“No point in wasting it. Is this place clear?”
“Some of it. I wouldn’t advise going in there.”
“Don’t worry. I can smell it from here.”
Beth touched his arm. “General? Katzman reports that Khamsin is about twenty-four hours away from the city.”
“Thank you, Beth. Order all personnel into position.” He looked at West. “We’ve done all that we can do to make ready.”
“Yes,” the mercenary replied. “Now it’s all up to God and guns.”
On the last day of their lull in battle, Ben toured the island of Manhattan, touching as many battle stations as possible.
“Ike.” He shook the man’s hand. “You all set to rock and roll?”
Ike grinned at him. “This old fat man’s ready to boogie-woogie, Ben.”
Ben laughed and slapped him on the back, moving on Danjou’s perimeter.
“Bonne chance, mon général!” The French Canadian said, shaking Ben’s hand.
Ben drove over to Cecil’s area and had a cup of coffee with his old friend.
“It’s eerie, Ben. I get the feeling that we’re alone in this city.”
“I know. But Katzman’s mikes are picking up a lot of scurrying sounds belowground. Scraping of metal against concrete and so forth. Unless the rats are building a city down there, the creepies are back.”
“When do we start pumping the gas in, Ben? Everything is in position and ready.”
“At dawn tomorrow we start flushing them. That will put Khamsin just outside the city but not yet in place to strike us. The creepies know we’ve been gearing up for a defensive action. I’ve been deliberately letting a few noncoded radio messages through saying we have decided against the use of chemicals. Hopefully, the uglies have taken the bait.”
Cecil smiled and stuck out his hand. Ben shook it. There was nothing left to say.
Ben met with Rebet. “The gas is ready to go, General.”
“Dawn tomorrow, Stefan.”
The Russian looked startled, then he smiled. “You deliberately let us all think it was noon today.” He chuckled.
“You ought to know by now I’m not to be trusted.”
The men shared a laugh and Ben moved on.
Ben drove up the east side and met with Tina.
“You think this is the war to end all wars, Dad?”
“Well, history states that was said back in 1917 and again in 1941. So I doubt it, girl. Get some rest and roll your people out, very quietly, at oh-four-hundred tomorrow. That’s when we start pumping the gas in.”
She kissed his cheek. “Luck to you, Pop.” Then she smiled strangely.
“Hang in, baby.”
He drove up to his own sector, meeting with Buddy, Dan, Striganov, and Thermopolis and Emil.
He explained his plans and Georgi chuckled. “I had a hunch you were dropping false clues, Ben. Think the creepies took the hook?”
“It looks that way. All we can do is hope.”
He shook hands all the way around and then went over to Chase’s field hospital.
The first person he saw reminded him of somebody. She turned around.
“What the hell are you doing here, Jerre?”
She held up her left hand. There was a tiny bandage on her little finger. “I cut my hand. Tina reassigned me back to Chase.” She smi
led very sweetly at him and batted her blues.
Ben shook his head and walked out of the hospital. “I’m cursed. That has to be it.”
Jerre followed him. “Aren’t you glad to see me, Ben?”
“Yes, Jerre. I’m glad to see you.”
“I knew you would be. Perhaps Chase will assign me to working in your office during my time of great discomfort?”
“I can hardly wait.”
He walked to his Blazer. “Move over, Cooper. I’m driving.”
“Oh, God!” Beth said.
“You give up that wheel, Cooper,” Jersey warned, “and I’ll shoot you!”
“Well, hell!” Ben said, but he was smiling. “I’ll walk!”
It was only two short blocks to his CP. As he walked, he looked toward the east. Khamsin was very near. The creepies were under his boots. “Come on, you sons of bitches. Tomorrow is going to be a good day to die!”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by William W. Johnstone
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-3062-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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