“What are you saying, Ben?” she asked, sitting up straight in bed and shoving the covers aside. “Are you trying to threaten me?”
“Not trying, sweetie, I’m promising you that if you continue with this ill-advised course of action, it will be you who pays the ultimate price, not just your troops.”
“Listen, you son of a bitch, I’m not in the least afraid of you or what you think you can do,” she shouted.
“You should be, Claire, you should be very afraid. Look out your window, if you think I’m blowing smoke,” Ben said, and then he hung up, the click loud in Claire’s ear.
She slammed the phone down, shaking from anger. She looked at Herb, lying next to her, a puzzled look on his face, trying to understand what had just been said.
She lay back on her pillows and stretched her hand out to rub the hair on his chest. “Now, where were we, darling?”
As Herb grinned and rolled over to snuggle up against her, the entire room shook from an explosion that must have been directly overhead.
Plaster fell from the ceiling and sprinkled down on the bed as if it were snowing inside the room, while another deep booming vibrated the bed, knocking her phone off the bedside table and breaking the lamp.
“Shit!” she hollered, and scrambled from the bed, grabbing a nightgown from the chair and running to her door.
General Bradley Stevens, whose room was just down the hall of the underground bunker, appeared in the hallway, his hair tousled as if he’d just woken up.
“What the hell . . .” he said, looking around him in disbelief as pieces of the walls disintegrated and began to tumble to the floor.
“Get on the phone and find out what the hell is happening!” Claire screamed at him, forgetting her nightgown was unfastened and her breasts exposed.
Stevens glanced at her, then quickly turned away as he hurried down the hall to the guard’s desk at the end of the corridor.
He grabbed the phone and dialed a series of numbers, having to yell into the phone to make himself heard over the rat-a-tat of heavy machine-gun fire coming from above.
After a second, he yelled at her, “Get back in your room and lock your door . . . we’re under attack!”
He threw the phone down and ran up the stairs to the first floor, and burst out the fortified steel door onto the grass outside the building.
He ducked as what looked like a Warthog dived directly at him, spraying the ground with 30mm cannon fire, which danced a trail of death four feet to his left and shattered the walls next to him. Though the walls were made of three feet of reinforced concrete over stainless steel, the armor-piercing shells tipped with depleted uranium went though them like grain through a goose.
Stevens dove to the ground and covered his head with his hands. He peeked out from under his arms to look at the nearest hangar, where several men were trying to get fighter planes launched.
He was just in time to see an F-111 Aardvark follow the Warthog in a steep dive at over six hundred miles an hour. As the Aardvark pulled up, twin rockets loosed themselves from its wings and arrowed down at the fighter planes, still on the ground.
The missiles exploded, blowing both planes and a dozen men into tiny bits, and sent a fireball three hundred feet into the air.
Stevens rolled to the side and caught sight of an ancient Huey helicopter hovering near a distant hangar, pouring fifty-caliber rounds into the motor pool vehicles. A HumVee, with the general’s flag on its fenders, exploded and jumped into the air as if it’d been kicked. The fireball from the HumVee incinerated six men nearby and set three other vehicles on fire.
Stevens laid his head on his arms, wishing Claire Osterman could witness the damage a fifty-year-old machine could do.
Two minutes later, the attackers were gone, as if they’d never existed, leaving behind them a base in utter rums. Buildings were shattered and caved in, planes and wreckage were burning, sirens wailing, men screaming and groaning in pain, and all was mass confusion.
Stevens jumped to his feet and began to run across the tarmac, yelling at soldiers to get some planes airborne to chase the bastards who’d done this to his base.
It took another fifteen minutes to scramble anything, as burning wreckage had to be moved and fires put out before other planes could be fueled.
By the time they were in the air, Stevens was in the control tower, bending over a radarscope, yelling at the airman there to find out where the attackers had gone.
The young man glanced up, fear in his face. “I don’t know, sir. They came in under the radar and left the same way. Nothing ever showed up on my scope at all.”
“That’s impossible!” Stevens screamed, already wondering how he was ever going to explain this to Osterman.
“What do I tell the pursuit planes, General?” the tower controlman asked, holding a mike in his hand.
“Tell ’em they’d better damned well find something to shoot at or not to bother coming back!” he yelled, making the man cringe back as if he were about to be hit.
He bent over his mike. “Tower to Eagle One, Two, and Three, quarter the skies and search for bogeys. Repeat, search for bogeys until you find something,” he repeated, looking over his shoulder at Stevens.
TWENTY-SIX
Bruno Bottger stood on the prow of the first of three large transport ships as they sailed into the harbor at Pariso. In the ships with him were twenty thousand battle-hardened mercenaries along with various and sundry equipment they would need on the campaign to take first Mexico City, then to invade and eventually conquer the SUSA and Ben Raines’s Rebel forces.
Perro Loco, Paco Valdez, and Jim Strunk were on the dock to welcome him.
“Look at him, riding the front of the ship like some conquering hero,” Valdez sneered to Loco. “I think he is one we’re going to have to watch very carefully, comandante,” he said.
“I agree, sir,” Strunk added. “He is used to commanding, and I do not believe he will take kindly to playing second fiddle to anyone.”
Loco dismissed their warnings with a wave of his hand. “Do not worry. I am not underestimating the difficulty of sharing a command with such a person.” He grinned as the gangplank of Bottger’s ship was lowered to the dock. “As the old saying goes, ‘when you grab a tiger by the tail, it is most important not to let go, lest you be eaten.’”
“So, you plan to ‘share’ command with this German bigot?” Valdez asked.
“I think it would be wise to let him think so,” Loco said. “I will do as General Eisenhower did in the Second World War with the British General Montgomery, who was at least as big an egomaniac as this Bottger is reputed to be. I will give him command of his troops on the western borders of Mexico, at least until we reach and take Mexico City.” He shrugged. “After that, it may well be time to see if an unfortunate accident cannot be arranged for Herr Bottger.”
Strunk grinned, his fingers caressing the hilt of his commando knife in its scabbard on his belt. “I can hardly wait, comandante.”
Bottger strolled up the dock, looking around as if he owned the world, followed closely by his second in command, Sergei Bergman, who was talking earnestly in his ear.
At the end of the pier, Loco approached him.
Bottger gave a quick nod of his head and stuck out his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face, Señor Loco.”
“Likewise, Herr Bottger,” Loco said, smiling widely and taking the hand.
Loco had to fight the urge to stare at the mass of scar tissue that covered Bottger’s face and head. It was as if the man were wearing a rubber mask that hardly moved as he spoke, the tissue slick and shiny in the Mexican sun.
Bottger, who was used to such a reaction, briefly fingered the scars. “I see you have noticed the gift Ben Raines gave me on our last encounter. As you might well imagine, I have much to repay him for.”
Loco cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from the horror that was Bottger’s face. “Come, Herr Bottger. I have a meal re
ady for us at my headquarters, and have prepared a suite of rooms that you may use to freshen up from your sea voyage.”
“Thank you. That would be appreciated.”
Later, in the dining room of the officers’ quarters Loco used as his command center, they feasted on the finest Mexican cuisine. Loco had searched for and found several cases of German wine that he’d heard Bottger preferred.
Bottger kept the talk general and light until the meal was finished and they’d repaired to Loco’s office for brandy and cigars.
As Bottger inhaled deeply of the Cohiba Especiale and sipped the Napoleon brandy, his eyes never left Loco’s.
“Tell me, Loco, how do you envision the separation of duties of our collaboration to proceed?”
Loco smiled and leaned forward in his leather armchair. “I think the most efficient way for us to divide the duties is for you to command your mercenaries and for me to command my troops. That way there is no overlap of responsibilities.”
“And the deployment of the soldiers will be under whose orders?”
Loco leaned back, waving his cigar in the air to dispel some of the smoke that was rapidly filling the air in the room with a blue cloud.
“Since I have some experience with the situation here in Mexico, I would hope that you would not mind some suggestions from me and my staff as to the most efficient way to maximize the troops under your command.” He hesitated. “In other words, we will discuss the situations as they change day to day, and come to an agreement about the disposition of the various men and matériel under our joint command.”
Bottger leaned his head back and gave a hearty laugh. “A very diplomatic way to put it, Loco,” he said, grinning.
Loco returned the smile. “Of course, with both of us being very experienced in conducting warfare, I would hope that we will agree on what needs to be done the majority of the time.”
Bottger nodded. “I can see that this will be an entertaining experience, having someone of your caliber to exchange ideas with.” He glanced at Sergei Bergman. “My aide, Sergei, tells me you’ve already given him the authority to run his campaign along the western border, in the mountainous region along the coast.”
“That’s correct. Since his troops were much more experienced in guerrilla-type warfare, I thought they would do best in the less populated areas, while my more conventional troops could best serve by moving up the center of the country where most of the Mexican Army is concentrated.”
Bottger took another drag of his cigar. “Very wise, Loco. I would have done the same thing in your place.”
Loco raised his brandy snifter. “Then we are in agreement on how to proceed?”
Bottger mimicked his toast. “Certainly, Loco. After all, we both want the same thing, do we not? The complete and utter destruction of Ben Raines and his accursed SUSA.”
The ship carrying Harley Reno’s team pulled into the harbor at New Orleans. The members boarded a waiting Osprey and were flown to Base Camp One, where Ben Raines was waiting to meet them.
Jersey and Coop were taken to the state-of-the-art medical lab facilities by Dr. Buck, while Harley and Hammer and the others met with Ben in his office.
“Then I take it Jersey and Coop are completely out of danger?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sir,” Harley replied. “Dr. Buck says they’re both gonna have to take it easy for a while, especially Jersey, but that they shouldn’t have any permanent disability from the infection.”
“Good,” Ben said. “Dr. Buck informs me this bug is a mutated form of the type used by Bruno Bottger several years ago here and in Africa.”
“That’s what he believes.”
Ben shook his head. “Then I guess there’s little doubt that it’s Bottger who’s behind the mercs in South America.”
Harley nodded. “It certainly fits with the evidence.”
“It seems Claire Osterman has made a bargain with not one, but two devils, Perro Loco and Bruno Bottger.”
“They’re gonna be a tough team to beat, especially if they establish a strong foothold in Mexico City,” Hammer said.
“I don’t see any way to prevent that,” Ben said, “short of our precipitating an international incident by invading Mexico ourselves.”
“Then the Mexican president is still refusing to accept our help?” Harley asked.
“Yes. The idiot thinks his troops can hold off both Loco’s army and Bottger’s mercenaries.”
“He’s a fool then,” Hammer said.
“Yeah, it looks like the Americans in the U.S. aren’t the only ones to elect an imbecile for a leader.”
“If you can call Mexican elections the voice of the people, as corrupt as they are,” Anna said.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. We’ve got problems of our own. Osterman’s troops are pushing us along all of our northern borders, so we’re going to have plenty to do just to keep the wolves from our own doors without worrying too much about saving Mexico’s bacon.”
“What can we do?” Harley asked.
“I’ve divided our battalions up among the various states of the SUSA; Texas, Louisiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Virginia, and North and South Carolina. In addition, I’ve sent Jackie Malone with a squad of the best of our scouts to parachute in and harass Osterman at every opportunity in her own backyard.”
Harley glanced at Hammer and smiled. They’d both served under Jackie in the past, and had the utmost respect for her abilities to cause problems for those she opposed. “I’ll bet Osterman is shitting bricks,” Harley said.
Ben laughed. “I suppose so. Jackie took over an Air National Guard base in Peoria and attacked Sugar Babe’s home base last night, inflicting fairly severe damage.”
“You go, girl,” Beth whispered, a wide grin on her face.
“I’ve already heard that Osterman had the gall to complain about an unwarranted attack by our forces to the United Nations this morning.”
“She’s got some balls,” Harley said, reluctant admiration in his voice.
“And then some,” Ben agreed. “Jean-Francois Chapelle, Secretary General of the U.N., called Cecil Jeffreys and asked him what was going on.”
“What’d Cec tell him?” Anna asked.
“Cec said he had no idea who had attacked Osterman, but that it might have been dissidents in her own Army, since the planes involved were hers.”
“Did Chapelle buy that cock-and-bull story?” Hammer asked.
“Not for a minute, but he couldn’t do much since Claire had no proof we were involved. And when Cec asked him to look into the provocative troop movements of Osterman’s, he said he’d take it under advisement.”
“So, as usual, the UN is useless as teats on a boar hog?” Harley asked.
“Right,” Ben answered. “They won’t get involved unless some Third World country goes crying to them, which isn’t going to happen any time soon. The UN. looks upon this as just another squabble to stay out of, letting us settle it between ourselves.”
“You know, Ben, they might act differently if we tell them about this plague Bottger is going to try and unleash on the world. If it gets out of hand, it may affect many more nations that just ours,” Anna said.
“That’s a thought,” Ben said. “I’ll pass it along to Cec and let him run with it, though I doubt it’ll do any good. The U.N. is so used to burying its head in the sand, I don’t think anything will convince them to take a stand, until it’s all over.”
“And what about us?” Harley asked.
“I want you to rest up for a few days, get a little R and R, and be ready to ship out next week.”
“Where to?” Hammer asked.
“I thought a little trip down Mexico way might be good for you, since you’re already acclimated to the climate by your stay in South America.”
“Mexico? But I thought the president didn’t want us down there,” Harley said.
“He doesn’t, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him
, will it?” Ben said with a grin.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Comandante Perro Loco was sitting at his breakfast table, remembering the beginnings of the war for Mexico, when Ben Raines had interfered and dashed his hopes for a quick, decisive victory just a few months ago, as he studied old field reports from his spies and commanders north of the Mexican border.
Field Marshal Bruno Bottger walked in, followed by his second in command, Sergei Bergman.
“Good morning, comandante,” Bottger said, evidently in a better mood this morning after a full night’s sleep.
“Buenos dias, Field Marshal,” Loco replied, straightening the papers on the table next to his plate of scrambled eggs covered with hot sauce.
Bottger and Bergman took their seats and gave orders to the Mexican waiter to bring them whatever the comandante was having, along with a pot of coffee.
Then Bottger spied the papers in front of Loco. “What are you reading, Loco? Field reports?” he asked.
Loco shook his head. “No, I am just reviewing what information I have about Ben Raines and his form of government. I believe, like Cicero of the Roman Republic, to win at war, one must first know one’s enemies as well as one’s allies.”
Bottger smiled, nodding. “What have you found out about Raines?”
“I have just been reading from transcripts given to one of my spies by a newspaper reporter from New York.” He passed the paper across the table to Bottger, who began to read it. The report by Robert Barnes, war correspondent for the United Press, read as follows:
“As North America began to slowly pull itself out of the greatest economic and social collapse in world history, Ben Raines found himself to be the most hated man in all of America. That really didn’t come as any surprise to Ben, for right after the collapse, Ben had gathered together a small group called the Rebels—a mixture of political/militia/survivalist-oriented men and women—and told them, ‘We’re going to rebuild. Against all odds, we’re going to carve out our own nation. And we’re going to be hated for our success.’
Warriors from the Ashes Page 18
