“What?” General Stevens said. “But how? His troops are thousands of miles from here, and on the other side of the SUSA from us. How in the hell can he hurt us?”
“The son of a bitch has got a new BW. A mutation of the plague he tried in Africa some years back.”
“But, Claire,” Millard said diffidently. “We knew that when we agreed to use him, and we’ve all been inoculated against his BWs.”
“Not this one, according to Raines,” she said, striding back and forth in front of her desk.
“Can we trust Raines?” Herb Knoff asked.
“Ben Raines is a lot of things,” Claire said, “a son of a bitch not the least, but he’s not a liar. If he says something, you can take it to the bank, even if you don’t much like him.”
“What about this so-called proof?” Stevens asked.
She pointed to the pile of papers and culture reports Ben had faxed her. “It’s all in there. I want you to get it to our medical people immediately.”
“What does Raines suggest we do about it, and what does he want?” Stevens asked.
“For us to pull back our troops from the borders with the SUSA. And for that, he’ll give us the formula for the vaccine and some samples until we can get our own made.”
“But if we pull back, that’ll give Raines room to invade us,” Stevens said.
Harlan Millard glanced at the general. “Raines would never invade, not unless we attacked first,” he said. “It would go against everything the man stands for.”
“What do you mean?” Stevens asked, unbelieving.
“The main tenet of Raines’s entire philosophy is that man is accountable only to himself, and responsible for his own actions. The SUSA itself is built upon that fact, so they would never, ever try and force people to live under their rules. Hell, even when he’s defeated us in the past, he’s always allowed the prisoners he’s taken to return here if they wanted to, and he’s never taken any additional land from his original borders. He is, at heart, an isolationist.”
“Harlan’s right, Brad,” Claire said. “The only thing we lose by pulling back is the advantage we’re giving Perro Loco and Bruno Bottger by dividing Raines’s troops and his attention.”
“But . . .” Stevens began as Claire held up her hand.
“No, General, listen to me. Loco and Bottger are on the very steps of Mexico City, so even if Raines wanted to, he couldn’t stop them from taking the country. Therefore, our ruse has served its purpose and we now have two powers right on the SUSA’s back door. Once Loco and Bottger fight it out over who’s going to control Mexico, we’ll be able at some point to deal with the victor and can, if we then wish, resume our hostilities with Raines and the SUSA. But until we have protection against this BW of Bottger’s, we need to play it cool.”
“So, what happens after we get the vaccine?” Millard asked.
Claire smiled evilly. “For one thing, we’ll only give the vaccine to those people loyal to my command, and to the most productive citizens. If Bottger does end up using the BW, it will give us a way to cut some of the deadwood out of our system, like all the bastards on welfare who refuse to work to help the country.”
Millard’s face blanched. “Claire, I can’t believe you are just going to sit by while thousands, perhaps millions of your citizens die a horrible death.”
“Believe it, Harlan. Face facts. This country’s almost broke. We can no longer afford to support the idle, those who won’t help themselves. There just isn’t enough to go around.”
“I won’t be a party to this genocide!” Millard said heatedly.
Claire gave him a cool look. “All right, Harlan. If you feel so strongly about it, you can give your vaccine to one of the needy you’re so concerned about.”
Harlan sat back down, his face ashen.
Claire grinned. “I didn’t think so.”
Stevens cleared his throat. “By the way, Claire, are you going to contact Perro Loco and tell him of Bottger’s possible double cross?”
She considered this as she walked around to sit behind her desk.
Finally, after a few moments, she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Brad.”
“Why not?” Herb asked. “After all, if Bottger does use this plague bacteria, Loco’s troops won’t be immune any more than we or the SUSA would be. He and his men will be totally wiped out when the sickness spreads.”
“You’re assuming Loco knows nothing of this, Herb. How do we know that?” Claire asked. “What if Loco and Bottger are in this together, and have made some arrangement behind my back to divide up the North American continent after we’re all dead or dying?
“If I approach Loco, and he is in on the plan, it will tip Bottger off that we’re on to him. No, I think it best to get the vaccine from Raines and sit back and see what happens.”
THIRTY-ONE
About the time Herman Bundt’s mercenary forces in Las Truchas, a coastal town 250 miles west of Mexico City, were being resupplied and reinforced with additional troops by freighter, and Perro Loco’s forces were pounding the Mexican Army’s defenses into rubble to the south, El Presidente Eduardo Pena told the leader of his Army, General Jose Guerra, to contact Ben Raines and see if the SUSA might after all be able to send some troops to help protect Mexico City and his government.
Guerra felt like pulling the Colt .45 automatic pistol from his holster and shooting his leader between the eyes, but that would leave only himself to take the blame for losing Mexico to these rebels. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to explain the facts of life to the imbecile leading his country.
“But, El Presidente,” Guerra said, as patiently as he could, “the German mercenary troops are at Las Truchas to our west, and Perro Loco’s army has just taken Puebla to the south and Veracruz to the east. It is much too late for anyone short of God to do anything to save Mexico City.”
The president leaned over his desk and picked up the phone. “Get me Ben Raines immediately,” he ordered, staring at Guerra as if he didn’t know what he was talking about.
“We will see, General,” Pena said while waiting to be connected to the leader of the SUSA’s Army. “Mexico is much too important for Raines to let it fall into the hands of Loco and his ally, President Osterman. You will see, he will move heaven and earth to save us.”
The phone buzzed and Pena switched on the speaker. “General Raines, this is Presidente Eduardo Pena of Mexico.”
“Hello, Presidente Pena. How are you?” Raines asked, his voice casual, as if he received calls from heads of state all the rime.
“At the present, General Raines, I am not so well. The rebel forces are knocking at the doorstep of Mexico City, and I am now ready to accept the help you so generously offered last week.”
There was an audible sigh over the speaker. “I am sorry you waited so long, presidente,” Raines said. “But our intel says the rebels are less than an hour away from taking your city. There is nothing I can do for you now. If you had taken my offer in a timely manner, perhaps we could have avoided this terrible outcome.”
“But . . . but you must! I command it!” the president shouted.
“Sorry, Eduardo, better luck next time,” Raines said, his voice heavy with irony as he hung up the phone.
As Pena glanced across the room at Guerra, the sound of helicopters came through the palace windows, followed by the raucous roar of machine-guns strafing his troops in the square below.
Pena stepped toward the window, then ducked as a couple of Kiowa helicopters buzzed the building, missing it by only yards as they flew past.
“Damn it, Guerra, do something!” Pena ordered, pointing his hand at his general, sweat forming on his brow and darkening his splendid uniform under the armpits and across the back.
Guerra smiled sadly. “As Raines said, it is much too late.” He started for the door, then called back over his shoulder, “You’ve killed us, you fool.”
A tremendous explosion sounded just outside the window, and the
wall of the presidential suite fell in, showering both men with stucco and plaster as they dove to the floor, bullets stitching a path yards from them.
“General Guerra,” Pena called from his position on the floor under his desk. “What am I to do?”
Guerra looked up as he dusted plaster of pans and wooden splinters off his uniform coat. “I suspect you’ll die very shortly, presidente, unless you’re very lucky.”
Mexican Army jeeps, of World War II vintage, pulled up in front of the palace. All of them had twenty-caliber machine guns on posts behind the drivers, and Guerra’s troops tried in vain to shoot down the swooping, diving killing machines that were the Kiowas attacking them. Two squads of infantry spread out in a line in front of the palace door, taking shelter behind the balustrade and firing over the walls at Perro Loco’s troops, who were swarming up the manicured lawn of the palace grounds like ants from a disturbed bed.
Two of the jeeps in the courtyard exploded, jumping into the air under the impact of the antitank rockets the Kiowas carried. The drivers and machine-gunners’ bodies were torn apart and scattered over the white-hot cement of the yard like broken rag dolls as mangled parts of the jeeps rained down upon them.
Guerra ran from the building, shooting into the air with his .45, and jumped into the third jeep, shouting at the driver to take off.
“What about El Presidente?” the man asked as he pressed the starter button and pumped the accelerator pedal furiously.
“Fuck the president! Go!” Guerra screamed, snapping off shots from his pistol until the slide locked open signaling the magazine was empty.
The driver spun the wheels and took off, just as the cement where they’d been erupted under the onslaught of 20mm Minigun fire and a helicopter roared by overhead, banking heavily into the midday sun.
Taking the corner on two wheels, the driver of the jeep carrying General Guerra managed to get under the cover of the fifty-foot-tall stately palms ringing the drive to the palace courtyard, bullets from Perro Loco’s troops pinging the metal fenders of the jeep, but miraculously missing the occupants.
Once it was away from the building, the choppers seemed to ignore the jeep, and concentrated on the soldiers still trying to protect the palace. They dove and swooped, pumping thousands of rounds of machine-gun fire into the porch, ripping soldiers to pieces and cratering the front of the building with hundreds of pockmarks in the stuccoed walls.
As Guerra’s jeep turned a final corner down the main boulevard, he glanced back to see several Chinook helicopters land in the palace courtyard and disgorge hundreds of mercenaries, who swarmed the palace like ants at a picnic, killing the last of the remaining defenders, even though many of them had their hands in the air trying to surrender.
In the distance, tanks and half-tracks containing more of Perro Loco’s troops could be seen churning up the concrete of the main streets leading toward the palace, facing only token resistance from the Mexican Army, which by now was in full retreat.
The German mercenaries were congregating on the other side of the palace, some on foot and others riding in HumVees and half-track personnel carriers. All were waving their rifles and machine-guns in the air and shouting in victory.
“Where to now, General?” the driver asked, his eyes wide with fright as he negotiated the narrow roads leading away from the palace and out of town.
“Drive north, Jose,” Guerra said. “If we can make the Navy base at Tampico, perhaps there is still a chance for me to convince Raines to help us. Meanwhile,” he said, as he picked up the microphone from the radio under the jeep’s dashboard, “I’ll have what’s left of the Army pull back to the north of the city, and we’ll arrange to rendezvous near the Army base at Durango with as many troops as can get there.”
“Do you think there’s still a chance Mexico can be saved?” Jose asked.
Guerra glanced at him, wondering whether he should tell him the truth or give him false hope.
“There is always a chance, Jose. As they say in America, the opera’s not over until the fat lady sings.”
Jose, clearly not familiar either with the saying or with opera, wrinkled his forehead but continued staring straight ahead, and didn’t ask any more stupid questions.
By suppertime, most of the dead and wounded soldiers had been carted away, to be placed in mass graves dug by bulldozers. The wounded were thrown in the pits along with those already dead. Both Bottger and Loco said they had neither the tune nor the inclination to care for wounded men who’d fought against them.
The soldiers of both Loco’s and Bottger’s armies were sent out into the city to make sure there were no surviving soldiers to act as snipers or commit sabotage. The soldiers relieved the stress of their latest battle by raping and pillaging the city, killing almost as many innocent citizens as they had soldiers in the battle.
Meanwhile, Bruno Bottger and Perro Loco, along with their lieutenants—Jim Strunk, Paco Valdez, Rudolf Hessner, Herman Bundt, and Sergei Bergman—gathered in the presidential dining room to be served a dinner that had already been prepared for El Presidente Pena.
Eduardo Pena’s cries could be heard through the open window. When he’d tried to give himself up to the invading soldiers, they’d taken him out into the courtyard, stripped his elaborate uniform off, and hung his naked body upside down by his feet.
Both Bottger and Loco had smiled their approval of his status when they marched side by side into the Presidential Palace just before sundown.
While they ate dinner, Bottger and Loco discussed how they each planned to proceed next.
“I see no reason to change our tactics, since they have been so successful so far,” Loco said, spearing a piece of prime beef on his fork and transferring it to his mouth.
Bottger, who’d elected to eat beef enchiladas smothered in salsa and cheese, wiped his mouth and took a deep drink of his wine before replying.
“I agree, Loco,” he said amicably. “I will have my troops move up the western coast toward the coastal city of Mazatlan and then, once we’ve established a beachhead there, inland toward Durango. From either of those two locations, we will be within air-strike range of the southern border of the SUSA.”
“Excellent, Field Marshal,” Loco said. “And I will position my army on the eastern border up the coast toward Tampico and eventually to Monterrey. That way we can form a pincer movement against Texas and the lower borders of the SUSA that will make Raines divide his troops to resist us.”
Bottger nodded. “And if President Osterman fulfills her side of our bargain, Herr Raines will be kept very busy indeed defending his pitiful country.”
Loco picked up his brandy glass and clinked it against Bottger’s wineglass in a toast to their mutual success.
Later, in his personal quarters, Bottger addressed Bergman and Bundt. “I think as soon as we’ve taken Mazatlan, we can start our bombardment with the anthrax plague.”
“Do you think our helicopters and airplanes will be able to deliver the bombs against the SUSA,” Sergei Bergman asked as Rudolf Hessner prepared the field marshal’s bed. “After all, I’ve heard the SUSA has excellent air-defense measures.”
Bottger shrugged. “Whether or not the planes survive the attack is immaterial. The bombs will be on board, and the scientists have designed them so that even if the aircraft are shot down, the bacteria will still spread. Within a matter of two weeks, the SUSA will be devastated by the effects of mass sickness and death. If we’re lucky, the soldiers of Ben Raines will begin to die like flies.”
“What about the soldiers of Perro Loco, Field Marshal?” Herman Bundt asked. “Won’t they also begin to be affected by the plague?”
Bottger smiled as he rubbed into his scarred face a special cream that the doctors had prepared to keep the skin soft. “Of course, Herman, that is the idea. Soon, the only army not wiped out by anthrax will be under my command. A situation I have dreamed of for the past ten years.”
In Loco’s quarters, Loco was also discussi
ng details of the upcoming campaign with Paco Valdez and Jim Strunk.
“I thought once we took Mexico City, you were going to let me kill that Kraut bastard,” Jim Strunk said.
Loco held up his hand. “Don’t be too anxious, Jim. There will be plenty of time and opportunities to dispatch our friend after he has outlived his usefulness to us. Once we are within striking distance of the SUSA, I will give the order and the field marshal will suffer a fatal dose of food poisoning, leaving me in command of his troops.”
“What about his associates?” Valdez asked.
Loco shrugged. “Once their leader is dead, they can either go along with the program or they can die. What do you think they will decide to do?”
“And his troops?” Strunk asked.
“They are mercenaries,” Loco said, stretching and yawning as he prepared for bed. “They will fight for whoever has the money to pay them to fight.”
“He’s right, Jim,” Valdez said. “Mercenaries’ only loyalty is to their paycheck.”
“I hope you are right, Loco,” Strunk said. “Because I’m getting awfully tired of that strutting peacock of a German.”
“Be patient, Jim, your time will come soon enough,” Loco said.
THIRTY-TWO
While Dr. Buck sent teams of medics to all of the various battalions scattered around the SUSA to make sure all of the troops received the new anti-BW vaccine, Ben gathered his team in his office.
Harley Reno, Hammer Hammerick, Coop and Jersey, fully recovered now, and Anna, Beth, and Corrie all waited to see what Ben had in mind for them in the upcoming battle with Bottger and Loco’s troops.
“Get your gear packed, guys, we’re heading south,” Ben said without preamble.
“By we, you mean you’re going with us, sir?” Harley asked.
“Yes. I’ve just gotten off the phone with General Guerra from Mexico. He and several battalions of Mexican Army troops have retreated after the fall of Mexico City to Durango and the Navy base at Tampico.”
Warriors from the Ashes Page 21
