William W Johnstone - Ashes 32 - Destiny in the Ashes (txt)

DESTINY THE ASHES

johnstone

1

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6 Destiny

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where destiny with Men for

Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by

one back in the Closet lays.

-Edward FitzGerald

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

7 One

Ben Raines sat at his desk, drinking his third cup of coffee of the

morning, as his team members filed into his office. He'd called a staff

meeting to discuss the latest intel on recent happenings in the USA.

Mike Post, his XO and Chief of Intel, took his customary seat next to

Ben's desk, while Buddy Raines, Ben's son and heir to his command, sat

on his left.

Cooper, known as Coop, was the next to enter, followed closely by

Jersey, Ben's bodyguard. Coop had his left arm in a sling, courtesy of

the final shoot-out in Mexico City a few months before.

The rest of Ben's team filed in and took seats around the large office,

sprawling in comfortable chairs and sofas in no particular order.

After they were seated, Ben glanced at Coop's arm, then at Dr. Larry

Buck, who'd taken over the previous year for Dr. Lamar Chase.

"Buck," Ben said, a wry smile on his lips, "how's Coop's arm coming along?"

Buck looked over at Coop and shook his head. "I can't understand it,

Ben. All of the tests show the arm to be completely healed, but Coop

still complains of stiffness and pain."

"Coop?" Ben asked, his eyebrows raised.

Coop assumed a pained look on his face. "I don't know,

8

Ben," he said, moving the arm around in his sling. "It just doesn't feel

right yet."

"Hah!" Jersey exclaimed, a look of derision on her face. "Coop's just

playing it up to the hilt, Ben. He knows you've ordered us all to

undergo extensive training exercises to keep in shape between

hostilities, and he's using that old wound as an excuse not to run the

obstacle course."

"I think a little refresher course in hand-to-hand combat might be just

the thing to get the stiffness outta that arm," Harley Reno said,

smiling at Coop.

"Aw, Ben," Coop complained, looking injured. "They're not being fair. I

think it just needs a little more physical therapy and it'll be good as

new."

Jersey's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you call it?" she asked. "Having

that big, buxom Swedish nurse over at sick call rub around on you all day?"

"It is therapy," Coop said, glaring at Jersey. "Just ask Dr. Buck."

Buck shook his head, grinning. "I guess you could call it therapy, after

a fashion," he said, "though Helga tells me the arm seems pretty strong

to her, especially when she's trying to keep it away from various parts

of her body."

"That settles it then," Ben said, laughing. "The sling comes off and

Coop will take the physical training with the rest of the squad from now

on."

Coop shook his head. "Traitors," he mumbled, removing the sling and

stretching his arm, as if in pain.

"Now, Mike," Ben said to Mike Post. "Tell us about the latest intel from

the USA."

Mike took his pipe from his mouth, tamped the tobacco a little with his

index finger, then snapped a Zippo lighter and fired the pipe up.

As clouds of cherry-scented tobacco wafted upwards, he began to talk.

"So far, President Claire Osterman has been too busy trying to

rehabilitate her country to get into any more mischief. The plague

organisms she unleashed in con-

9

cert with Bottger and Perro Loco last year have caused quite a bit of

illness in the states bordering the SUSA."

Ben glanced at the doctor. "Buck, have we sent her an ample supply of

medicines and vaccines to help stamp out the epidemic?"

Buck nodded. "Yes, sir, as well as a couple of hundred corpsmen and

medical team members to help with the treatment protocols."

"Anything else going on up there we ought to know about?" Ben asked Mike.

Mike shrugged. "Just the usual aftermath of another unsuccessful attempt

to take us over," he answered. "Claire has made a major change in her

command structure, getting rid of General Stevens and replacing him with

a General Maxwell Goddard."

"What do we know about this Goddard?"

"Pretty reasonable sort of fellow from what my men on the inside tell

me. Not at all the usual 'yes-ma'am' type Claire usually assigns."

"You don't mean to tell us he actually tells her the truth about her

hare-brained schemes to take out Ben Raines?" Jersey asked, a look of

incredulity on her face.

Mike laughed. "I wouldn't go that far, Jersey, but he seems to give her

fairly good advice. At least he has so far."

"Is there any report of widespread unrest among the citizens?" Harley

asked. "I would think after all Claire's failures and what it's cost the

country, the common people would be standing in line to get rid of her."

Ben laughed out loud. "You underestimate the greed of what is laughingly

called a citizen of the USA nowadays," he said. "As long as Claire keeps

the welfare state pouring money out to the scum who never think they

ought to have to work to earn it, the bums will keep her in office over

the objections of the masses who pay taxes."

Mike nodded. "That's about the size of it, Harley. So far,

10

there've been some scattered pockets of rebellion, but nothing so big

Claire's Army couldn't handle it."

"Damn shame," Harley said.

"Oh, I don't know," Anna, Ben's adopted daughter, chimed in, glancing at

Harley, whom she adored, sitting next to her. "At least with Claire, we

know what we have... an idiot who couldn't plan a major war if her life

depended on it." She shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows? The person who

replaced her might even give us more trouble than Claire has."

Ben smiled. "Anna's right. Claire's been a huge pain in the neck, but

she's also been so incompetent that each time she's moved against us,

we've come out on top."

"At the cost of thousands of lives," Dr. Buck said.

"Thankfully, more thousands of USA lives than SUSA lives," Hammer

Hammerlick reminded the doctor.

"So, to sum up, nothing north of our borders to worry about?" Ben asked

Mike.

"Not from the USA, but there are some happenings across the ocean I've

been monitoring rather closely.

"What in particular?" Ben asked.

"The situation in Iraq is becoming increasingly unstable," Mike said,

pulling a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and adding a pinch of brown

leaf to his pipe, again tamping it down with his finger. "A man over

there is raising all kinds of hell."

"Who are we talking about?" Ben asked.

"Abdullah El Farrar," Mike said. "He's the son of one of the richest oil

families over there ... at least they .were rich before the United

Nations took over the oil fields in that part of the country after the

big war."

"You've lost me," Harley Reno said.

Mike glanced at him. "After the big war, when the United Nations started

to try and put the pieces of the old world economy back together, there

was a shortage of oil-that is, gasoline, etc.-just about everywhere.

With the agreements of most of the Middle Eastern countries, which were

devas-

11

tated by the destruction of the war, the United Nations took over all of

the oil fields, refineries, and most of the shipping facilities so that

oil and gasoline could be transported around the world to the Third

World countries that needed it."

Ben interjected, "Of course, this ruined many of the ruling families in

those areas who'd grown immensely rich on the backs of the common people

of the region."

"Not to mention what it did to the governments of those countries

involved, including Iraq, Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Jordan,"

Mike added. "Most of them became little more than figureheads, with the

real power in the countries being the United Nations."

"And that pissed this El Farrar off?" Harley asked, grinning.

"Yes," Mike said. "He was pulled from his expensive schools in Europe

and sent home, just another poor rag-head who used to be rich and powerful."

Ben leaned back in his chair. "So, what is he up to now?"

"He's become almost a folk hero to his countrymen. He calls himself the

Desert Fox now, and has gone up into the hills of Iraq and has been

recruiting an army of fanatical followers dedicated to taking back what

they consider was stolen from them."

"You mean he's trying to retake the oil fields?" Coop asked.

"Not only that, but he has declared himself the rightful heir to the

throne of Iraq, as well as the other countries in the Middle East."

"Sounds like just another egomaniac on the loose," Ben said.

"Yes," Mike agreed, "but he seems to be very appealing to an entire

continent of people who feel their heritage and lands have been stolen

from them by white, non-Muslim interlopers. My intel says he's developed

quite a following."

"You can't be too worried about a bunch of Arab types riding around in

the desert on horseback, can you?" Jersey asked.

12

Mike shrugged. "We weren't, until we found out that El Farrar has

acquired huge stores of weapons and war materiel that the previous

leader, Saddam Hussein, had stockpiled. There's even some talk that he

may have some nuclear missiles in his arsenal."

"How large is his army?" Ben asked, leaning forward and putting his

elbows on his desk, interested now.

"Over a hundred thousand at last count," Mike said, "and still growing.

Intel has information that his forces are spreading out across the

entire area over there, absorbing more and more materiel as they overrun

the United Nations forces and confiscate their weapons and ammunition."

"What does Jean-Francois Chapelle think of all this?" Ben asked,

referring to the Secretary General of the U.N.

"He didn't seem too worried, until El Farrar began to widen his sphere

of influence. Now, he's biting his nails down to the quick. Word is,

he's tried to reason with El Farrar, to no avail."

"Any idea of just how big El Farrar's ambition is?" Ben asked.

Mike nodded. "He's telling his followers, which includes just about

every fundamentalist Muslim in the Middle East, that he plans to take

over the USA, then Europe, and eventually the entire world."

Harley Reno laughed out loud. "At least he doesn't think small."

"Surely he can't be that naive," Ben remarked.

Mike glanced at Ben. "No, he doesn't think he can storm the countries

involved. He knows his army is too small for mat, and must know the

other countries in the U.N. wouldn't allow that. However, he has a huge

terrorist network of fanatical members devoted to his ideals. My guess

is he plans to institute a pogrom against the USA by infiltrating

terrorists into the country a few at a time, and at some later date, set

them loose to use terrorist tactics to destabilize the government up there."

13

Ben pursed his lips. "And with the growing resentment of many of the

citizens against Claire Osterman and her welfare state, he'd find plenty

of converts to his cause."

Mike nodded. "You got it, Boss."

"Well," Ben said, "continue to monitor the situation and keep me

apprised of any new developments."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, back to the more mundane," Ben said. He turned his attention to

his team seated before him. "Now that we don't have any active

hostilities facing us, it is imperative that we don't let the men and

women in our Armed Forces get stale. I want the training exercises

increased so that if push comes to shove and we have to intervene

anywhere in the world, we'll be ready."

Ben glanced at Mike. "And with this new information from Mike, we'd

better be doing some extra training in desert-warfare tactics."

Harley Reno nodded. "Well, our last little outing down in Mexico

certainly gave our forces some experience in fighting in the desert."

Ben smiled. "Good, then use the men with experience down there to help

train the ones who didn't serve in the desert."

He stood up. "That's all for now," he said.

His team got to their feet and began to file out.

Jersey gave Coop a little shove from behind. "Oh, Coop," she said, "I'll

see you out on the obstacle course right after lunch."

He grinned over his shoulder at her. "I think maybe I'll go get one last

physical therapy session before my workout."

"Good. I'll go with you," Jersey said, a malicious gleam in her eye. "I

want to give the Swede the good news that your arm is all better now."

Coop's face fell. "You don't have to do that, Jerse."

"No problem," she said. "Glad to help out."

14 Two

Abdullah El Farrar's eyes blazed with fiiry as he glared at the sweating

young man in front of him. "You have endangered our holy mission with

your reckless disregard of the Prophet's admonition against drinking

spirits," he said as he paced around the small room. Whirling suddenly,

he backhanded the man, knocking him to the ground. Farrar straddled him

and ground the point of a stiletto against his throat. "Can you give me

one good reason not to cut out your throat and feed it to the jackals?"

With some difficulty the man rasped, "It will not happen again... I

promise."

The others in the room watched intently, afraid to avert their eyes and

draw Farrar's murderous attention to them. The man cringed, sweat

running from his face, as Farrar slipped the point of the stiletto under

his shirt. With an abrupt motion he sliced the shirt open, causing the

man to cry out in fear. Farrar gently stroked the razor-sharp stiletto

against his chest, leaving a thin line dripping blood.

"I shall spare your life but leave you with this mark of shame, lest you

forget and again partake of the infidels' poison. Now get out of my

sight before I decide to cut out your tongue which the alcohol loosens!"

The man scrambled to his feet, his face flaming in embarrassment, and

fled from the room. As the others also be-

15

gan to file out, Farrar said, "Mustafa, remain. We need to talk."

Mustafa Kareem, his second in command, inclined his head in obedience

and remained seated. Farrar poured them both fruit juice over ice, then

shook his head in resignation. "If we didn't need every man, I would

have gutted that camel dung and been done with him."

"You did right, my brother. All of the men have begun to be infected

with the infidels' ways. The lesson was sorely needed and adroitly

applied." Kareem inclined his head in admiration. "They will all think

twice before causing the mission danger in the future."

"We need action, Mustafa. The men grow soft with the waiting." Farrar

picked up a newspaper and waved it in the air. "I think this will give

the men something to do to alleviate their boredom." Throwing the paper

down on the table, he spat on it. The headline read: president claire oster-

MAN TO APPEAR AT SOCIALIST/DEMOCRATIC FUND-RAISER.

Kareem tilted his head to read the story. "I agree, but there will be

much security around such an important gathering. We will need to plan

carefully if we are to succeed."

"You're right as usual." Farrar took his stiletto from the table and

wiped the blood from the tip with the newspaper, then slipped it into a

scabbard behind his neck. "From now on, the men are not to leave the

house. Pick up some women and young boys and bring them to the house for

the gratification of the men. After a few days, dispose of them in ways

which will not implicate us. By then, I will have planned our strike and

the need for caution will be over. Our followers in the motherland have

been most generous with funds to help us bring the infidels to their

knees ... I would hate to disappoint them."

As Mustafa left to carry out his orders, Farrar turned to the case of

AK-47 assault rifles in the corner and began cleaning and inspecting

each one. He spoke softly to himself. "Yes, Allah, we badly need to

strike back at the infidels to

16

regain our respect among our brothers in the Middle East, and I need to

do this to avenge my family."

Known only as the Desert Fox to the United Nations intelligence service,

Farrar had been number one on their "hit list" for the past seven years.

Three agents had been killed trying to assassinate him, and he currently

carried the "kill on sight" designation for intelligence agencies in

four countries. Although aware of this, Farrar didn't dwell on it since

he was a true believer in the lightness of his cause and of the

Prophet's personal protection for him and his people.

Unknown to the intelligence forces of the United Nations, he and a

handpicked band of assassins had made their way to the United States of

America for the express purpose of assassinating Claire Osterman and

softening up the country for its eventual takeover by his forces.

His band of terrorists were hiding out in a poor section of

Indianapolis, preparing for the first strike against the United States,

knowing it had been terribly weakened by its unsuccessful war against

the SUSA of the previous year. If this attack were to go well, Farrar

knew he would have little trouble attracting men of influence to back

him and his cause.

Claire Osterman glanced up and smiled at her bodyguard, Herb Knoff, as

he handed her a cup of coffee in her office. She was surrounded by her

team of advisors, which she called her "cabinet."

Harlan Millard, ostensibly Claire's second in command, sat across the

room, nervously biting on a thumbnail as he watched Claire with an

expression much like a canary watching a cat.

General Maxwell Goddard, who'd recently assumed command of the United

States' Armed Forces after General Bradley Stevens, Jr., had failed in

the last war against the SUSA and Ben Raines, rolled a thick, black

cigar around in his mouth, not daring to light it in Claire's presence.

He was

17

tall and thin, and not averse to speaking his mind when he thought

Claire was going to do something stupid, but he was generally slow to

speak and weighed his words carefully, like a skinflint whose every

utterance cost him money.

Wallace W. Cox, her Minister of Finance, sat peering at her through

glasses as thick as Coke-bottle bottoms, nibbling at the ends of his

scraggly mustache, wondering if she were going to blame him for the

sorry state of the country's treasury as she usually did.

Gerald Boykin, her Ministry of Defense and liaison with the U.N., looked

bored. The meeting had been called to discuss the upcoming presidential

election, and he thought it would have little to do with him. He covered

a wide yawn with the back of his hand, and tried desperately to keep his

eyelids from drooping as he semi-dozed on the couch.

Clifford Ainsworth, her Minister of Propaganda, sat in a corner in a

wrinkled seersucker suit, holes dotting the front of it from cigarette

ashes. When he thought no one was looking, he poured dark, amber liquid

from a silver flask into his coffee. His head was splitting from a long

night at a bar and he needed a bit of the hair of the dog.

"Now," Claire said brightly after sampling her coffee, "does anyone have

any great ideas for propaganda for the upcoming election?"

Harlan Millard shook his head. "I just don't know why you're so worried,

Claire," he said in his typical whining tone of voice. "After all, we

control the voting booths and the counting computers and the press.

Anyone who dares to run against you won't have a chance of winning."

Claire's smile faded a bit and her eyes grew hard. "That's not

necessarily true, Harlan," she said, her voice hard. "There is talk the

United Nations has been asked to intervene in our election." She cut her

eyes to Gerald Boykin, who suddenly began to sweat a bit. "If that's

true, and Gerry over there can't block it, we may find it harder to

steal votes as we did in the last two elections."

18

General Goddard cleared his throat and took the cigar out of his mouth.

"Yes, Max?" Claire asked. "You have something you want to add?"

"I wouldn't worry overly much about the U.N., Madam President," he

growled in a deep voice.

"Why is that, General?"

He shrugged. "The U.N. can decree and fuss all it wants to, but the

simple fact is they haven't the troops to back up any orders they give."

"That's true, Max dear, but if they think I stole the election, they

could simply not recognize my government. Though it wouldn't be fatal to

us, it would severely hamper us in any efforts to trade with other

countries."

"Not to mention the havoc it would cause if they cut our allowance of

foreign oil and gasoline," Cox said. "At current levels of usage, there

wouldn't be an automobile running in two weeks."

Claire spread her hands. "There, you see? We're all in agreement that we

must put the best face possible on this upcoming election, just to avoid

any messy complications with the UN."

She stood up and leaned on her desk. "Now, do any of you have any

suggestions for the speech I'm going to give next week at the fund-raiser?"

Harlan Millard shook his head, his face a mask of worry. "I don't think

it wise for you to speak in public yet, Claire."

"Why not?"

"It's too soon after our defeat at the hands of Ben Raines," he said.

"There are still a lot of people who blame you for getting us into a war

that caused such hardship and misery."

Claire's eyes flashed. "Are you saying it was my fault we lost?"

"No, no, of course not, Claire," Harlan stammered. "But with so many of

our citizens dying from the plague our allies released on the SUSA,

there are some people who are not

19

thinking correctly who are bound to blame you." He pulled a handkerchief

out of his pocket and swiped it across his face. "I just don't want you

to take any chances, that's all."

General Goddard nodded. "I agree with Harlan, Claire. Emotions are still

running high out in the country. Perhaps it would be better if the Army

took over security for your dinner speech."

Herb Knoff, who besides being Claire's bodyguard and part-time lover,

oversaw the security provided by the Secret Service agents assigned to

protect Claire's life, bristled.

"I don't think that's necessary, General," he said coldly. "My men are

perfectly capable of providing for the president's security during her

speech."

The general gave a tiny smile, as if he doubted that very much, but he

nodded. "All right, Herb, but don't forget I offered our help."

"Oh, I won't forget, Max," Herb said scornfully, "you can bet on that."

"Now, gentlemen," Claire said, "let's don't argue. The important thing

is for us to get the right message across to the voters."

"I think you ought to go with the usual," Gerald Boykin said. "Put the

blame for everything on Ben Raines and those SUSA assholes."

"But Claire," Harlan argued, "we can't do that. Raines and his medical

people are the ones who developed the vaccine and his medical teams are

over here working as hard as they can to save United States citizens'

lives."

Claire pursed her lips. "For once, you are probably right, Harlan. I

think it wise to hold off on attacking Raines, at least until his

doctors and nurses have finished their work here."

"There's always the UN.," General Goddard said slowly.

"The UN.?" Claire asked.

"Sure. How about trying to lay the blame on them for not keeping a

closer eye on Bottger and Perro Loco? After all,

20

you can argue, if the U.N. had prevented them from building up their

forces in the first place, there never would have been a war."

"That's a brilliant idea, Max," Claire said.

"And the added benefit," Boykin said, suddenly coming awake, "is if we

stir the people up against the U.N., the UN. will be less likely to

intervene in our election."

"And even if they do, no one will listen to what they say," Claire

added, rubbing her hands together, a broad smile on her face.

She turned her gaze to Ainsworth, her smile fading. He was leaning back

in his chair, his eyes closed and his forehead wrinkled in pain.

William W Johnstone - Ashes 32 - Destiny in the Ashes (txt)

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