William W Johnstone - Ashes 19 - Treason in the Ashes (txt)

AMBUSH!

The colonel leading the advancing regiment sent recon in first. The

recon moved carefully and cautiously. But they seldom investigated more

than twenty yards on either side of the old highway. It was a mistake.

As soon as the recon teams passed, the Rebels slipped out of their holes

and reset the Claymore and placed C-4 at selected sites . . .

The first tanks of the long column appeared and the Rebels let them

rumble past, allowing them to roll deeper and deeper into the trap . . .

"Now!" Ben Raines said, and Cooper fired the Armbrust. The rocket

slammed into the side of a tank and turned the inside into a fiery death

for the crew. Up and down the mile-long stretch of highway, explosions

shattered the quiet. A rattled regimental commander screamed orders to

retreat.

But it was too late. In their haste to retreat, the tanks and trucks

were twisted up in a death lock. Now it was a turkey shoot for the Rebel

troops . . .

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4 TREASON IN THE ASHES

William W. Johnstone

Pinnacle Books Kensington Publishing Corp

http ://www.pinnaclebooks .com

5 This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents, are either the product of the author's imagination or are

used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher,

excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this

book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to

the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any

payment for this "stripped book."

Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

First Zebra Printing: April, 1994 First Pinnacle Printing: February,

2000 10 98765432

Printed in the United States of America

6 "The first requisite of a good citizen in this Republic of ours is

that he shall be able and willing to pull his weight."

-Theodore Roosevelt

"Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all

be changed."

-The Bible

7 Mexico

So this is how it ends, Ben thought, as the sun began gradually casting

its light over the land. He stared at the Nazi firing squad, staring

back at him. Then that old familiar recklessness filled him and he

grinned at the line of men.

"I believe I will have that last cigarette you offered me, Volmer," Ben

called. "If the offer still holds."

Peter Volmer, leader of the Nazi Party in what used to be known as

America, looked at Jesus Hoffman, self-proclaimed Fuhrer, and the man

nodded his head. "Give him a cigarette."

"His hands?"

"Untie them," Hoffman said. "What can he do now? He is a mere shell of

what he used to be. The interrogations have weakened him and his knees

tremble with fear. Go on. This could be amusing."

"Stand the men at ease," Volmer ordered the thirteen men who made up the

firing squad. He walked across the courtyard and up to Ben. Volmer

untied Ben's hands and handed him a cigarette.

8 Ben flexed his hands several times before taking the cigarette.

"They're really bad for your health, you know?" he said with a smile.

"You won't have to worry about that for very much longer, General Raines."

"I guess not." Ben bent his head to take the offered flame from a

cigarette lighter. He got the tip glowing red hot and then suddenly

jammed the lighted end into Volmer's right eye, grabbed the Nazi's

pistol from his holster, and scrambled over the low part of the

crumbling adobe wall.

Volmer was rolling on the ground, screaming in terrible pain, both hands

to his blinded eye. From the balcony of the hacienda, Fuhrer Jesus

Diguez Mendoza Hoffman screamed, "Shoot the son of a bitch!"

But Ben had vanished from sight.

The next thing he knew, he was face to face with a very startled Nazi SS

man. He wasn't startled long. Ben shot him twice in the chest. He ripped

the submachine gun from the dead hands and tore off the full ammo pouch,

then he took off at a dead run for the main house. Ben didn't think he

had a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this pickle alive, so

he had made up his mind to take some Nazis with him.

Ben was not nearly so mentally and physically worn out as Hoffman and

Volmer thought. He had resisted the drugs and the brainwashing, and for

some reason, the few physical beatings had been half-hearted.

Ben heard running feet behind him, and he scrambled out of sight. The

footsteps stopped, the door to the room flung open and a tall, rangy SS

officer

9 stepped inside. Ben drove the butt of his submachine gun into the

man's belly, bringing him to his knees. One more blow broke the SS man's

neck. Ben opened a canvas pouch and smiled. Grenades. He took those and

the dead man's clips, all fully loaded.

Dragging the body to the other side of the room, Ben stood for a moment,

staring at the corpse. "Well. . . why not?" he muttered. He and the dead

man were about the same size. He stripped the body and put on the hated

black of the SS, wondering why there was so little pursuit of him and

virtually no gunfire since he'd jumped over the low wall of the

execution site.

After dressing the dead man in his own uniform, he squatted down beside

the body for a moment. "Might work," he muttered, and slung both

submachine guns and the ammo pouches over his shoulder, and took out two

grenades, pulling the pins and holding down the spoons. "Achtung!

Achtung!" Ben yelled, then added in German: "Here he is."

Ben quickly put one grenade under the man's belly and the other one

beside his head and got the hell away from that area.

Ben entered a storeroom and closed the door just as the grenades blew.

He sat down wearily behind some crates and boxes and thought: How in the

hell did I ever get into this mess?

Ben remembered the ambush by the Nazi kids, some of them as young as

eight or ten, somewhere in New Mexico, he thought. The damn drugs he'd

10 been force-fed during his captivity had really screwed up his

thinking and memory. That and his time on what he'd heard called a

"sensory-deprivation" machine-whatever the hell that was. The important

thing was, Ben had fought it and won. He knew he was in Mexico, but how

deep into Mexico he had no idea.

Now everything began coming back to him. The year-long war with Jesus

Hoffman and his Nazis. They'd come out of South America with grand plans

to take control of what remained of the United States. Ben Raines and

his Rebels had kicked that nightmare right in the head.

Ben wondered how long he'd been in captivity? Weeks, surely. Maybe

months. He wondered how the war was going? Who was winning? Was it over?

He shook his head. No, not as long as just one Rebel lived, the fight

for freedom would never be over. And he knew for a fact that one Rebel

was damn sure alive.

Ben Raines.

A voice shouted out in German: "Here he is. The man is dead. Ben Raines

is dead!"

So far, so good, Ben thought.

"Get the Fuhrer out of here!" a voice filled with panic screamed, just

as hard gunfire slammed the early hours of the day. "Paratroopers. Look!"

Interesting, Ben thought, sitting amid the mops and buckets and crates

and boxes.

Ben heard cars and trucks crank up, the sounds of what seemed to be

hundreds of running feet. Just to be on the safe side, Ben removed the SS

11 officer's shirt. If those were his people parachuting in, he sure

didn't want to be mistaken for a Nazi and catch a Rebel bullet.

Ben smiled as he heard his son, Buddy Raines, yell, "Where is my father,

you goose-stepping son of a bitch?"

The reply was given in German. Ben winced at the sound of a blow. His

son was built like a tank and possessed enormous strength. If he'd

struck the man, the man was now seriously hurt.

"Where's the General?" he heard Jersey yell.

"I'm in here!" Ben yelled, standing up.

Silence in the hallway. But outside, the battle was raging. Angry Rebels

were apparently taking few, if any prisoners. The sounds of screaming

and moaning was loud even through the thick walls of the old hacienda.

"Did you hear that?" Beth's voice drifted to him.

"Where's here?" Corrie demanded.

Ben tapped on the door. "Right here, gang. I'm coming out, so ease up on

those triggers." Ben opened the door and stepped out into the hall. He

looked at his team, at his son, and smiled. "Took you long enough to get

here. Where the hell have you been?"

14 One

15 One

It had long been said that when the United States stumbles, the world

staggers. Whoever said that knew what they were talking about. The

beginning of the end came not suddenly, but in a quiet, insidious

manner. As silently, slowly, and carefully as a leech crawling across

the edge of a straight razor to get to a drop of blood. The seeds of

collapse, which would eventually lead to the end of what was once the

greatest nation on the face of the earth, came with a lessening of

morals, a country misplacing its values. A few people did see what was

happening but their voices were ignored, and in some cases, stilled

permanently by Big Brother Government. Our political leaders had moved

us too far to the left, trying to be all things to all people, all the

time. Our Great Nannies in Washington bankrupted the citizens trying to

do that which they should have known was impossible.

There was no one thing or happening that led to the collapse of America.

No historian will ever be able to point the finger of guilt at any

single person or government program or world event.

16 But the signs were there. Evidence was all around that many citizens

were worried. Americans were buying guns in record numbers, in the face

of liberals frantically launching programs to disarm Americans. Many

Americans were stockpiling emergency food and water and ammunition. But

instead of our elected and appointed officials trying to determine why

these thousands and thousands of people seemed to be preparing for some

sort of Armageddon, the government sent armed federal agents in to seize

the weapons and prosecute and jail (and sometimes kill) those who felt

they had a constitutional right to own weapons. The national press

belittled the men and women called "surviv-alists," mocking them and

downplaying their warnings and actions. Liberals were prancing about,

waving their hankies and shrieking that more money must be gouged from

already overburdened taxpayers to pay for more social programs.

The warning signs were in place, and there were people who read them

with alarming clarity. Writers wrote books about the end of

civilization. Those men and women were immediately branded as nuts and

kooks (some were), racists (some were), right-wing lunatics (some were),

and enemies of America (most were not). Federal agents followed them,

bugged their phones, and read their mail.

Most members of the press, liberal to the core and completely out of

touch with the true feelings of millions of Americans, could predictably

be counted on to lean to the left, weeping and blubbering and sobbing

about those terrible guns and how the government should forcibly disarm

the law-abiding, tax-paying citizens. Finding a true conser-

17 vative among the national press, print and broadcast, would have been

a real test of sleuthing.

So now, at the beginning of the last decade of the millennium, those men

and women who felt the nation was teetering on the edge of collapse went

about their business of preparing for the end quietly, staying away from

groups who sought the limelight. These people had sensed, accurately,

that it was too late. Nothing could be done to save America. The nation

had sunk into an undrainable cesspool, and the politicians, both liberal

and so-called conservative, and the press (always liberal) were skipping

merrily along, hopping from turd to turd, blissfully unaware that

beneath their feet lay collapse, chaos, and anarchy.

To many Americans who did not walk around with their heads up their

asses, it was inconceivable that those in power could not see the end

fast approaching.

In his last published book before the world exploded, Ben Raines wrote,

"As a nation, we lost our way. We lost sight of one very important item:

America must come first. We must first solve our many problems here at

home, then, and only then, turn our attention and resources to other

countries. That sounds hard and cruel, but if we are to survive as a

nation, we must keep jobs at home and see to the needs of Americans

first. We cannot be the world's problem solver and we must not become

the world's policeman. We can't afford to be either."

But of course, the politicians ignored that and critics branded Ben and

others like him as racist, right-wing lunatics.

Religious fanatics in the Middle East (and other

18 places) declared America the "Great Satan" and openly called for

terrorist attacks against the U.S. And what did our great leaders do

about these madmen? Why, nothing, of course. Finally terrorism struck

the U.S. (as Ben Raines and others predicted it would) and the press was

outraged. Never once did the know-it-all network commentators suggest we

go over and bomb the shit out of the host country. That might involve

some collateral damage (that means civilian dead). Of course between

1939 and '45, we had civilian dead in Berlin, Dresden, Cologne, in

Holland and France and Belgium, England, the Philippines, Japan (to name

only a few of the countries involved), but the press seems to have

forgotten all about that. We still won the damn war. And it just never

dawned on our Great Nannies in Washington, D.C. that to fight terrorism,

you must think like a terrorist and act like a terrorist. And we had

military units trained to do just that. But the sobbing sisters and

hanky-twisters set up such a squall at just the thought of it that it

was never really considered seriously.

Race relations in America began to deteriorate, finally reaching their

lowest point in several decades. Riots became commonplace. The police,

never enough of them, and now unable to enforce the law because of

recent court decisions, could not hold back the violent tide. Los

Angeles blew up. New York turned into a battleground, as did St. Louis,

Detroit, Miami, and Atlanta. Much to the disgrace of this nation, our

capital, Washington, D.C, became the most dangerous city in America.

A few people in prominent positions, like Ben

19 Raines, said, "Why don't you just shoot the goddamn punks and put an

end to this crap?"

"You racist, right-wing, NRA, gun-loving, un-compassionate person!" came

the collective shout from thousands of liberal throats.

"Naw," the law-abiding, tax-paying, so-called "silent majority" said

wearily. "He's just voicing aloud the thoughts of millions."

There were many injustices inflicted upon minorities by whites in

positions of power. There were also injustices inflicted upon whites by

people of color. Minorities were justifiably angry about the lack of

jobs. Whites were angry about quotas and promotions based on race and

gender and not seniority and/or ability. Minorities demanded

respect-loudly. Whites responded by saying that respect is not handed

out on demand-it must be earned. Blacks (by now the name had been

changed to African American) appeared on TV talk shows dressed like

something out of the Congo and wondered why many whites smiled.

One white author appeared on a national talk show dressed in a Viking

helmet and kilt, and carrying bagpipes. He said he was of

Scandinavian/Scotch/Irish heritage and was just dressing like his

ancestors. The black host was not amused.

But she should have been. She should have known that it has to work both

ways. If it won't work both ways, it won't ever work.

We all should have had a sense of humor. And we all should have believed

that we were Americans first, last, and always. And we should have known

if we didn't pull together, it just wasn't going to work.

And in the end, it didn't.

20 The Rebel assault force that came in by land and air routed Hoffman's

troops and quickly moved Ben out of there and into a secured area. Two

hours later Ben was back in Texas. Doctor Lamar Chase, a man who had

been with Ben since the formation of the old Tri-States, ordered his

doctors to check Ben out, head to toe. He got a clean bill of health.

Ben was not a man who wasted time. By late that afternoon he had flown

in all his batt corns ... at least those that had responded to the call.

"We're all over the country, Ben," General Georgi Striganov told him.

The Russian and Ben had once been mortal enemies-until Ben kicked the

Russian's ass and forced him to lay down his arms. Now the Russian Bear

was one of Ben's closest friends and allies in the drive for freedom and

the quest for. democracy.

"Anybody heard from Tina?" Ben asked.

"Last word we got was that she and her 9 Battalion were up near the

Canadian border," Buddy told his father.

Tina Raines was Ben's adopted daughter.

21 "Colonel West?"

"At last report, West and his 4 Battalion were pushing hard to her last

reported site," his son told him.

Ben had learned, much to his shock, that he had been in the hands of

Hoffman's Nazis much longer than he originally thought. He was

completely out of touch with what was going on.

But it wouldn't take Ben Raines long to get back into the saddle of command.

"The foreign troops?"

"All the European troops were called back home to help put down

rebellion in their respective countries," Ike told him.

Ike McGowan, the stocky ex-Navy SEAL, was another who had been with Ben

since the outset.

Ike continued, "The troops from Iceland got chewed up pretty bad. They

requested to be assigned to various of our battalions and Cecil granted

them permission."

General Cecil Jefferys, a black man, was second in command of all

Rebels, and another of Ben's closest friends. Since suffering a heart

attack during the Alaskan campaign, and undergoing bypass surgery, Cecil

was in charge of Base Camp One, a huge section of what had once been

known as Louisiana, now spilling over into much of what had been called

Mississippi. Base Camp One was the only area in the battered nation that

was totally, one hundred percent crime-free. Rebels did not tolerate

crime ... of any sort. And since they did not tolerate it, they had

none. The Rebel philosophy toward crime was very simple, and very deadly.

Ben sat down on the edge of a battered old desk.

22 Everything in the nation was old and battered and scarred; the only

area in the entire country that had been producing anything for years

was Base Camp One. "Let me see if I have all this straight," Ben said.

"While we were chasing Hoffman's goose-steppers all over the damn

country, the thugs, punks, outlaws, war lords, and trash in the nation

got together?"

His batt corns nodded their heads in agreement.

"Everything we accomplished over the years is right down the toilet?"

"That's it, Ben," Ike said. "We're back to square one. And we've taken a

hell of a beating in running off Hoffman. Some battalions are down to

quarter-strength. We're tired, Ben. Just flat worn out."

"I know," Ben said. "Believe me, I do. Equipment?"

"More than we can use in a lifetime," Colonel Rebet told him. "We've

captured hundreds of thousands of tons of supplies and equipment from

Hoffman and his allies. Everything from boots to tanks."

Ben nodded his understanding and turned to Corrie, his long-time radio

operator and member of Ben's personal team. "Get this out to all batt

corns: Hold your positions and get some rest. Find out if they need air

drops and what they need in the way of supplies."

"They need everything from SAMs to sanitary napkins," Corrie quickly

informed the General.

Ike rolled his eyes and looked toward the ceiling. Georgi looked

embarrassed. Buddy quickly began studying his big hands. Pat O'Shea, the

carrot-topped, freckle-faced, wild Irishman who com-

23 manded 10 Battalion ducked his head and took a sip of whiskey from a

small flask.

"See that they're supplied," Ben ordered. "Promptly."

Ben had blown the theory right out the window that women could not

perform well in combat. Two of his batt corns were women, and many of

his most feared Scouts, Night-fighters, Pathfinders, and Rat Pack

members were women. The female motorcycle Rebels, called the Sisters,

were under the command of Wanda. And they were savage fighters.

"Yes, sir," Corrie said with a smile.

"You find something amusing about all this?" Ben demanded.

She laughed at his expression. "Good to have you back with us, General."

Ben smiled. "It's good to be back." To the room of batt corns: "Are we

going to have to regroup and redefine battalions, people?"

Ike shook his graying head. "I don't think so, Ben. Beth has prepared a

list of all battalions and their strength. But General Payon has taken

his Mexican troops back across the border to deal with what is left of

Hoffman's people. So you can see that we're really cut down in size."

"Casualties?" Ben asked softly.

"Thirty to thirty-five percent of Rebels dead or unaccounted for," Ike

said without hesitation.

"Damn!" Ben let the word explode from his mouth.

For a man pushing middle age hard, Ben was in excellent physical shape,

still possessing enormous upper body strength and maintaining a trim

waistline. His thick hair was cut short, and now salt-and-

24 pepper. He was not handsome in the pretty-boy way, but more a man's

man with rugged good looks. He was also very much a woman's man. He had

known for a long time that his personal bodyguard, the beautiful,

dark-eyed, part-Apache, Little Jersey, was in love with him. But Ben had

let that remain strictly platonic, and always would. Jersey knew that

too, and contented herself with just being close to the man.

Ben had suffered through several May/September romances, and knew they

seldom worked. He had buried the only woman he had ever truly loved,

Jerre, on a lonely windswept hill in the Northwest, after a particularly

brutal campaign. The entire Rebel camp knew of their years-long stormy

and rocky relationship. They also knew it was a closed book.

"Get some rest," Ben abruptly ended the meeting. "In the morning, all

you batt corns list your needed supplies and start them moving toward

your location. I don't want anybody to do anything except rest and relax

for a week. It's going to take me that long to assess the situation and

make plans." He paused and grinned. "And for me to get myself squared

away. I'll see you all at breakfast. Dismissed."

As was his custom, Ben was up long before dawn, walking the silent camp.

Jersey had alerted the sentries that Ben would be taking his walk

shortly-so easy with the trigger fingers. He had slept soundly for seven

hours- about two hours more than what he usually got-and awakened

refreshed. He showered and shaved and dressed in clean BDUs. Ben

25 wandered to the mess area and got a mug of coffee. He knew Jersey,

Beth, Corrie, and Cooper were all around him, but leaving him alone

until he signaled he wanted company.

Ben sat down on the tailgate of a pickup truck, rolled a cigarette, and

smoked, drank his coffee, and let his thoughts wander.

After his meeting with the batt corns, he had gone over field reports.

The Rebels were in bad shape. The worst they'd been in a long time. They

were not demoralized, not since his return, anyway. They were just

tired. Battle weary.

Ben wandered back to the mess and got a coffee refill and returned to

the truck tailgate. He was lost in memory, thinking back over the years.

Remembering the final year before the collapse.

The end came during the last few years of the millennium. History

clearly points out that the last decade of any millennium is always the

most violent, the most volatile, the most unpredictable, the most

subject to tumultuous change.

History sure was right.

America had become embroiled in other countries' civil wars around the

globe. And Americans were very weary of being the world's policeman.

America had troops in Haiti, several countries in Africa, Central

America, and we had thousands of troops in Eastern Europe. And, Ben

thought, we shouldn't have been in any of those countries.

Americans were being taxed to the point of open rebellion. Crime had

soared to an unprecedented level. Gangs roamed the cities and had spread

out into the smaller rural communities. And still the petunia-plucking

liberals in congress refused to al-

26 low the law-abiding, tax-paying citizens to protect themselves

adequately. God forbid a person should take a life just to protect his

own, or the lives of his or her family, and under no circumstances

should lethal force ever, ever, ever, be used just to protect property.

How awful! Dreadful.

Like so many others, Ben had sealed up his guns in weatherproof

containers and buried them. He recalled looking toward Washington and

the Democratic president who had signed the bill and said, "Fuck you all!"

Jails and prisons were filled beyond capacity. Unemployment was high.

Discontent among the hardworking, over-taxed Americans was running at a

fever pitch. And there appeared to be no end in sight to how far the

liberals would go to disarm law-abiding Americans and kiss the ass of

the criminals.

"We must give the oppressed and the poor and those whose propensity it

is to break the law more money," cooed the liberals.

Taxes went up again.

The president grinned and ate another Big Mac.

"Sit down," said his wife, the unelected czarina of the nation. "You

look stupid."

For once she was right.

William W Johnstone - Ashes 19 - Treason in the Ashes (txt)

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