William W Johnstone - Ashes 18 - Flames From the Ashes (txt)

BLACKSHIRT DEATH ZONE

They came minutes later. Three trucks, escorted by armored personnel

carriers. Ben let them come up closer, readied his Thompson, then gave

the command to fire.

Streams of tracers slashed into the unprotected trucks. The APCs reacted

instantly, disgorging a horde of blackshirts who spread out and returned

fire as well as the darkness allowed.

"This is getting too personal," Jersey suggested from her position

beside him. "Let's get back in the Hummer."

Ben saw movement to his left, and turned the Thompson that direction.

Vertical tongues of flame spurted from the compensator on the muzzle of

the tommy gun. The lethal hot lead chewed into the running men, who

tumbled like rag dolls thrown by an angry child.

"It's just beginning to get exciting," Ben protested, a fierce grin

spreading his lips.

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4 FLAMESWASHES

WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

Pinnacle Books Kensington Publishing Corp.

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5 This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in

this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

is purely coincidental.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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First Printing: August, 1993 10 98765432

Printed in the United States of America

6 Book One

7 There are some children who can say that they have been born and

raised their entire lives under the protective umbrella of the Rebel

way. Ben Raines, soldier, writer, intelligence officer, and sometimes

political figure, hadn't started out to have it that way. What he wanted

was peace and security for himself and his family. Like Topsey, that grew.

Ben knew that "things" were rotten long before the Great War. He saw

corruption winked at for years, until it became the norm for

politicians, judges, the prosecutors and police. Not that there weren't

some damn fine policemen in the country. Even some laudable members of

the FBI. Ben had tried, in his books and in his lectures, to call the

alarm. He had been met at the best with indifference, at the worst with

open hostility.

"Don't rock the boat" and "bend with the bamboo" had become the national

philosophy. The Japanese were selling America televisions, VCRs, and

what later proved to be cheaply made, and then buying up a whole lot of

America with the proceeds. Every ayatollah and two-bit strongman in the

Middle East thumbed his nose at America. The Chinese communists raped

the minds of 600 million people and Uncle Sam paid the bill for it

through "Most Favored Nation" trade status. Latin America made gringo

bashing the national pastime. The European commu-

8 nity looked down their haughty, pseudoaristocratic noses and quietly

loathed everything American. Idiotic adventures in Africa had sent the

deficit skyrocketing, while the recipients of American largess secretly

hated their benefactors and plotted to destroy the nation.

Ben Raines saw all of this and recoiled in revulsion and

disillusionment. There had to be a better way. Then came the Great War,

and all that changed.

Ben Raines had been a soldier, as well as a teacher and author.

Sometimes, he believed he would spend the rest of his life as a soldier.

Particularly after the Great War. Out of the ashes of devastation and

disorder, Ben soon formed a small gathering of like-minded people. They

journeyed through the country, seeking others who shared their stern,

but fair, beliefs and their dreams of rebuilding a shattered nation.

While what was left of the central government (read: politicians) of the

United States still staggered around and pointed fingers of blame at one

another and appointed and staffed endless (and certainly useless)

committees to study this problem and that, Ben Raines and his growing

band of followers, who would soon be known as Rebels, were cleaning out

and setting up their own brand of government in the northwest.

It was called Tri-States, and before the nitwit politicians who made up

the new central government of the United States -its capital now in

Richmond (Washington, D.C., had been destroyed, a condition that many

Americans, whether a part of the Rebels or not, felt to be long overdue)

- knew what was happening and stopped stomping on their hankies, they

discovered that there was a country-within-a-country, and that

everything was just fine in the Tri-States.

To their shock and horror, the Tri-States had a zero crime factor, zero

unemployment, clean, pure running water, electricity, social services,

schools that actually taught useful subjects to the young, medical

9 care for all, and all the other amenities that made life good for the

law-abiding. Everything just hummed along peacefully in the Tri-States.

And they did it all without help from the central government. They even

had the audacity to tell the bureaucrats to keep their long, disruptive

noses out of the business of Tri-States.

"Good heavens!" shrieked the politicians, shredding more hankies and

stomping them furiously. "We can't allow this. Why, it's -it's

subversive, positively . . . unAmerican!"

Then, horror of horrors, the politicians and their toady bureaucrats in

Richmond learned that criminals were actually being hanged in

Tri-States, for such innocent pursuits as murder and rape and armed

robbery and other such minor offenses that every politically correct

person knows are not the fault of the perpetrator, but rather the fault

of everyone else.

After all, the bleeding hearts pointed out, if the homecoming queen

won't date a person, why, rape the bitch, right? Or if somebody has a

nicer car or newer tennis shoes or flashier jacket, if they have a

larger TV set, or a CD player, or a better boom box or Walkman, why, it

made perfect sense for that less-fortunate person to go out and steal a

gun to blow somebody away. For they all knew that the mental scars left

by these horribly traumatic inequalities would certainly mark for life

the afflicted individuals, and positively justified violent acts against

such an uncaring society.

So after the liberals in Congress ended months of hand-wringing,

snorting, and weeping, and trod to shreds a ton of hankies, and after

forty-seven committees had concluded five thousand five hundred and

ninety-three meetings and fact-finding junkets (all at taxpayer

expense), the central government reached its decision: the Tri-States

must be compelled to cease and desist and disband and stop all this

unpatriotic foolishness.

10 Derisive laughter came from the citizens of Tri-States, who, through

their elected leader, Ben Raines, told the President of the United

States and the members of both houses of Congress to go fuck themselves.

Well! those august beings snitted with a limp flip of their wrists.

Nobody tells Congress to do that!

Immediately the government of the United States declared war on the

Tri-States. After extensive and expensive effort, they thought they had

wiped out all those malcontents who had the nerve to think they knew

more about running a government than the professional politicians.

Wrong!

Ben Raines gathered a handful of survivors around him and proceeded to

rebuild his army. Once he had accomplished this, the Rebels set out to

kick the crap out of the thugs and bullyboys the central government sent

after them. With victory came fame.

The Rebel philosophy spread and the Rebel army grew rapidly. Right when

Ben Raines and the Rebels had seized control of the central government,

tragedy of another sort struck the world. Like the horror of the Middle

Ages, a rat-borne plague spread through the world. When it was over,

there remained not a single stable government anywhere in the world.

For a few years, anarchy reigned. Gangs of hoodlums and warlords ruled

the cities and countryside, wreaking havoc and misery on the battle-worn

and weary population. Everywhere except inside the borders of the new

Tri-States, that is.

Ben Raines took his Rebels to the Deep South. There the rednecks and the

black racist juju artists came on every bit as ferociously as the

depraved warlords of the north and west. When the Rebels had their

sector cleaned out and running smoothly, they began the job of sweeping

out the dregs of the nation, coast to coast and border to border. It

would take them years.

11 Meanwhile, down in isolated areas of South America, an even more

deadly and virulent cancer had metastasized. Field Marshal Jesus Dieguez

Mendoza Hoffman had built and trained an army of black- and

brown-shirted Nazis. Like himself, many of Hoffman's officer corps came

from the result of fraternization between the local ladies and the

"pure" Aryan survivors of the collapse of the Third Reich who had fled

to Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, and Paraguay.

Now the New Army of Liberation, as Hoffman styled his Wehrmacht,

controlled most of the continent, Central America and had inroads in

Mexico. Their Ftihrer had given them a new mission: to conquer what was

left of North America and reeducate its citizens . . . those that would

be left after a bloody purge of men, women, and children they considered

to be untermenschlich, subhuman.

How, one could ask, could Nazism once more rear up its ugly face and be

on the march, its ranks tightly closed, goose-stepping its way north? It

all had to do with the infusion of Latin American genes into the Aryan

supremacy madness.

The new leader of Hitler's rantings and ravings was much more subtle in

his methods of indoctrination. Within the ranks of the New Army of

Liberation could be found men and women of all races, all nationalities,

all colors. Hoffman's mad psyche told him he must use people of all

colors in order to win. After the battle was won, he shrewdly advised

his backers and civilian bureaucrats, then he would start his new

putsch, which, as the Night of the Long Knives had once purified the

ranks of the SA, would rid his own Sturmabteilungen of racial and mental

inferiors. Yet, in order to do that, once the battle was won, he would

need the help of a certain type of North American ... a rather ignorant

and bigoted type of person.

Unfortunately that type still existed in large numbers in North America.

People who hated "spicks" and "jigs" and "kikes" and "slopes." Men,

women, and

12 even children, who lusted after their mythical Aryan ideal. Hoffman

felt confident they would rally to his cause.

So the modern-day Hitler invaded Mexico and the United States. His

superior numbers and blitzkrieg tactics overwhelmed General Payon and

his Army of Mexico. General Payon never really had a chance, because

those who remained of the aristocratic upper class of Mexico, who were

also the government and thus controlled the army, fawned on the Nazis

and treated them as liberators. The Rebels had hardly begun their task

of restoring order and steady commerce to the United States, after their

prolonged od-yssey over the oceans and continents of the world, but they

had soon found themselves facing the Nazi menace on the Rio Grande.

The massive size of the invasion force caused Ben Raines to break his

light divisions into smaller units and fight a delaying, guerrilla

battle against Hoffman. His watchword: "Make them pay for every inch

they take."

From the outset, the storm troopers of Hoffman's Army of Liberation paid

dearly. Even with the support of American Nazis, rednecks, and juju

leaders, Hoffman soon found himself starring in the punchline role of

that old British Army joke, with his thumb up a tiger's arse.

In short, Ben Raines and his Rebels, with a little help from unexpected

allies, kicked the living shit out of Superman Hoffman and his Nazis. In

the initial engagements not a Rebel life was lost, and only a handful

wounded. Later, as Hoffman expanded his foothold into the breadbasket of

America, it got grimmer. Even so, Hoffman's Nazi army lost ten to

fifteen men for each Rebel wounded, a hundred or more for each one

killed. At last Ben concluded that they simply could not fight worth a

damn and had an idiot for a commander.

He turned up the heat and soon had a total rout on

13 his hands. Nazis fled singly, in pairs, in platoon-sized units, and

finally entire divisions surrendered. Those that remained fled in terror

to the Pacific Northwest, or split for South America with the only

seasoned military mind, General Frederich Rasbach. A few remained in Mexico.

Ben and his Rebels soon encountered and wiped out pockets of stubborn

resistance. As the number reported fleeing the "free" part of the United

States to join Hoffman grew, they knew full well that the Rebel army

would have to contend with the Nazi monster again.

So they rolled up their sleeves and made ready.

What they didn't know was how soon they would once again be thrown into

the crucible of war.

15

"The tree of Liberty must oft-times be watered with the blood of patriots."

Benjamin Franklin

Ben Raines stood outside his Hummer. A lot more gray showed at the

temples of his black hair; more than a decade of combat accounted for

that. His jaw had lost none of its firmness, nor had the square cut of

his chin diminished. His eyes squinted as he looked over a wide expanse

of rollinjg landscape that had once more filled with undulating fields

of amber waves of grain. This wheat had been planted by farmers living

peacefully under Rebel protection. Big fists on hips, Ben turned to

study the land. He and his headquarters team, Ben knew, were situated

not far from what used to be Concordia, Kansas.

Their Humvee was parked along the cracked two-lane U.S. Highway 81. They

had just come off old 1-135. Ben stood alone, except for Jersey, on a

knoll overlooking the rippling prairie. Somehow it ... calmed him.

He needed the calming, considering what Intelligence had compiled in

their latest summary. It consisted of three items, none of which pleased

him. Carefully, he combed through them again.

First, Field Marshal Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman had rallied his

demoralized troops in eastern

16 Oregon and northern Idaho. The mountain valleys and passes to the

east were held by the fanatic survivors of SS Brigadefilhrer Hans

Brodermann. Something new had been added: reinforcing Brodermann were

the American SS counterparts under SS Hauptsturm-bannfuhrer Peter

Volmer, who led the ambitiously named Leibstandarte Hoffman. Volmer had

been a neo-Nazi skinhead before the Great War, raised by Nazi-loving

parents to hate since infancy. Peter had sworn a sacred oath on his SS

dagger to bring to his commander the head of Ben Raines.

Second, General Frederich Rasbach was reported as having taken ship from

South American seaports, destination unknown. It had taken him only six

weeks to reorganize an army.

And third, what scattered meteorological data were available indicated

that unseasonably early storms were building in Canada and the Pacific

Northwest. They could threaten to close the passes in the Rockies and

Big Horn Mountains.

"We can't afford that," Ben said aloud at this last reflection.

"Sir?" Jersey prompted, no longer surprised at Ben starting a

conversation in the apparent middle.

"If we're compelled to wait until spring to dig out Hoffman and his

Nazis, we'll have lost the campaign. I have an uncomfortable feeling

that Jesus Hoffman is not going to wait for warmer weather."

"Yeah," Jersey agreed. "Like now he has all these homegrown scumbags to

help him. We've been in the Pacific Northwest before, General. For my

part, he's welcome to winter in Oregon." Jersey shifted the M-16 in her

hands to give an impression of severe shivers.

Ben's thoughts returned to how things had once been around here and how

they had become that way again under Rebel rule. No, not rule, exactly,

more like guidance. Only now the Rebel troops had left, called up to

fight Hoffman and his New Army of

17 Liberation. Ominously, the fields were abandoned, void of people. A

faint brush of cold crossed Ben's heart. Chaos could return again.

Too bad Hoffman had chosen to pass this way. Too bad there had been so

many Americans willing to follow him. He wondered which ones were

responsible for the missing farmers, their wives and families. Static

crackled from the backpack radio Corrie had sitting on the seat of the

Hummer, its antenna stuck out a window.

"Roger that, Far Eyes." She shot a hard expression toward Ben. "Scouts

on the horn, sir."

Ben sighed. He never had time anymore to look at the beautiful and

peaceful. With measured, catlike strides, Ben returned to the Humvee. He

filled his hand with the mike. "This is Eagle, go," he announced, using

his longtime call sign.

"Eagle, this is Far Eyes. We have contact with the local citizens from

around this area. At least those who didn't join the Nazis. Over."

"I copy that, Far Eyes. What is their Twenty? Over."

"It's bad, Eagle. A mass, open grave, just outside Bellville, over."

Ben's brows knitted. He had dreaded something like this since first

becoming aware of the emptiness and quiet of this farming region. "We'll

join you ASAP, Far Eyes. Oh, any fix on those homegrown Nazis?"

"Ah, yes, sir. Right across the line in Nebraska. They seem to be

holding some sort of rally. Over."

"We'll tend to them soon enough. Eagle out." To Gooper, his faithful

driver of so long a time, "Fire it up, Coop. You have maps that show

Bellville?"

"Yes, General." Coop delved into a map case, not unlike those once

carried by airline captains. "Here it is. Thirty miles north of where

Concordia used to be."

"Good. Take us there, and don't waste time on the

18 scenic route."

"You got it, General," Cooper sang out.

Jersey was last to enter the Hummer, her dark hair abristle, eyes

cutting from point to point. Her small stature made her a hard target

for anyone over three hundred meters off, but her superb marksmanship

could easily outdistance the 350-meter maximum effective range of the

M-16. And do it by a good 175 meters. Her round, firm bottom had barely

touched the seat when Cooper made the Humvee roar to life and spirited

motion.

"Maniac!" Jersey shouted at him as she tumbled against the backrest.

Field Marshal Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman sat behind the wide ironwood

expanse of his conscripted desk, his feet up on an open drawer and his

tunic unbuttoned. A fire crackled cheerily in the large, fieldstone

fireplace of a large, rambling, ranch-style house that had miraculously

escaped the ravages of time and turmoil. It had the good fortune of

being located on the shore of Wallowa Lake outside Enterprise, Oregon.

Isolated in the Wallowa Mountain Basin, the small horse ranch had been

by-passed by the plunderers, creepies, and even Ben Raines's Rebels.

Field Marshal Hoffman listened with intense interest to the reports of

his staff. Personnel came first. Col. Rupert Herd, the G-l, stood in

place at his chair and consulted a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"SS Brigadefuhrer Brodermann has been reinforced with three thousand

American Party members, they call themselves the SS Leibstandarte

Hoffman regiment." Everyone effected not to hear the snicker from Maj.

Karl Richter, Hoffman's senior aide. "They are commanded by

Hauptstandartenfuhrer Peter Volmer."

"Ah, yes, the ambitious and idealistic American who has kept the flame

of our Fuhrer's dream alive in this country. I must say that I am

impressed by him,"

19 Hoffman added the praise generously.

"There are reports that some four to five thousand more American Nazis

or sympathizers are en route here as we speak. Not counting them, we

have an effective force of somewhat over ten thousand fighting men. Ten

thousand three hundred ninety-seven, to be exact. There are, of course,

the usual support elements and air."

Hoffman gestured to his most junior aide to refill his teacup. Thank

you, Herd. You have greatly restored my vigor for the continuation of

this contest with that barbarian, Ben Raines. Now, what can you tell me,

my old friend, Joaquin, to make my day even better?"

Col. Joaquin Webber rose and dusted his palms together. He spoke from

memory. "Indications are that morale has disintegrated in Mexico. The

scorched-earth policy of both sides has left the peons starving. They

are ripe to join whoever it is that first offers to fill their bellies."

He paused, eyed the delicate bone china teacup, and wished it was filled

with schnapps. "The Rebels, under Ben Raines, have completed the

eradication of those pockets of resistance south and east of Kansas."

"Where is Ben Raines?" Hoffman coldly asked his G-2. His short stature,

puffed-out chest, Hitlerian mustache, and lock of black hair over his

left eye made Hoffman a ludicrous caricature of the former master of the

Third Reich. Although no one would dare to tell Hoffman that.

"In company with a reinforced battalion, screened by scouts, Raines has

outstripped the main Rebel advance, General. He has raced a third of the

way across Kansas and then turned north. It is believed that

concentrations of our American allies can be found in what was Nebraska

and South Dakota, headed our way. Reins must be after them."

"Well, he can't have them," Hoffman snapped petulantly.

"He won't, sir," the G-2 assured him. "Peter Volmer

20 has departed your headquarters to make personal visits to these

American units. He will contact you by secure radio net following this

staff meeting."

"Go on."

"By our best estimates, the Rebels have broken off contact with General

Payon to the south, and are spread on an entirely too thin line across

the Midwest and Plains states. It is our estimate that they now

constitute no immediate threat to us, nor in the near future."

Hoffman cut him a gimlet eye. "You're sure of this? Your predecessor

made the mistake of underestimating Ben Raines too often. You know the

near disaster that caused."

Webber bristled. "I made a careful study of Ben Raines, Hen

Feldmarschall. I am certain I know his quirks far better than the

officer who held my post previously."

"Then pray continue," Hoffman said coolly.

"There is little more," Webber advised, and launched into the minutiae

of the intelligence analysis.

The G-3 came next. He gave information on the status of training and

condition of equipment. He also suggested tactfully that Hoffman

announce his strategic and tactical requirements soon so that plans

could be drawn and orders cut. Hoffman said he would, after he talked

with Brodermann and Volmer.

Food supplies and fresh water were the subject of the G-4. He noted that

the stripping of farms had provided ample fresh meat for all troops, as

well as eggs, butter, and milk for the staff. In all, Hoffman felt quite

pleased with their accomplishments. Smiling, he passed around the plate

of fancy tea cakes.

A strident beep-beep! on the command net advised Corrie that she had an

incoming message. The Hummer whizzed along the cracked, uneven surface of

21 U.S. 81 at an acceptable speed of 45 mph. Corrie keyed the mike and

spoke quietly.

"This is the Eagle's Nest, go."

A built-in scrambler unit converted the twitters and chirps into

understandable language to which Corrie listened for five seconds before

switching on the speaker unit. "It's Overseer," Corrie identified the

Headquarters Company Intelligence radio-intercept van. "They're picking

up a lot of traffic on Nazi freqs, General," she explained before the

voice of the distant radio operator cut into the rumble of the Humvee.

". . . seem to be gathering in large numbers along a line from Geneva to

Silver Creek. Best estimate, if they ever got together, some five

thousand. There's more to the north, in old South Dakota. Over."

"What's the nature of the traffic? Over," Ben queried.

"Mostly pep talks. There's something about some big wheel coming to give

them the word from on high. We haven't been able to figure that one out

as yet, Eagle. D'you want a verbatim?"

"Not at this time, Overseer. I'll get a briefing from the Two Shed

later," Ben dismissed. "Anything hot comes along, bump me like yesterday."

"Roger that, Eagle. Oh-oh, have something priority one coming in now.

There's a fix on it, seems to be coming from somewhere around close to you."

FMJ rounds rattled off the armored sides of the Hummer to emphasize the

words of the radioman from G-2. "There seems to be some hostile intent - "

"That's a rog-O, Overseer," Ben said dryly over the trashcan-lid clangor

of the light auto fire.

Yellowish flickers spurted from the weapons in the hands of camo-clad

figures on the ATVs that raced across a pasture toward the highway and

the Hummer that made so tempting a target. Already Jersey had her M-16

pointed out the window and cut off crisp, three-round bursts. More of

the snarling, balloon-tired little vehicles appeared on the opposite side

22 of U.S. 81. Ben unlimbered his old faithful .45 Thompson and let go

on full rock-and-roll from the fat drum magazine.

Flame rippled from the slots of the compensator as the subgun spit fat

.45 slugs at a line of five advancing ATVs. Ben watched one Nazi get

flung away from the back of the three-wheeler as he and the driver took

rounds that ripped and tore. Undirected, the racing all-terrain vehicle

crashed into the one on its left.

It upset, the gas tank ruptured, and the hot engine did the rest. A huge

balloon of red-orange flame engulfed both rigs. A screaming human form,

wrapped in a blanket of fire, ran from the conflagration. Ben ended his

agony with a quick three-shot burst.

"Awh, shit, there's more of 'em, General," Cooper advised as he crested

a low swale and saw a roadblock of old, rusted cars ahead.

Ben checked it out, gritted his teeth. "Crash through it, Coop."

"Yes, sir." Cooper didn't question the ability of the beefed-up Humvee

to do as General Ben Raines wanted. He'd done it all too often before.

Bullets splattered against the thick windshield and Cooper gave brief

thanks for the R&D staff at Base Camp One who had come up with a

passable substitute for Lexan. Only trouble was that after a month or so

in the field, it tended to pit and spiderweb when hit by fast-moving

slugs. Now he would have to look around the edges and guide the hurtling

Hummer in the bargain.

Some bargain, Coop thought as another slash of incoming opaqued the

whole right side of the windshield. "Everybody brace; we're gonna hit

hard," he sang out a moment before the welded I-beam that had replaced

the usual bumper slammed into corroded metal. It yielded like a willing

woman to her lover. Back when they were producing these things, Cooper

thought frivolously, the Japs must have made

23 the body panels out of old beer cans.

Then the obstruction that flung jagged bits into the air gave a lurch

William W Johnstone - Ashes 18 - Flames From the Ashes (txt)

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