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Synopsis
Rebels wage war again a Nazi madman, a Latin American warlord, and a corrupt president in a post-apocalyptic desert—from a USA Today –bestselling author. Under the command of Ben Raines, the Southern United States of America have defeated all comers—and carved out a stronghold in the Southwest desert. But now, two powerful forces are crashing in against the rebels from the north and the south. A cataclysmic war on two fronts has begun... The glorified thugs of the New World Order have seized Mexico City, and Bruno Bottger's mercenary army has joined forces with the Nicaraguan and Honduran troops of former Sandinista Perro Loco. Meanwhile, U.S. President Claire Osterman is attacking by land and air from the North. Now, Ben Raines has no choice but to strike back with everything he's got. In a firestorm of bullets, bombs, and a new generation of horrifying tactical weapons, one small army must stand against two enemies...and the odds are just about even. Thirty-first in the long-running series!
Release date: March 16, 2010
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Print pages: 324
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Warriors From The Ashes
William W. Johnstone
Perro Loco’s army is defeated in its attempt to take Mexico City, and his forces have been pushed back to their stronghold at the old Mexican naval base at Pariso near Villahermosa on Mexico’s east coast.4
General Jaime Pena jumped to attention when Perro Loco, followed by Jim Strunk and Paco Valdez, entered the commanding officer’s office at the Mexican Army base at Villahermosa. Pena had pulled his troops back to this location after the disaster on the Pan American highway.
“Buenos dias,” Pena said, saluting smartly.
Loco gave him a look, his eyes flat as he sat behind the desk in the office.
“General Pena, would you ask your second in command to come in, please.”
“Certainly, comandante.”
Pena stepped to the adjoining door, which led to the officers’ wardroom, and called, “Colonel Gonzalez, would you come in here?”
A tall, swarthy man, with a handlebar mustache and a knife scar on his right cheek that coursed down his face to the comer of his mouth, entered. He nodded at Loco and stood at attention, his back to the wall.
“Now, General Pena, please be so kind as to explain to me why you failed in your mission to take Mexico City,” Loco said calmly.
Pena looked from Strunk to Valdez, who were standing behind Loco on either side.
“But, comandante, there is only one serviceable road northward through this miserable country, and it was heavily mined and defended.” He spread his arms wide. “I needed more air support, but the Mexicans had ground-to-air missiles and shot the few helicopters I had at my disposal out of the air.”
Loco nodded, then glanced at Strunk. “Jaime, how much does a helicopter cost?”
“Several millions of dollars, comandante.”
“And an APC or a HumVee?”
“Many thousands of dollars, comandante.”
“And a portable mine detector?”
Strunk smiled, shaking his head sadly. “Only a few hundred dollars, comandante.”
“Why did you not think that the road might be mined, General, and take appropriate precautions? Surely, losing a few men with mine detectors would have been preferable to losing” —he bent his head and studied a sheaf of papers on the desk—“two helicopters, four APCs, three HumVees, and four hundred and fifty-six soldiers, not to mention General Juan Dominguez.”
Pena, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and run down his cheeks to drip off his chin, lowered his head. “We moved so fast, comandante, I did not think the Mexicans would have had time to mine the road.”
Loco sighed heavily. “That is the truest thing you’ve said today, General,” he said. “You did not think!”
“I am sorry, comandante,” Pena said, his eyes on the floor in front of him.
Loco slipped a .45-caliber automatic out of his pocket and aimed across the desk.
Pena glanced up, his eyes widening and his mouth opening to protest as Loco fired. The pistol exploded and the bullet entered Pena’s forehead, snapping his head back and blowing the back of his skull out, showering the wall behind him with blood and brains. Pena’s body collapsed in a heap in front of Loco’s desk.
Loco cut his eyes to Colonel Gonzalez. “What is your first name, Colonel?”
Gonzalez swallowed, the scar on his cheek pulling the corner of his mouth up in a caricature of a grin. “Enrique, comandante.”
“Enrique Gonzalez, you are now promoted to general and will be in charge of our forces in Mexico. Is that satisfactory?”
Gonzalez glanced at Pena’s body on the floor, trails of smoke still rising from his empty skull. He nodded rapidly. “Sí, comandante.”
“And you are aware of the penalties for failure?”
Gonzalez continued to nod, unable to take his eyes off Pena’s corpse and its right foot, which was still twitching. “Sí, comandante.”
Loco stood up and holstered his weapon. “Good. Then let us go to the communications room and contact President Osterman of the United States. I fear we are going to need some of her more modem equipment to take Mexico City.”
President Claire Osterman hung up the phone after over an hour discussing with Perro Loco how his forces had been stymied on their journey toward Mexico City due to lack of air support and strong resistance from the Mexican forces.
“Jesus,” she said, “God save me from Central American desperadoes who think they’re generals.”
She looked at her team of advisors arrayed before her. General Stevens, Harlan Millard, and Herb Knoff were sitting in chairs in the commanding officer’s quarters of Fort Benjamin Harris in Indianapolis.
She winced as rumbling sounds and vibrations shook the ceiling. “Herb, can’t we quiet that infernal noise?”
He shook his head. “Madame President, you ordered the removal of the wreckage of the building overhead yourself. The bulldozers cannot do that without making some noise.”
“All right, all right,” she said testily. She was still pissed off that Otis Warner and General Joe Winter had been allowed to escape the attack on the fort the day before.
“How is everything going with my resuming command of the country?” she asked Stevens.
General Bradley Stevens, Jr., nodded. “Very well, Madame President. The Armed Services have all acknowledged your right to continue as head of the government, and the rank and file of the Army is behind you one hundred percent. A few of the officers whose loyalty was questionable have been replaced with men I can trust, but overall, it’s going just fine.”
“And the country?”
“A massive propaganda campaign has been undertaken,” Millard said. “All of the media are cooperating, as usual. We are informing the people that the coup attempt to overthrow you was orchestrated by Otis Warner with the complicity of Ben Raines and the SUSA. In the absence of any voices telling them otherwise, I think they’ll buy it.”
“Good,” she said. “Now we have two things to do in addition to restarting the war against the SUSA. One, we have to transport some equipment to Perro Loco down in Mexico. He has control of the Navy base at Pariso near his command at Villahermosa. General Stevens, we need to send a transport ship down there with some helicopters, tanks, APCs, and whatever else he needs. I’ll leave the coordination of that to you and your men.”
“Yes, Madame President.”
“The second thing I’ve got to do is get him some help with his soldiers and command structure. He’s just too damned stupid to run a war.”
“How do you propose to do that, Claire?” Millard asked.
She glanced at a folder on her desk that read TOP SECRET, INTEL on the cover. “I have here an intel report on Bruno Bottger.”
“Bruno Bottger?” Stevens asked. “I thought Raines killed him in Africa a few years back.”
She shook her head. “No, as it turns out, Bottger escaped to the island of Madagascar. He stayed there for a year or so, recovering from wounds he’d received in his escape. Then he made his way to South America. Intel has found out he’s used his vast fortune to hire an army of mercenaries with the idea of reattacking Ben Raines at some point in the future.”
Stevens shook his head. “I don’t know, Claire. Getting involved with Bottger will be risky. The man is a zealot and a Nazi. He will be very tough to control.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Brad. We won’t have to control him. He hates Ben Raines so much he’ll jump at any chance to get revenge on him. I plan to get him and his mercenary army to join Perro Loco by promising him unlimited access to our weapons and technology. I’ll also promise him he may have Mexico as a prize for his new Nazi state if he manages to conquer it.”
“But, Claire,” Millard protested, “you’ve also promised Mexico to Perro Loco.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” she said, a smile curling her lips. “Well, in the event they are successful, they’ll just have to fight it out to see who ends up on top down there.”
Stevens nodded, seeing where she was headed. “Yeah, and after they’ve weakened each other fighting it out, we’ll step in and take over from whoever’s left.”
Claire grinned. “Brad, you’re a man after my own heart.”
Bruno Bottger sat on the terrace of his villa on the Ilha de Sao Sebastiao, a small island off the coast of South America, and watched the sun set over the ocean.
He had a glass of German white wine in his right hand, and used his left to gently massage the massive scar tissue around his eyes and cheeks, while his mind was filled with thoughts of a certain General Dorfmann and the day he was forced to run for his life....
“Tell General Field Marshal Bottger that General Dorfmann is here from Berlin. I must speak to him at once.”
Bruno Bottger heard the voice through a crack in his office door, which led to a secured waiting area in his underground bunker where his private office was protected from air attack.
Why is Dorfmann here? he wondered, cringing inwardly.
Dorfmann commanded the Gestapo in New Germany. The New Nazi Party governed most of what had once been Europe, now held in an iron grip by Nazi forces.
Dorfmann only answered to Kaiser Wilhelm II, political leader of New Germany. Bruno feared only one thing from Dorfmann ... that he might discover his racial impurity, his Jewish mother, even though Bruno had made certain all her birth and death records had been destroyed. But Dorfmann was tenacious, always digging to expose enemies of the New World Order.
While Bruno held a higher military rank, and commanded the New World Order Army, he continued to worry that somehow Dorfmann would discover his dark secret, even though Bruno’s New World Army was more or less politically independent of New Nazi Germany.
No one told Bruno Bottger what to do, quite simply because he held the power, the military might to crush anyone who stood in his way . . . or had, until this upstart Rebel Army led by General Ben Raines came to Africa.
Raines was proving to be a more difficult adversary than Bruno thought in the beginning. Among the worst bits of news, Raines’s forces, headed by that bitch Jackie Malone, had wiped out one of Bruno’s elite Special Forces squads in Zimbabwe.
The devil woman’s troops had killed them down to the last man, including the squad’s commander, Major Cheli, a feat Bruno had thought was impossible. Cheli had been among his best recon specialists in difficult terrain. To take him and his Bantu scouts by surprise implied an expertise in jungle warfare Bottger could only envy, and fear.
Bruno’s trusted bodyguard, Rudolf Hessner, stuck his head through the doorway. “General Dorfmann is here from Berlin to see you.”
“Show him in.”
General Dorfmann entered the expansive office where an old Nazi flag adorned Bruno’s back wall. Dorfmann saluted, his stocky, muscular body still fit even though he was well past the age of fifty. He wore a copy of the old Nazi uniform, as did all New Nazi soldiers, right down to the knee-high black leather boots and bill cap.
Bruno merely nodded, not returning Dorfmann’s salute as a show of superiority. Neither did he stand up behind his desk, giving Dorfmann an indifferent stare.
“What brings to you Pretoria, Herr Dorfmann?” he asked, feigning indifference, as if whatever it was could hold no significance for him.
Without being asked, Dorfmann took a seat across the desk and removed his cap, pushing a hand through his naturally blond hair, pale blue eyes riveted on Bruno.
“A matter of great urgency,” he said in his heavy German accent. “Word of several military defeats for the New World Army has reached Berlin. This Tri-States Army has the kaiser worried, wondering if they will turn toward New Germany sometime in the future.”
“I do not intend to let that happen, Herr Dorfmann.”
Dorfmann nodded, plainly unconvinced. “We have learned a great deal about this General Raines from a man who fought him in the Western Hemisphere, a Simon Border. Border’s mercenary army was soundly defeated by Raines. These Tri-States Rebels grow stronger, acquiring more equipment and more followers. Their so-called Manifesto continues to attract people from all over the world.”
“I’ve heard of this Manifesto,” Bruno said, suspecting there was more behind Dorfmann’s unexpected visit. He was, after all, Gestapo, not a military field commander. Bruno still wondered why Dorfmann was here, and if he posed a threat to him.
“It has tremendous appeal to the oppressed, to starving men who believe in the foolish tenets of democracy,” said Dorfmann. “The SUSA has been built on these principles. But Raines has military power as well as gilt-edged promises to offer believers, and now it appears he has too much military strength for you to contain him. As I said, the kaiser is worried.”
Bruno gave Dorfmann an empty smile. “Tell the kaiser not to worry. All is going according to plan. I am luring Raines and his Tri-Staters across the continent toward South Africa. Then we shall cut off all his sources of supply. He is doing exactly what I had hoped he would do.”
Bottger yawned, as if bored by the conversation. “I have pulled my most effective troops back to the South African borders, in order to attack Raines after his supplies are no longer forthcoming.”
“But the losses? We hear of so many of your defeats at the hands of the Rebels lately....”
“Soldiers must be expendable to serve the cause, General Dorfmann. Most of the men we have lost to Raines have been these simpleminded African natives . . . Bantu tribesmen and especially Zulus. They are continually at war with each other, and when I offered the most powerful of the tribal warlords a handsome sum of money to fight for our cause, the greedy bastards accepted, as I knew they would. They die quickly, and willingly, believing they are making themselves rich. Very few live to collect the wages I’ve offered, and those who do will be exterminated when we unleash the balance of our chemical and germ weapons on them, as we pull out of Africa, to cleanse it ... after we destroy Raines and his Rebels.”
Bottger waved a dismissive hand, as if the deaths of the natives meant less than nothing to him.
“As you know,” Bruno continued, “our ultimate goal is racial purity on this planet, as it was when the great Adolf Hitler unified most of Europe. Had it not been for the damned Americans’ intervention against the Führer, we would live in a perfect world where no genetic impurities exist.”
Dorfmann glanced over his shoulder. “May I close the door so we can speak privately?”
Bruno felt an adrenaline rush of fear course through him, making his heart pound like a trip-hammer. Was Dorfmann about to reveal something regarding Bruno’s own racial mix? Had he discovered Bruno’s Jewish lineage?
“Of course, General. Close the door if you wish.” As he said it, Bruno pressed a hidden button under his desk to alert Rudolf to the possibility of trouble.
Dorfmann got up and closed the door gently. Bruno noted he was carrying a Luger in a holster tied to his waist. Dorfmann sat back down, giving Bruno a piercing look.
“You mentioned racial purity before,” Dorfmann began. “I wanted to inform you of something, in strictest confidence, of course.”
“Of course,” Bruno said, sensing the direction Dorfmann was headed, wondering how much Dorfmann suspected, and how much he actually knew.
“There have been rumors in high circles having to do with you.”
“High circles? Who do you mean? And what are these rumors?”
Dorfmann continued to stare at him coldly. The Gestapo was a place for men with ice in their veins, and Dorfmann fit this mold perfectly. He would have served Hitler well, Bruno thought.
“The kaiser himself has mentioned it to me, as has General Borgdahl. Someone was looking into your past . . . for reasons I do not know. It seems nothing can be found about one side of your family. There are no records concerning your mother. It is as if she did not exist. The kaiser and General Borgdahl wondered if you can explain this, and give me some information about your mother so I can inform those who need to know.”
Bruno tensed, but tried not to show it, reaching for a desk drawer. General Borgdahl was head of Schutztaffel, the Blackshirts, a death squad enforcing policies within New Germany by means of executions, killing enemies of the state.
“My mother was a simple woman,” Bruno began, a well-rehearsed story he’d told German officials before. “A peasant woman from Bavaria. She was born at home and never registered with the government because the family was so poor, simple farmers who did not understand the Order.”
As he spoke he took a counterfeit file from his desk, containing forged records of the birth and death of a Gertrude Fest, his fictitious mother.
“I did, however, finally locate a few documents in the basement of a building in a small village in Bavaria. Here are my mother’s documents, what I was able to find.”
He tossed the file in front of Dorfmann, waiting, assuming a bored smile, as if he were totally unconcerned about the inquiry and Dorfmann’s veiled threats.
Dorfmann did not bother picking up the file, his eyes still glued on Bruno. “Come now, General Field Marshal Bottger. Those records are false.”
“False? Explain yourself.” Bruno sat up straight in his chair. He was not used to his word being questioned.
“Your mother was not Gertrude Fest. I know who she was, or should I say, I also know what she was?”
“You must explain, and please tell me who else you have told about whatever you suspect.”
Dorfmann smiled wickedly, enjoying himself. Bruno’s right hand moved closer to the Steyer automatic pistol he kept in the same desk drawer.
“As you say,” Dorfmann went on, “there are no records. However, I did find an old woman who knew your mother from childhood. I searched for a good many months to uncover this information.”
“What information?”
Dorfmann’s smile broadened. “That your mother was a Jew.”
Bruno knew what he had to do, what must be done. “I will deny it, of course, since it is not true.”
“But it is true, Herr Bottger. I took down a statement from the old woman myself. Your mother was Gertrude Goldman, not Fest as you have claimed. She was even the daughter of a rabbi.”
“Utter nonsense. The old woman is lying.”
“No. She gave me exact details as to your birth, when and where. However, all records had been removed. I’m quite sure you removed them personally, so no one would know of your genetic weakness . . . impurity, I should say.”
“Have you informed the kaiser or Borgdahl of these false charges in order to defame me in Berlin?”
“Not yet. I wanted to strike a bargain with you first. I am sure you will agree.”
“What sort of bargain, Herr Dorfmann?” Bruno asked, sitting back in his chair, relaxed now that he had decided what was to happen.
“I want to leave New Germany and join your Army. In the end you will control most of the world, in my opinion, unless this General Raines is your undoing. I wish to be on the winning side when these wars are over.”
Now it was Bruno’s turn to smile. “You would become a traitor to your own people, Herr Dorfmann?”
“You know precisely what I mean. Calling me a traitor is using the wrong word. You are German, even if you are not of pure blood, fighting for New Germany as well as your New World Order. It is simply that I wish to be a part of what you are doing.”
“And you’ll use blackmail in order to do it?”
“Again, you have used the wrong word.”
Bruno pulled out his Steyer, aiming it across the desk. “I call it blackmail. Where is this statement you were given by the old woman?”
“I left it in Berlin for safekeeping, a form of insurance policy. I am surprised that you feel it necessary to point a gun at me.” Dorfmann’s eyes showed no fear, as though he was confident of his position in this tendered bargain.
“Where in Berlin, Herr Dorfmann? Your life hangs in the balance.”
“In a bank safe-deposit box. Only one person has the key.”
“And who might that be?”
“You don’t really expect me to tell you, Herr Bottger. I would be at your mercy. And I know you won’t shoot me either.”
Bruno felt sure he could locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box and open it, using force if necessary. Few people in New Germany would challenge him, not even the kaiser himself.
“Then I must inform you of your terrible mistake, Herr Dorfmann. You have misjudged me, thinking I could be blackmailed. I will find your safe-deposit box, and destroy the statement you were given. But you will not be here to see it happen.”
Now Dorfmann drew back, his cheeks paling. “You cannot think you will get away with killing me.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” Bruno replied.
As Dorfmann fumbled at the flap covering his Luger, Bruno pulled the trigger on his 9mm automatic.
Seven hollow-point slugs tore through General Dorfmann. His body jerked in the chair seven times. Blood splattered all over the floor of Bruno’s office, just as Rudolf Hessner came rushing in with his pistol in his fist.
Dorfmann slumped to the concrete floor, making a wet sound when his body landed in a growing pool of blood, groaning, his legs quivering in death spasms.
“I was listening over the intercom,” Rudolf said quietly, lowering the muzzle of his automatic. “But you did not say the code word to come in and kill him.”
“Take his body to the lower-level incinerator and cremate him. Wipe up the blood. Contact whoever flew him down here to Pretoria and tell them that General Dorfmann has not kept his appointment with me. Tell them I’m very concerned. Inform all guards to say that General Dorfmann has not been seen entering the compound. If he has a driver waiting, go up there and summon him to the lower level. You can say the general has asked to see him at once. Then kill him and put his body in the incinerator along with Herr Dorfmann.”
Rudolf bent down to lift Dorfmann’s legs, then hesitated. “He is still breathing.”
“What does it matter, Rudolf? Put him in the incinerator anyway.”
“I’ll have to get a body bag and carry him down. If I drag him he’ll leave blood all over the hallway and stairs.”
“Do whatever you must,” Bruno said, too bored now to bother with details, putting a full clip back in his Steyer. “Make sure you take care of his driver and any aides he brought with him. If you need help, ask Johann to come with you.”
“I won’t leave anyone alive who came here with him,” Rudolf promised.
As Rudolf left to get a body bag, Bruno gave Dorfmann a final glance. The head of the New German Gestapo, the only man in Germany who could discredit him for being part Jew, would be dead in a matter of minutes. Now, all Bruno had to do was fly to Berlin and locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box. Then he would have Rudolf kill the old woman who gave the statement to Dorfmann about his mother. His secret would remain buried forever. Ultimately, he would have to execute Rudolf for overhearing what Dorfmann said about his mother being a Jew.
Bottger’s knuckles grew white around the wineglass and he felt a stirring in his groin at the thoughts of how Dorfmann had looked at the moment of death—killing had always aroused him.
He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Shortly after disposing of Dorfmann’s body, he’d had to flee his headquarters for his very life, and that bastard Raines had shot his helicopter down in flames, burning his face off down to the bone.
Bottger, saved from certain death by Rudolf Hessner, had been too ill for too long to go after the safety-deposit box Dorfmann. . .
General Jaime Pena jumped to attention when Perro Loco, followed by Jim Strunk and Paco Valdez, entered the commanding officer’s office at the Mexican Army base at Villahermosa. Pena had pulled his troops back to this location after the disaster on the Pan American highway.
“Buenos dias,” Pena said, saluting smartly.
Loco gave him a look, his eyes flat as he sat behind the desk in the office.
“General Pena, would you ask your second in command to come in, please.”
“Certainly, comandante.”
Pena stepped to the adjoining door, which led to the officers’ wardroom, and called, “Colonel Gonzalez, would you come in here?”
A tall, swarthy man, with a handlebar mustache and a knife scar on his right cheek that coursed down his face to the comer of his mouth, entered. He nodded at Loco and stood at attention, his back to the wall.
“Now, General Pena, please be so kind as to explain to me why you failed in your mission to take Mexico City,” Loco said calmly.
Pena looked from Strunk to Valdez, who were standing behind Loco on either side.
“But, comandante, there is only one serviceable road northward through this miserable country, and it was heavily mined and defended.” He spread his arms wide. “I needed more air support, but the Mexicans had ground-to-air missiles and shot the few helicopters I had at my disposal out of the air.”
Loco nodded, then glanced at Strunk. “Jaime, how much does a helicopter cost?”
“Several millions of dollars, comandante.”
“And an APC or a HumVee?”
“Many thousands of dollars, comandante.”
“And a portable mine detector?”
Strunk smiled, shaking his head sadly. “Only a few hundred dollars, comandante.”
“Why did you not think that the road might be mined, General, and take appropriate precautions? Surely, losing a few men with mine detectors would have been preferable to losing” —he bent his head and studied a sheaf of papers on the desk—“two helicopters, four APCs, three HumVees, and four hundred and fifty-six soldiers, not to mention General Juan Dominguez.”
Pena, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and run down his cheeks to drip off his chin, lowered his head. “We moved so fast, comandante, I did not think the Mexicans would have had time to mine the road.”
Loco sighed heavily. “That is the truest thing you’ve said today, General,” he said. “You did not think!”
“I am sorry, comandante,” Pena said, his eyes on the floor in front of him.
Loco slipped a .45-caliber automatic out of his pocket and aimed across the desk.
Pena glanced up, his eyes widening and his mouth opening to protest as Loco fired. The pistol exploded and the bullet entered Pena’s forehead, snapping his head back and blowing the back of his skull out, showering the wall behind him with blood and brains. Pena’s body collapsed in a heap in front of Loco’s desk.
Loco cut his eyes to Colonel Gonzalez. “What is your first name, Colonel?”
Gonzalez swallowed, the scar on his cheek pulling the corner of his mouth up in a caricature of a grin. “Enrique, comandante.”
“Enrique Gonzalez, you are now promoted to general and will be in charge of our forces in Mexico. Is that satisfactory?”
Gonzalez glanced at Pena’s body on the floor, trails of smoke still rising from his empty skull. He nodded rapidly. “Sí, comandante.”
“And you are aware of the penalties for failure?”
Gonzalez continued to nod, unable to take his eyes off Pena’s corpse and its right foot, which was still twitching. “Sí, comandante.”
Loco stood up and holstered his weapon. “Good. Then let us go to the communications room and contact President Osterman of the United States. I fear we are going to need some of her more modem equipment to take Mexico City.”
President Claire Osterman hung up the phone after over an hour discussing with Perro Loco how his forces had been stymied on their journey toward Mexico City due to lack of air support and strong resistance from the Mexican forces.
“Jesus,” she said, “God save me from Central American desperadoes who think they’re generals.”
She looked at her team of advisors arrayed before her. General Stevens, Harlan Millard, and Herb Knoff were sitting in chairs in the commanding officer’s quarters of Fort Benjamin Harris in Indianapolis.
She winced as rumbling sounds and vibrations shook the ceiling. “Herb, can’t we quiet that infernal noise?”
He shook his head. “Madame President, you ordered the removal of the wreckage of the building overhead yourself. The bulldozers cannot do that without making some noise.”
“All right, all right,” she said testily. She was still pissed off that Otis Warner and General Joe Winter had been allowed to escape the attack on the fort the day before.
“How is everything going with my resuming command of the country?” she asked Stevens.
General Bradley Stevens, Jr., nodded. “Very well, Madame President. The Armed Services have all acknowledged your right to continue as head of the government, and the rank and file of the Army is behind you one hundred percent. A few of the officers whose loyalty was questionable have been replaced with men I can trust, but overall, it’s going just fine.”
“And the country?”
“A massive propaganda campaign has been undertaken,” Millard said. “All of the media are cooperating, as usual. We are informing the people that the coup attempt to overthrow you was orchestrated by Otis Warner with the complicity of Ben Raines and the SUSA. In the absence of any voices telling them otherwise, I think they’ll buy it.”
“Good,” she said. “Now we have two things to do in addition to restarting the war against the SUSA. One, we have to transport some equipment to Perro Loco down in Mexico. He has control of the Navy base at Pariso near his command at Villahermosa. General Stevens, we need to send a transport ship down there with some helicopters, tanks, APCs, and whatever else he needs. I’ll leave the coordination of that to you and your men.”
“Yes, Madame President.”
“The second thing I’ve got to do is get him some help with his soldiers and command structure. He’s just too damned stupid to run a war.”
“How do you propose to do that, Claire?” Millard asked.
She glanced at a folder on her desk that read TOP SECRET, INTEL on the cover. “I have here an intel report on Bruno Bottger.”
“Bruno Bottger?” Stevens asked. “I thought Raines killed him in Africa a few years back.”
She shook her head. “No, as it turns out, Bottger escaped to the island of Madagascar. He stayed there for a year or so, recovering from wounds he’d received in his escape. Then he made his way to South America. Intel has found out he’s used his vast fortune to hire an army of mercenaries with the idea of reattacking Ben Raines at some point in the future.”
Stevens shook his head. “I don’t know, Claire. Getting involved with Bottger will be risky. The man is a zealot and a Nazi. He will be very tough to control.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Brad. We won’t have to control him. He hates Ben Raines so much he’ll jump at any chance to get revenge on him. I plan to get him and his mercenary army to join Perro Loco by promising him unlimited access to our weapons and technology. I’ll also promise him he may have Mexico as a prize for his new Nazi state if he manages to conquer it.”
“But, Claire,” Millard protested, “you’ve also promised Mexico to Perro Loco.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” she said, a smile curling her lips. “Well, in the event they are successful, they’ll just have to fight it out to see who ends up on top down there.”
Stevens nodded, seeing where she was headed. “Yeah, and after they’ve weakened each other fighting it out, we’ll step in and take over from whoever’s left.”
Claire grinned. “Brad, you’re a man after my own heart.”
Bruno Bottger sat on the terrace of his villa on the Ilha de Sao Sebastiao, a small island off the coast of South America, and watched the sun set over the ocean.
He had a glass of German white wine in his right hand, and used his left to gently massage the massive scar tissue around his eyes and cheeks, while his mind was filled with thoughts of a certain General Dorfmann and the day he was forced to run for his life....
“Tell General Field Marshal Bottger that General Dorfmann is here from Berlin. I must speak to him at once.”
Bruno Bottger heard the voice through a crack in his office door, which led to a secured waiting area in his underground bunker where his private office was protected from air attack.
Why is Dorfmann here? he wondered, cringing inwardly.
Dorfmann commanded the Gestapo in New Germany. The New Nazi Party governed most of what had once been Europe, now held in an iron grip by Nazi forces.
Dorfmann only answered to Kaiser Wilhelm II, political leader of New Germany. Bruno feared only one thing from Dorfmann ... that he might discover his racial impurity, his Jewish mother, even though Bruno had made certain all her birth and death records had been destroyed. But Dorfmann was tenacious, always digging to expose enemies of the New World Order.
While Bruno held a higher military rank, and commanded the New World Order Army, he continued to worry that somehow Dorfmann would discover his dark secret, even though Bruno’s New World Army was more or less politically independent of New Nazi Germany.
No one told Bruno Bottger what to do, quite simply because he held the power, the military might to crush anyone who stood in his way . . . or had, until this upstart Rebel Army led by General Ben Raines came to Africa.
Raines was proving to be a more difficult adversary than Bruno thought in the beginning. Among the worst bits of news, Raines’s forces, headed by that bitch Jackie Malone, had wiped out one of Bruno’s elite Special Forces squads in Zimbabwe.
The devil woman’s troops had killed them down to the last man, including the squad’s commander, Major Cheli, a feat Bruno had thought was impossible. Cheli had been among his best recon specialists in difficult terrain. To take him and his Bantu scouts by surprise implied an expertise in jungle warfare Bottger could only envy, and fear.
Bruno’s trusted bodyguard, Rudolf Hessner, stuck his head through the doorway. “General Dorfmann is here from Berlin to see you.”
“Show him in.”
General Dorfmann entered the expansive office where an old Nazi flag adorned Bruno’s back wall. Dorfmann saluted, his stocky, muscular body still fit even though he was well past the age of fifty. He wore a copy of the old Nazi uniform, as did all New Nazi soldiers, right down to the knee-high black leather boots and bill cap.
Bruno merely nodded, not returning Dorfmann’s salute as a show of superiority. Neither did he stand up behind his desk, giving Dorfmann an indifferent stare.
“What brings to you Pretoria, Herr Dorfmann?” he asked, feigning indifference, as if whatever it was could hold no significance for him.
Without being asked, Dorfmann took a seat across the desk and removed his cap, pushing a hand through his naturally blond hair, pale blue eyes riveted on Bruno.
“A matter of great urgency,” he said in his heavy German accent. “Word of several military defeats for the New World Army has reached Berlin. This Tri-States Army has the kaiser worried, wondering if they will turn toward New Germany sometime in the future.”
“I do not intend to let that happen, Herr Dorfmann.”
Dorfmann nodded, plainly unconvinced. “We have learned a great deal about this General Raines from a man who fought him in the Western Hemisphere, a Simon Border. Border’s mercenary army was soundly defeated by Raines. These Tri-States Rebels grow stronger, acquiring more equipment and more followers. Their so-called Manifesto continues to attract people from all over the world.”
“I’ve heard of this Manifesto,” Bruno said, suspecting there was more behind Dorfmann’s unexpected visit. He was, after all, Gestapo, not a military field commander. Bruno still wondered why Dorfmann was here, and if he posed a threat to him.
“It has tremendous appeal to the oppressed, to starving men who believe in the foolish tenets of democracy,” said Dorfmann. “The SUSA has been built on these principles. But Raines has military power as well as gilt-edged promises to offer believers, and now it appears he has too much military strength for you to contain him. As I said, the kaiser is worried.”
Bruno gave Dorfmann an empty smile. “Tell the kaiser not to worry. All is going according to plan. I am luring Raines and his Tri-Staters across the continent toward South Africa. Then we shall cut off all his sources of supply. He is doing exactly what I had hoped he would do.”
Bottger yawned, as if bored by the conversation. “I have pulled my most effective troops back to the South African borders, in order to attack Raines after his supplies are no longer forthcoming.”
“But the losses? We hear of so many of your defeats at the hands of the Rebels lately....”
“Soldiers must be expendable to serve the cause, General Dorfmann. Most of the men we have lost to Raines have been these simpleminded African natives . . . Bantu tribesmen and especially Zulus. They are continually at war with each other, and when I offered the most powerful of the tribal warlords a handsome sum of money to fight for our cause, the greedy bastards accepted, as I knew they would. They die quickly, and willingly, believing they are making themselves rich. Very few live to collect the wages I’ve offered, and those who do will be exterminated when we unleash the balance of our chemical and germ weapons on them, as we pull out of Africa, to cleanse it ... after we destroy Raines and his Rebels.”
Bottger waved a dismissive hand, as if the deaths of the natives meant less than nothing to him.
“As you know,” Bruno continued, “our ultimate goal is racial purity on this planet, as it was when the great Adolf Hitler unified most of Europe. Had it not been for the damned Americans’ intervention against the Führer, we would live in a perfect world where no genetic impurities exist.”
Dorfmann glanced over his shoulder. “May I close the door so we can speak privately?”
Bruno felt an adrenaline rush of fear course through him, making his heart pound like a trip-hammer. Was Dorfmann about to reveal something regarding Bruno’s own racial mix? Had he discovered Bruno’s Jewish lineage?
“Of course, General. Close the door if you wish.” As he said it, Bruno pressed a hidden button under his desk to alert Rudolf to the possibility of trouble.
Dorfmann got up and closed the door gently. Bruno noted he was carrying a Luger in a holster tied to his waist. Dorfmann sat back down, giving Bruno a piercing look.
“You mentioned racial purity before,” Dorfmann began. “I wanted to inform you of something, in strictest confidence, of course.”
“Of course,” Bruno said, sensing the direction Dorfmann was headed, wondering how much Dorfmann suspected, and how much he actually knew.
“There have been rumors in high circles having to do with you.”
“High circles? Who do you mean? And what are these rumors?”
Dorfmann continued to stare at him coldly. The Gestapo was a place for men with ice in their veins, and Dorfmann fit this mold perfectly. He would have served Hitler well, Bruno thought.
“The kaiser himself has mentioned it to me, as has General Borgdahl. Someone was looking into your past . . . for reasons I do not know. It seems nothing can be found about one side of your family. There are no records concerning your mother. It is as if she did not exist. The kaiser and General Borgdahl wondered if you can explain this, and give me some information about your mother so I can inform those who need to know.”
Bruno tensed, but tried not to show it, reaching for a desk drawer. General Borgdahl was head of Schutztaffel, the Blackshirts, a death squad enforcing policies within New Germany by means of executions, killing enemies of the state.
“My mother was a simple woman,” Bruno began, a well-rehearsed story he’d told German officials before. “A peasant woman from Bavaria. She was born at home and never registered with the government because the family was so poor, simple farmers who did not understand the Order.”
As he spoke he took a counterfeit file from his desk, containing forged records of the birth and death of a Gertrude Fest, his fictitious mother.
“I did, however, finally locate a few documents in the basement of a building in a small village in Bavaria. Here are my mother’s documents, what I was able to find.”
He tossed the file in front of Dorfmann, waiting, assuming a bored smile, as if he were totally unconcerned about the inquiry and Dorfmann’s veiled threats.
Dorfmann did not bother picking up the file, his eyes still glued on Bruno. “Come now, General Field Marshal Bottger. Those records are false.”
“False? Explain yourself.” Bruno sat up straight in his chair. He was not used to his word being questioned.
“Your mother was not Gertrude Fest. I know who she was, or should I say, I also know what she was?”
“You must explain, and please tell me who else you have told about whatever you suspect.”
Dorfmann smiled wickedly, enjoying himself. Bruno’s right hand moved closer to the Steyer automatic pistol he kept in the same desk drawer.
“As you say,” Dorfmann went on, “there are no records. However, I did find an old woman who knew your mother from childhood. I searched for a good many months to uncover this information.”
“What information?”
Dorfmann’s smile broadened. “That your mother was a Jew.”
Bruno knew what he had to do, what must be done. “I will deny it, of course, since it is not true.”
“But it is true, Herr Bottger. I took down a statement from the old woman myself. Your mother was Gertrude Goldman, not Fest as you have claimed. She was even the daughter of a rabbi.”
“Utter nonsense. The old woman is lying.”
“No. She gave me exact details as to your birth, when and where. However, all records had been removed. I’m quite sure you removed them personally, so no one would know of your genetic weakness . . . impurity, I should say.”
“Have you informed the kaiser or Borgdahl of these false charges in order to defame me in Berlin?”
“Not yet. I wanted to strike a bargain with you first. I am sure you will agree.”
“What sort of bargain, Herr Dorfmann?” Bruno asked, sitting back in his chair, relaxed now that he had decided what was to happen.
“I want to leave New Germany and join your Army. In the end you will control most of the world, in my opinion, unless this General Raines is your undoing. I wish to be on the winning side when these wars are over.”
Now it was Bruno’s turn to smile. “You would become a traitor to your own people, Herr Dorfmann?”
“You know precisely what I mean. Calling me a traitor is using the wrong word. You are German, even if you are not of pure blood, fighting for New Germany as well as your New World Order. It is simply that I wish to be a part of what you are doing.”
“And you’ll use blackmail in order to do it?”
“Again, you have used the wrong word.”
Bruno pulled out his Steyer, aiming it across the desk. “I call it blackmail. Where is this statement you were given by the old woman?”
“I left it in Berlin for safekeeping, a form of insurance policy. I am surprised that you feel it necessary to point a gun at me.” Dorfmann’s eyes showed no fear, as though he was confident of his position in this tendered bargain.
“Where in Berlin, Herr Dorfmann? Your life hangs in the balance.”
“In a bank safe-deposit box. Only one person has the key.”
“And who might that be?”
“You don’t really expect me to tell you, Herr Bottger. I would be at your mercy. And I know you won’t shoot me either.”
Bruno felt sure he could locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box and open it, using force if necessary. Few people in New Germany would challenge him, not even the kaiser himself.
“Then I must inform you of your terrible mistake, Herr Dorfmann. You have misjudged me, thinking I could be blackmailed. I will find your safe-deposit box, and destroy the statement you were given. But you will not be here to see it happen.”
Now Dorfmann drew back, his cheeks paling. “You cannot think you will get away with killing me.”
“I’m quite sure of it,” Bruno replied.
As Dorfmann fumbled at the flap covering his Luger, Bruno pulled the trigger on his 9mm automatic.
Seven hollow-point slugs tore through General Dorfmann. His body jerked in the chair seven times. Blood splattered all over the floor of Bruno’s office, just as Rudolf Hessner came rushing in with his pistol in his fist.
Dorfmann slumped to the concrete floor, making a wet sound when his body landed in a growing pool of blood, groaning, his legs quivering in death spasms.
“I was listening over the intercom,” Rudolf said quietly, lowering the muzzle of his automatic. “But you did not say the code word to come in and kill him.”
“Take his body to the lower-level incinerator and cremate him. Wipe up the blood. Contact whoever flew him down here to Pretoria and tell them that General Dorfmann has not kept his appointment with me. Tell them I’m very concerned. Inform all guards to say that General Dorfmann has not been seen entering the compound. If he has a driver waiting, go up there and summon him to the lower level. You can say the general has asked to see him at once. Then kill him and put his body in the incinerator along with Herr Dorfmann.”
Rudolf bent down to lift Dorfmann’s legs, then hesitated. “He is still breathing.”
“What does it matter, Rudolf? Put him in the incinerator anyway.”
“I’ll have to get a body bag and carry him down. If I drag him he’ll leave blood all over the hallway and stairs.”
“Do whatever you must,” Bruno said, too bored now to bother with details, putting a full clip back in his Steyer. “Make sure you take care of his driver and any aides he brought with him. If you need help, ask Johann to come with you.”
“I won’t leave anyone alive who came here with him,” Rudolf promised.
As Rudolf left to get a body bag, Bruno gave Dorfmann a final glance. The head of the New German Gestapo, the only man in Germany who could discredit him for being part Jew, would be dead in a matter of minutes. Now, all Bruno had to do was fly to Berlin and locate Dorfmann’s safe-deposit box. Then he would have Rudolf kill the old woman who gave the statement to Dorfmann about his mother. His secret would remain buried forever. Ultimately, he would have to execute Rudolf for overhearing what Dorfmann said about his mother being a Jew.
Bottger’s knuckles grew white around the wineglass and he felt a stirring in his groin at the thoughts of how Dorfmann had looked at the moment of death—killing had always aroused him.
He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Shortly after disposing of Dorfmann’s body, he’d had to flee his headquarters for his very life, and that bastard Raines had shot his helicopter down in flames, burning his face off down to the bone.
Bottger, saved from certain death by Rudolf Hessner, had been too ill for too long to go after the safety-deposit box Dorfmann. . .
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Warriors From The Ashes
William W. Johnstone
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