Wind in the Ashes

Book 6: Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure

Synopsis

The Rebel dream is to rebuild this nation. To build something for future generations. Outlaws and roaming gangs of thugs and punks will not be tolerated. They have no place in the society we dream of." –Ben Raines A Savage New World Anarchy and chaos have erupted out of the devastation of World War III. Now, it is one survivor's duty to lead his nation out of the ashes: legendary soldier and freedom fighter, Ben Raines. Whatever it takes, he is going to rebuild America. . .and he is going to do it his way. From his secret outpost in the far west, Raines orders his Rebels to back him in one last desperate assault against the Russian invaders and the mercenary turncoat, Sam Hartline, who joined their brutal brigade. But until reinforcement arrives, Raines is forced to wage a one-man guerilla war against the enemy. It could be the first step toward a free America—or the kamikaze warrior's final showdown. Either way, they'll be hell to pay. . .

Release date: June 1, 2008

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Ben stood in the deep timber that surrounded his camp and listened to the sounds of nature returned to pure nature. Was earth’s destruction the work of God? he pondered. Back in ‘88, when the world’s leaders finally decided upon the ultimate answer to everything—war—was God’s hand guiding the human hand that pushed the button?

Had He tired of it all? Had He so wearied of humankind’s continuous screwing-up that He, not mere man, decided upon the ultimate response?

Ben didn’t know. But he strongly suspected his suspicions were correct.

1 am facing so many problems, he silently mused. And not the least important of them is the matter of getting back to God. If this shattered and battered land is to ever pull itself out of the ashes and back to some degree of normalcy, the land and its people are going to have to have some divine help.

Not a very religious man, and certainly not a praying man, Ben felt impotent in his lack of ability to communicate with The Man.

He thought of Gale. He smiled. Or The Woman— whatever the case may be.

But, he thought with a sigh, I firmly believe the age of miracles is long past. And since God so loved His warriors, perhaps He is looking to warriors to aid Him. So—he touched the butt of his shoulder-slung Thompson—let us give God a helping hand.

But, he mused, looking heavenward, it is a two-way door, Lord. I can’t do it alone. So don’t leave me alone. Lend me a hand.

Amen. Or whatever.

Ike and Colonel Dan Gray stood several hundred meters back from Ben, watching him.

“I do believe the general is praying,” Colonel Gray remarked.

“Probably,” Ike agreed. “Ben never wanted the role of leader. He damn sure never asked for it. Everybody just thrust it at him without giving him any options. I’ll say this, though: a hundred years from now, when this nation is once more functioning, and historians are writing about how it pulled itself out of the ashes of war, that man standing right over there will be the man they write about.”

“Most assuredly. I do wish he’d carry a more modern weapon, however. That damned old Thompson has to be fifty years old.”

Ike grinned. “There isn’t an original part left in that thing. It’s been reworked so many times it’s practically brand new.”

They watched as Ben touched the stock of the Thompson submachine gun and turned, looking at the men looking at him.

“Does Ben know that weapon is nearly as revered and feared as he is?” Gray asked.

“Yes. But he doesn’t know what to do about either.”

Ben walked toward his friends and fellow warriors.

“If he pulls this off,” Gray said, referring to the upcoming confrontation with the Russian commander of the IPF, Striganov, and the mercenary, Hartline, “Ben will be more feared and revered than before.”

“He knows that too. He also knows he doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’s just got to do it, and he’s going to.”

Ben was fast approaching them.

“He’s fully recovered from his wounds,” Gray observed. “And you know what that means.”

Ben settled it. “Assimilate all the recon intel thus far received,” he ordered. “Ike, get on the horn and tell your motorized battalion to push it. Get here. Both of you meet me in my CP in one hour. We’re jumping off in forty-eight hours.”

Ike grinned. “Yes, sir!”

“It’s going to be a bloody son of a bitch!” Ben told the Rebels gathered in his command post. He pointed to a spot on the map on the table. “Striganov and Hartline control everything, and I mean everything, from the Nevada line west to the coast in this area of California. In Oregon, Hartline’s people control everything west of Highway Ninety-seven. Now both men have their people spread pretty thin. But even at that, we’re going to be badly outnumbered.”

“Ain’t we always?” a young lieutenant muttered, caught herself, flushed, and glanced at Ben. “Sorry, General.”

Ben smiled. “That’s all right. And you’re right. But right, I think, is the key word here. We’re right, and they’re wrong. Now, our recon intel shows that Striganov and Hartline have beefed up their own people considerably by enlisting a lot of these local warlords. Their people are, for the most part, ill-trained with a noticeable lack of discipline; but they’re very savage. As much as I despise Hartline and Striganov, I will give them credit for having professional soldiers under their commands. But we must not discount the warlords. Bear that in mind—always!

“I hate to split our forces. But under the circumstances, I don’t see any other way to accomplish our mission. We’re not going to stand and slug it out, people. We try that, and we’ll get creamed. As good as we are, we can’t survive against these overwhelming odds in a stand-up, conventional type of war.”

Ben paused, noting the grins of Ike and Gray. “You two apes find something amusing about all this?” he asked.

“Oh, quite, General,” Gray said.

“Oh, just ducky, lovey,” Ike mimicked the Englishman’s precise manner of speaking. Something the Mississippi-born Ike had been doing for years.

The two men were very close friends, although that was hard to pick up from listening to them.

Dan looked at Ike. “Cretin!”

“Smartass!” Ike popped back.

“Barbarous pirate!” He was referring to Ike’s belonging to the famous, or infamous, Navy SEALs.

“Stuck-up snob!” Ike told him. Dan had been a member of England’s famous, or infamous, depending on one’s point of view, SAS.

“Illiterate redneck!” Dan countered.

Ben let them have at it, knowing that when soldiers stop bitching and joking, you have a very bad morale problem.

Colonel Dan Gray drew himself up to full height and sneered at Ike. “Of course,myScouts will lead the way into this upcoming fray.”

“That’yourass!” Ike popped off. “Your Scouts couldn’t find their way to the bathroom. SEALs go in first.Mypeople will spearhead.”

Ben put an end to it and brought everyone in the tent to full alertness and shocked silence.“Rangerslead the way,” he said. “I’m picking a team and we’ll jump in.”

“Now see here, General!” Gray said, his tone shocked. “That is totally unacceptable.Generalsdonotlead the way. Why …!” he blustered.

Ike pounded on the table. “I’ll be goddamned, Ben!” he shouted at his closest friend. “You’ll jump in over my ass!”

The lieutenants and captains in the room stood and stared in shock at Ben Raines. The general’s hair was salt-and-peppered with age. He had to be fifty years old. And he’d just been hideously wounded during the battle with Hartline.* If something happened to Ben Raines …

No one even liked to think about that. General Raines was the Rebels. General Raines was the very core of the movement to pull the ailing country out of the ashes. Many people throughout the war-ripped nation thought the man to be a god. The underground people worshipped him; altars had been built around the nation, erected to Ben Raines. The man was a living legend.

“I lead the way,” Ben said quietly, calmly. He stared Ike into silence. “There will be no more discussion on that topic. Those of us who will be jumping in will use steerable dash chutes. See to them, Lieutenant Barris,” he said, looking at the young woman who had spoken earlier. “You will lead a team in with me.”

“Yes, sir.” Like every woman she knew, she was in love with Ben Raines. Like every person her age, the young Rebel could not remember when the nation had been whole; when there were schools and factories and law and order and places of safety and productivity. She had been eight years old when the world exploded. As so many had done, she had forced the past from her mind, not wishing to relive the horror.

“Now, as to why these two jokers"—he cut his eyes to Dan and Ike—"were insulting each other. We will fight a guerrilla war once inside the areas controlled by the enemy. We will carry in as much as we can stagger with. And we’re going to be heavily loaded. We’re going to be forced to live off the land. I suspect this operation will take a long time. I’m looking at six months, minimum. We are not going to leave the enemy-controlled area until the Russian and Hartline are dead. They are the main stumbling block in getting this country on the right track back to normalcy. Dan, we’ll go over the maps, then you’ll send Pathfinders in to lay out the DZ.” “Yes, sir.”

“Ike, get on the horn and tell Cecil to get out here. He’s going to have to take command of the battalion kept in reserve. We’ve got to pull all the stops out, people. All right, get cracking!” He glanced at Lieutenant Barris. “Stay.”

“Yes, sir.” She felt a flush of sexual excitement as she looked into Ben’s eyes.

Perhaps they could … ?

*Alone in the Ashes

“If you weren’t good at your job, Lieutenant,” Ben said to her, after the command post had emptied, “Ike wouldn’t have picked you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What is your first name?”

“Sylvia.”

“Sylvia it is. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three, sir.”

Jesus! Ben thought, suppressing a grimace. He suddenly felt every bit of his age.

“Where were you born, Sylvia?”

“Michigan, sir. I mean, I guess I was born there. That’s where I was when … everything fell apart.”

“You were about eight or nine.” Not a question.

“Eight, I think, sir. I’ve … uh …”

“Suppressed it,” Ben said gently.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t blame you. There was a lot of human filth prowling around back then. We had a way of dealing with them back in the Tri-States.”

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

So she had been one of the survivors of the old Tri-States, Ben thought. One of the few to escape that bloody time. Ben tried to at least know the faces of those who served under him, but sometimes it was impossible.

He looked at Sylvia. Brown hair, worn short for the field. About five five. Slim, but with an aura of strength emanating from her. Pale green eyes. Pretty, with a sassy sort of look about her.

She met his direct stare.

“All right, Sylvia. Thank you.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“For the time being, Sylvia.” He left the unspoken open.

She left the command post, conscious of General Raines’s eyes on a certain part of her anatomy. She knew, as did everyone else, that the general liked the ladies.

That was fine with Sylvia; all Ben had to do was ask.

Walking away from the command post, she wondered how Ben Raines survived the initial shocks of war - way back when she was just a little girl.

Wasps, probably. Although Ben would never know for sure. He had been a writer, living in the Delta of Louisiana. A loner, people called him. He had been a member of the super-secret Hell Hounds. That small and highly elite branch of the U.S. Army; its ranks filled with Green Berets, Rangers, A.F. Commandos, Marine Force Recon, Navy SEALs and UDT. They were the most highly trained battalion of men in the world.

Ben had taken his experiences in dozens of tiny brush wars around the globe and put them on paper, becoming a widely read author.

On the first day of the germ-warfare attacks on the U.S., Ben had been hit by dozens of yellow-jacket wasps and stung into unconsciousness. He had been told by medical people that that had probably saved his life, counteracting the biological warfare that floated invisibly around the globe. Then the bombings had begun, and Ben had drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of the horror that was taking place around the world. He was sick for many days, barely surviving the venom from the wasps.

When he was back on his feet, he discovered the terrible fate the world had suffered.

His sole goal had been to travel the U.S., transcribing on paper and tape recordings, and then chronicling the events in a book, a book that, hopefully, would tell the why and how of it all.

But it was not to be.

He discovered that he had been picked to lead the nation back from devastation, to bring it out of the ashes.

But Ben didn’t want the job, and had told the people he didn’t.

They insisted, and in the end, Ben found himself the leader of thousands.

Tri-States was formed. A country within a country; a place where crime was virtually nonexistent, where everyone who wanted work found it. It was not a Utopian society, for the laws in the Tri-States were harsh if violated. And it did not matter how rich or how poor one was; the law was the law. Outside the boundaries of the Tri-States, the rest of the nation was picking itself up and trying to function, and Ben Raines’s critics were many and vocal. Ben Raines became a hated and feared man.

He was so hated his own brother tried to kill him.

A member of a neo-Nazi hate group, the elder brother had slipped past the closed borders of the Tri-States and tried to assassinate his brother, almost succeeding.

Probably the darkest day in America history came when the government sent troops in to smash the Tri-States. They’d destroyed the small nation, but could not kill the dream of Ben Raines and his Rebels.*

But Ben, with a handful of survivors, had escaped, and waged a guerrilla war against those in power in America.

A decade after the bombings that ruined the world, a plague had struck the world, and civilization was no more.

The world’s population was reduced to roving gangs, warlords, dog-eat-dog savagery and barbarism.

Raines’s Rebels grew in size and number as people realized that Ben was the key to bringing back—if that was possible—some degree of stability.

Then the Russian Striganov and his IPF—International Peace Force—entered the U.S., teaming up with the mercenary Sam Hartline. Striganov’s dream was a pure white nation. He began systematically destroying human beings. Until Ben Raines stepped in to stop him.

They had been at war ever since.

New territory, Ben thought, sitting alone in his command post. We’ll be going into new territory. And we have so few planes and pilots, most of my people will have to come in by truck. Or on foot. The pilots will have to make many, many drops, resupplying us. And that will put their lives in very high risk.

He minutely shook his head, thinking: Can’t be helped. There is no other way. Striganov and Hartline must be stopped, once and for all.

Ben rose from his chair and walked out of his command post, getting into his pickup and traveling to the airstrip. There, he walked around the planes, visually inspecting. They were old, but in fine shape. The pilots, many of whom had been with Ben from the outset, years back, were in one of the buildings, going over maps, plotting their course.

Ben walked to the largest of the buildings still standing. Lieutenant Barris was using that for her riggers to inspect and repack each chute.

The clock was ticking. Jump-off time was fast approaching.

Ben wondered if Rani was still alive.

In his command post in northern California , General Striganov wondered when the attack would come. He now knew for certain, through his recon teams, that Ben Raines was indeed alive and massing his people for attack.

The war to end all wars, the Russian thought, humor touching his mind. How many times have men repeated that phrase?

There never will be a war to end all wars. Not as long as there are two people remaining on earth with two opposing ideas and there is a club or a stone handy.

It is the nature of humankind to fight, Striganov mused. Men fighting over women, women fighting over men. Both sexes fighting over territory, or religion, or whatever one has the other wants.

Sam Hartline was the perfect example of that. Sam Hartline was the universal soldier. And he really didn’t give a damn which side he was fighting for, or on.

But the Russian was glad Hartline was on his side. The man was a savage. A fine soldier; a good, if not brilliant, tactician. And he could take and carry out orders.

As long as he was supplied with women.

The man was the epitome of a satyr. Completely insatiable. And he liked to inflict pain on the woman of choice. But then, the Russian thought, so do I.

His thoughts turned bitter as he thought of the woman Hartline had kidnapped from Ben Raines. Rani. The Russian had been unable to break her. He had beaten her, abused her mind and body, and raped her.

Then, in disgust, he had given her to Hartline. It seemed she had screamed for days after that decision.

Before she died.

The Russian turned his chair, looking through the window toward the north. He hoped Hartline and his men were in place. And he hoped neither of them would underestimate Ben Raines. He didn’t believe the man loved Rani. But he was quite certain Ben had been fond of her.

Ben Raines would be very irritated when he learned of Rani’s death. But that would not make the man careless. Raines was too fine a soldier for that. The Russian had thought about digging up the body of Rani and having it airlifted and dropped into Raines’s territory. He had rejected that idea. Knowing it would accomplish nothing; just waste fuel. Ben Raines was not the type to be angered into any careless move.

Striganov knew the upcoming battle would be costly in terms of human life. But that was unimportant in the final analysis. Just as long as the Russian came out victorious.

And he felt he would.

“Come on, General Raines,” he muttered. “Let us finish this.”

Sam Hartline sat in the den of the house he had chosen as his own. He had recovered from the wounds Ben Raines had inflicted upon him. And because he was a professional soldier, he did not hate Ben Raines. Indeed, Hartline respected the man.

In his own peculiar way.

His one regret about the whole miserable affair was Rani dying on him.

Not that she was dead. Hell, he didn’t care about that.

He never could get the woman to renounce her faith in Ben Raines and betray him.

Right up to the end she had sworn Ben Raines was the better man.

That pissed Hartline off.

For the life of him, Sam Hartline could not understand what pulled people to Ben Raines. Long, tall drink of water was just a man, goddammit. Not a god. Just a man. Not a god.

Hartline had to keep that thought in mind. Ben Raines was a mortal, flesh-and-blood man. That’s all.

Wasn’t he?

All those damn fool people erecting monuments to Ben. Those people thinking he was God. That was stupid. There was no God. Never had been. When you were dead, you were dead. That’s all she wrote.

Right?

“Ben?” Ike walked up to him. “Ike.”

“We just got word from our deep recon people.” He seemed to hesitate.

“Give it to me, Ike. We’re both old soldiers, buddy; we’ve buried too many friends.”

And wives, Ike thought, thinking of times past. “Rani’s dead, Ben.”

“I felt she was. How?”

“Hard. The Russian gave her to Hartline.”

“Well try to take Hartline alive,” Ben said.

Ike suppressed a shudder. He did not like to think what Ben had in mind, for he had seen Ben operate too many times. The man could be totally ruthless.

“We’ll try. But no guarantees.”

“None asked. What’s the word on your motorized battalion?”

“They’re pushing hard. Cecil is on his way out. That doesn’t leave too many back at Base Camp One.”

“Keep me advised.” Ben walked away.

Sylvia walked up to Ike’s side. “What’s the matter, sir?” she asked.

Ike ignored that. Ben’s personal business was his own. At least the dead personal business. “In a few hours, General Raines will need someone … just company, probably. Stay close by. He likes you.”

“Why?” Her question was honestly asked.

“Beats me, honey,” he drawled. “With Ben, you never know.”

“I’m sure not the prettiest girl in camp.”

“Pretty ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Sylvia. Ben was a writer before he became a general. I never in my life met a writer that wasn’t weird.”

*Out of the Ashes

They talked deep into the night, with Ben doing most of the talking. Sylvia was content to just listen. Even though she didn’t know, sometimes, what the general was talking about. He spoke of things she had never heard of, but she never let on. She felt he knew her education was spotty, at best. She reached the conclusion that Ben Raines was a lonely man. Had been a lonely man for a long time. There were questions she wanted to. . .