Ambush in the Ashes (16 page)

Anna muttered under her breath.

“What’d you say, Anna?” Ben questioned.

“I said, ‘then why bother with it?’ “

“Because it’s on the way,” Ben replied. “We can’t very well avoid it.”

“Well, we don’t have to stop except to bivouac,” Anna persisted.

“And that may be all we’ll end up doing,” Ben told her.

“Even with the press along?” Jersey asked.

“I think the press is going to get very weary of being shot at, Jersey. And if several of them get wounded, or killed … well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Won’t make any difference,” Anna said. “If they see one hungry child or sick person, they’ll immediately start pissing and moaning and demanding we do something.”

Ben didn’t reply, but he silently agreed with his adopted daughter, and knew the team felt the same way. They’d been putting up with liberal reporters for years and could just about predict their every move … or thought.

The reporters from the SUSA, on the other hand, realized that fate often dealt good people a lousy hand in this card game called life, and sometimes one just had to look away and keep on walking, for there reaches a point in the human condition where any kind of help is only a stop-gap measure; a Band-Aid on a sucking chest wound. Giving a tetanus shot to a person who is dying of starvation is a waste of time, money, and supplies. Realists understand that; idealists never will.

Beth jumped in verbally between Ben and Anna, before Anna could say more. “This month we’re going to have twenty days with rain-of the monsoon type, remember-next month twenty-five days, and the next

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two months it will rain every day. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”

“You’re a real bringer of joy, Beth,” Cooper said, squinting his eyes, trying to see through the deluge that hammered at the wagon.

“I do try!” Beth replied brightly.

“I roger that,” Corrie said, then leaned forward. “Boss, flybys confirm that the bridges connecting Lungi and Freetown have been destroyed.”

“Damn!” Ben muttered. “How about the city itself? Are we getting any last minute reports out of there?”

“Nothing since last week, when we intercepted that radio transmission about Freetown being under siege and not being able to hold out much longer.”

Ben rode in silence for a few slow miles, the only sound the drumming of the heavy rain on the roof of the big wagon. Finally he sighed and said, “We’ll bypass Freetown. We already knew that Lungi has been sacked and looted so many times there is nothing left. Corrie, bump the Scouts and advise them to avoid Freetown.” He opened a map. “Where are the Scouts?”

“Waiting on the north side of the Little Scarcies River.”

“The bridge still intact there?”

“Affirmative to that.”

“Tell them to hold the bridge open for us and wait for us there.”

“Yes, sir. A reminder that what is left of Kambia is a ghost town.”

“Yes. I remember that transmission. Cooper, stay on this road, the Port Loko highway. We’re not going to get within a hundred miles of Freetown. I’m not going to get us involved in some damn civil or tribal war if I can avoid it.”

“The press is going to love this news,” Jersey warned.

“Fuck the press,” Ben said. “I’m going to tell them

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when we stop that if they wish to go to Freetown, they are certainly free to do so … on their own.”

Cooper cut his eyes to Ben for a second. “They just might take you up on that, boss.”

“I sure as hell won’t make any attempt to stop them.”

The weather probably had much to do with it, but the column came under no hostile fire on the way to what was left of Kambia. The column picked their way through the ruins of the town, seeing no signs of life, not even a dog or a cat, and continued south toward the Little Scarcies River.

“Nothing happening here, General,” the Scout in charge of the detachment told Ben when they arrived late that afternoon. The roads were terrible and getting worse the further south they went. “We haven’t seen anybody.”

“As soon as we get some shelter up, you people will be relieved so you can relax a bit. Thanks, gang.”

“No sweat, General.”

That evening, the cooks prepared only coffee and kept huge urns of it hot all night. The Rebels, including Ben, ate field rations. There was no point in cooking, for by the time anyone carried their trays or mess kits away from the mess line, the food containers would be filled up with water.

And the rain continued to come down in silver/gray sheets with no signs of abating.

“Screw this,” Ben abruptly said, when the column was only a few miles from Port Loko. “Corrie, tell the Scouts to hold up and wait for us. We’re going to get out of this damned rain for a change.”

Port Loko had been the scene of many battles, that was evident by the bullet and shell pocked buildings, but there were enough structures left standing to afford

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some welcome shelter from the rain and for the cooks to serve up a hot meal.

The Rebels took turns standing naked in the rain, soaping up and rinsing off, then the welcome feeling of dry clothing, at least for a short time. Then a hot meal. Even if the beef was canned, the potatoes were fresh, the bread just baked, and the gravy hot and good.

But what bothered them all, even though it was mentioned in quiet whispers, was the absence of people.

“Scouts report they found a boneyard,” Corrie told Ben softly, after moving to his side. “Just outside of town. Hundreds of skeletons. Men, women, and children.”

“Let’s go take a look.” Ben struggled into his poncho and picked up his CAR.

“All of them shot, General,” the doctor said, standing up from his inspection upon Ben’s arrival. “You can see the slugs in some of the skulls.”

“Tribal warfare,” Ben said softly, squatting down and sticking the muzzle of his CAR into a gaping eye socket. He shook the skull and the slug rattled about. “Probably. But I don’t imagine we’ll ever know for sure. How many you estimate here, Doctor?”

“Five or six hundred, give or take a hundred. Hard to tell the way the bones have been scattered by foraging animals.”

Ben stood up. “Well, at least here we know what happened to the people. Perhaps never the why, but at least the what.”

Ben walked off, muttering about ignorance, butchery and barbarism. For once, the press had nothing to say as they gathered around in the rain, standing silently, filming the scene for their viewers back home.

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At Port Loko Ben told the press about the conditions in Freetown. “Any of you who wish may go to Freetown if that is your desire. I won’t stop you.”

“You will provide escort?”

“No. I will not.”

A silence greeted Ben’s statement, then a few members of the press protested. But the older hands said nothing. They understood that Ben was under no mandate to provide them security. He had not asked for the press and considering that, Ben and the Rebels had been very accommodating thus far.

Four members of the press stood up, one stating, “We feel it is our obligation to visit the city and report on the events here.”

“Good luck,” Ben told them.

The four press types took their crews and pulled out the next morning. They were never heard from again.

From Port Loko, the column crossed the Rokel River and headed for Moyamba Junction. The Rebels found a few people still in the town and the doctors went to work. Ben and team, trailed by several members of the press, walked around the town during a break in the rains. There wasn’t that much left to see in the battle-ravaged town.

“General,” Stan Travis asked, as they strolled along.

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“How many people would you estimate have died on this continent since the Great War?”

“Stan, I have absolutely no idea. But I would guess several million at least. Perhaps as many as ten times that number. I doubt that anyone will ever really know. And we really don’t know what has happened in Asia, China, South America, or what used to be known as Russia.”

“Do you plan to visit those areas?” Marilyn asked, in a surprisingly civil tone of voice.

“Yes, if I live that long, Ms. Dickson. Of course, a lot hinges on what happens back home.”

“You’re speaking of the reunification of the States, General?” Ford asked.

“Yes.”

“Your section is the last holdout,” a reporter Ben didn’t know stated.

Ben smiled as they continued strolling along through the deserted town. “The SUSA is a sovereign nation, sir. We have our own constitution and bill of rights, both patterned after the original documents; indeed they are almost identical-except ours give the law-abiding citizen a lot more rights. We will not rejoin the Union.”

“Under any conditions, General?” Alex Marsh asked. It was the first question he’d asked since Ben got all over his case miles back.

“We are a separate nation, Mr. Marsh. We intend to remain that way.”

“The United States of America might use force in order to preserve the Union, sir,” another reporter said.

“They might, indeed,” Ben replied, never stopping his walking. “But when they do it will be the end of America as any of you know it.”

“Is that a threat, sir?”

“That’s a fact, son. A fact.”

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*

Within twenty-four hours, newspapers all across the reunited USA hit the streets with the glaring headlines: GENERAL RAINES PROMISES WAR IF USA USES FORCE AGAINST SUSA.

SUSA THREATENS WAR AGAINST AMERICA

WAR TALK BETWEEN SUSA AND USA DEEPENS TENSIONS

WAR LOOMS ON HORIZON

“Horseshit,” Ben said, after hearing the news. “The only way there will be a war is if the reunited states start it. We won’t.”

“You think the reunited states really want a war with us?” Anna asked.

“Some politicians do. But they won’t be the ones to fight it. They never are. Cecil says a recent poll shows the people outside the SUSA fairly evenly split about it… which sort of surprises me. You would think after suffering through the worst war ever fought on American soil and several years of all sorts of deprivation, the last thing any of them would want would be more war. It shows how much the rest of the nation hates the South … and how much they hate me.”

“And our way of life,” Beth added.

“Oh, yes. Let’s don’t forget that. They hate it because we have full employment, almost zero crime, a laidback way of life, easy-to-understand laws, a workable healthcare system, no bureaucracy … and that’s just hitting a few points.” Ben laughed aloud as the column rolled along through the rain.

The Rebels had passed through towns of varying sizes and had seen few signs of life. The old festering tribal hatreds and years-long civil war had just about wiped out the population except for the towns along the coast, which the Rebels had decided to avoid. Rebel analysts

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had concluded that at the present rate, the country would be finished in a few more years.

Ben studied a map for a few moments, then folded it and stuck it back in a map case. “We’ve got to be resupplied with food, water, and medical supplies. But Liberia is out of the question for flights in or out or for docking facilities along the coast. The country’s been torn apart by civil war for a decade or more. Fly-bys show the old international airport at Monrovia unusable. Docking facilities are nil. Warlords have been controlling the country for years and have wrecked it. That’s why we’re taking the northern route, and will link up with Nick Stafford and his 18 Batt. We’ll crawl along the top of the nation until we reach the border of Cote d’lvoire, the old Ivory Coast. That will probably be the most stable country we’ll find anywhere. And won’t that be a relief.”

“Then we travel south to Abidjan?” Cooper asked.

“Right. We have no choice in the matter. It’s our best bet for a port and they have a good airport.”

“But getting through Liberia is going to be a tad hairy, right?” Jersey asked.

“I think you’d be safe in saying that.”

Ben spat out a mouthful of mud and wiped his muddy face with an equally muddy hand. All in all it was a futile gesture.

“Shit!” he cussed, then wiped a sleeve across his face. That helped.

Ben’s 1 Batt had linked up with Nick’s 18 Batt between Foya and Kolahun and within minutes had come under attack from a large force, pinning down the Rebels and splitting the columns. The roads were a mess: tanks bogging down every few miles, trucks getting stuck along with them. Everyone in the column was

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soaked through and through, with mud all over them. Several thousand highly pissed-off Rebels were in no mood to fuck around with anybody.

Ben was under a deuce and a half filled with supplies, on his belly in the muddy road, his team left and right of him.

“How many damn people hit us?” Jersey asked. “The two columns together must be five miles long. That’s a hell of a force.”

“Somebody’s throwing everything they’ve got at us,” Ben said, raising his voice to be heard over the hammering rain and the yammer and clatter of weapons on full auto.

Cooper cut loose with a burst from his SAW and out of the corner of his eyes, Ben saw three or four figures fold up and go down.

“Stupid bastards,” Cooper said, his words just audible over the sounds of weather and battle.

“18 Batt just dragged a wounded prisoner in,” Corrie said, working her way close to Ben in the mud. “They say the man is nothing but skin and bones. Doctors say the prisoner is suffering from malnutrition. The prisoner says all they want is food.”

“Tell the doctors the bastards might be hungry, but they’re still strong enough to pull a fucking trigger,” Ben replied.

A wide grin split Corrie’s mud-streaked face. “I will relay your message.”

“You do that.”

A long burst of gunfire kicked up mud and water and small stones very close to the truck, flinging the debris into Ben’s face. Ben wiped his face and cussed, then out of sheer frustration, he leveled his CAR and gave the brush and jungle close to the road a full magazine of 5.56 rounds. He doubted he’d hit anything, but the