Ash: Rise of the Republic (24 page)

There was a flurry of dangerous muttering
among the troops nearest the scene as the young soldier rushed to
fill a bucket. The Captain knew it wouldn't be long before the
Colonel's insulting behavior turned the men to desertion or mutiny.
These soldiers were volunteers, fighting for a common cause. They
had not left their families to be treated like criminals by snotty,
over privileged aristocrats. Whatever guilt still remained over the
plan he had devised vanished with the men's morale.

With the vomit cleaned and the ramp closed,
the army was finally ready to march. The rangers sped on ahead in
their nimble vehicles while the armor trundled through the gates.
The infantry followed, discouraged and frustrated. Most had sprung
from bed that morning inspired and ready for a fight, but the long
hot wait in the dust and the deplorable behavior of their commander
had sapped their morale. They marched in silence, eyes on the
ground, their thoughts on their homes and families.

As they passed the spot where four of his
rangers had turned west in the early morning hours, the Captain
glanced at his wife. She caught his gaze after a moment and smiled
at him. She lovingly took his hand and squeezed. The reassuring
gesture calmed his nerves, as it always did before a fight.

Moments later, the calm blanket of monotony
which had settled over the plodding column was shattered by a
screeching hiss. The men in the lead companies looked up at the
sudden sound just in time to see a thin trail of white smoke
streaking toward the Colonel's Stryker. Before they could so much
as blink in surprise, the rocket burned through the vehicle's thin
armor with a hollow thump. For a moment, it seemed as if no damage
had been done, but soon smoke began to pour from the gun ports that
lined the flanks of the machine. The hatch in the turret burst
open, unleashing the terrified screams of the men trapped inside.
Their flesh was melting in the cruel inferno. A figure, flailing at
the searing flames which licked along his blackening skin, tried to
crawl from the hatch but slumped suddenly over, the life
flash-boiled from his veins. The screams died soon after, the
devastating heat was almost mercifully quick.

There was a moment of shock amongst the
troops as they watched the flames curl around the charred corpse in
the hatch and the smoke boil from the gun ports. Even the veterans
were chilled at the sight. Memories of horrors seen in past
battles, diluted by time, paled in comparison to the savage flames
and the shrieks of the dying.

The commander of the lead Bradley recovered
first. His crew were shaken from their trance by his barked orders.
Hatches were slammed shut, the motor thrown in gear, and the turret
whirled to face the unseen threat. The deafening staccato thrump of
the big chain gun broke the rest of the troops from their
astonished reverie. The second APC mimicked the first and unleashed
its own storm of destruction. Each round that ripped from the
narrow, tapered barrels was a more than inch in diameter and tipped
with high explosives. The horrible thunder of each shot was
followed a moment later by a deafening crack of explosive impact;
each bullet's devastating warhead burst with a violent sphere of
flame and ash and shrapnel. Over and over the motor driven chains
worked the heavy bolts, ejecting the red hot spent casings and
driving home the next deadly round.

The veterans in the ranks of the infantry
ran to take cover and return fire from the ashbank at the edge of
the highway, but the inexperienced volunteers wavered, shocked at
the violence of the fusillade. The sound beat at them, almost
physically driving them back. The angry shouts of their officers
were lost in the storm of noise. They turned in panic, the fear
bubbling up like it had two days before, but this time there were
men behind them, men in battered uniforms statically mottled with
intricate patterns of ash and stained with old blood. They carried
worn rifles and wore grim looks. These men had seemingly appeared
from nowhere, and almost caused fresh panic until recognition
sparked in the terrified soldiers. These were not the enemy, these
were the hardened, experienced men who had been protecting their
isolated homesteads and villages for years. They were rangers,
friends, and the volunteers took heart and joined the veterans
firing from the ashbank.

The terrifying display continued until the
hillside was lost in a cloud of black smoke and grey ash. The guns
fell silent, finally responding to the shouts of "Cease Fire!" from
the Bradleys' commanders. The gun-born thunder was still
reverberating from distant topography as the rangers skidded their
HORSVs to a halt in front of the hulking armored vehicles.

The Captain rushed to the Stryker, searing
his hands as he tried to work the mechanism of the big rear hatch.
The aluminum outer armor was smoking hot from the inferno within.
Men rushed to McLelland's aide. Men who, a short time before, had
cursed the fat Colonel under their breath, now ran forward, braving
the overwhelming heat to pull him from the burning oven.

One by one, they stepped back, realizing the
futility of their actions. The ranger Captain took charge
immediately, barking orders to his troop. Deb jumped out to join
him and beckoned Mason to take the wheel of her UTV. The swift
vehicles peeled away in a shower of pebbles and ash, the five young
rangers whooping in enthusiasm as they sped off to hunt down the
attackers. He bellowed at the dazed commanders of the remaining
APCs to advance at full speed and take up blocking positions on the
highway a hundred yards south. He ushered the infantry around the
burning hulk, pushing them at double time, hoping that the column
could pass safely before any secondary explosions ripped from the
flaming carcass. He sent two companies to line the ash banks on
either side of the armor to protect against any further attacks
from the flanks.

As they assembled, he ran to the Stryker and
slapped the release lever on the huge recovery winch. He touched
the big hook and found it surprisingly cool for it was on the front
bumper, a long way from the inferno in the passenger compartment.
He ran toward the bulk of the men, the thin cable unwinding behind
him. When he reached the end of the spool he called for the rest of
the army to join him. Five hundred men lined up on the cable and
heaved. The straining mass of bunched muscle slowly pulled the
twenty tons of burning steel up the steep slope of the ash bank,
clearing the road for the supply trucks stranded in the rear. As
the last set of wheels crested the embankment, the sweating,
panting men cheered. The terror of the ambush was forgotten for a
moment, replaced by the triumph of accomplishing an impossible
feat.

The Captain ordered the men back down the
slope. They formed in their companies behind the APCs which sat
buttoned up, bristling with weaponry, side by side across the
roadway. The rear hatch of one of the vehicles lowered as he
approached. Major Price, still pale and shaky from his long night,
peered warily out from the cramped troop compartment. He summoned
his courage and rushed down the ramp toward Captain McLelland.

"The Colonel?" He nodded toward the smoking
wheeled coffin on the ashbank.

"Never had a chance." McLelland's face was
grim.

"Poor Pete," Price was silent for a moment,
thinking of how close he had come to joining his commander in his
fiery grave. "I'll take it from here, Captain. Please deploy your
rangers on the banks as we advance to guard against any further
ambush."

"Could we have a word, Major?" The Captain
gestured at the Bradley's open hatch.

"Can it wait, Captain? We have war to
fight."

"I really must insist, I just received some
sensitive intel."

Price sighed, "Very well, Captain. Goodwin!
Breimer!" The two young staff officers scurried out of the cramped
compartment, "have the company commanders get the men ready to
march, I will be out shortly." He dismissed them with a wave and
beckoned McLelland to follow him.

With the hatch sealed, the Captain growled
in a dangerous voice at the vehicle's crew to make themselves
scarce. Price blinked in surprise at the order. "McLelland, what
are..."

"Shut your fucking mouth you pompous little
shit."

Price, cut off, began to stammer, his eyes
wide. The change in the Captain had been sudden and terrifying. He
found himself staring down the gaping muzzle of a huge
revolver.

"Do you want those men to die?"

Price could only stutter in fear.

"Because that is what is going to happen if
you try to lead them against that fucking psycho Werner. He's laid
a trap for us and Garza was determined to walk right into it. I'm
not going to let that happen, do you understand me?"

Price gave up trying to speak and simply
nodded frantically.

"Good, now listen: if you follow my
instructions you'll come out of this smelling like a rose. As much
as I hate the thought, you'll have so many medals you'll have to
wear two uniforms. Here's how we're going to do it..."

Twenty minutes later, Major Price, still
pale and trembling from his hangover, called the officers to a
meeting behind the rumbling APCs. McLelland and Collier flanked him
as he addressed the dusty, sweating group of Captains and
Lieutenants. He hid his fear well.

"The rangers have received intelligence
which suggests that enemy has devised an ambush for us…"

He played his part perfectly. He walked them
through the plan exactly as they had rehearsed. The officers
grinned as it was laid out for them.

"We'll move out once the Captain's scouts
return," he said in closing, "make sure you draw sufficient
ammunition from the reserve. We’ll need to restock the Bradleys
too. Keep your men focused, and keep your eyes open!"

As the officers disbursed, McLelland's troop
returned from hunting the outlaws responsible for the Colonel's
death. No one noticed that, though five rangers had left for the
hunt, seven rangers had returned.

The final UTV returned just after dusk. The
two scouts reported to the Captain and then unrolled their sleeping
pallets in the ash and collapsed, exhausted. They had driven nearly
five hundred miles through rough country, stopping only to refuel
from the spare tanks strapped to the frame. They would probably be
useless from exhaustion for a day or two, but they had done their
job. The preparations had been made and the Captain's plan was in
action.

****

The army moved out two hours before dawn. They left
the road two miles north of Hempstead, climbing the ashbank and
spilling into the brushy country to the west. When the clouds to
the east began to glow with soft morning light, they were in
position. The Captain waited to order the assault until he could
see his hand in front of his face.

They went in a line, two ranks deep,
marching like a battalion of musket wielding, eighteenth century
fusiliers. The Bradleys were on either flank, motors rumbling and
tracks creaking as they advanced in step with the infantry.

The line was positioned to straddle the low
hill west of the road; the hill which held an enemy who thought he
was waiting in ambush, undetected in the thick brush. They climbed
the northern flank of the hill with no opposition. They were
ducking into the brush at the top before the first shot rang
out.

There were hundreds of outlaws in the
bushes. They had lain in wait for the better part of two days,
groaning in boredom. To keep his troops undetected, the Chief had
ordered them to camp in the center of the ridge, as far away from
the edges of the brush as possible. They were to burn no fires,
make no sounds above a low whisper, and above all they were to stay
put. No one had argued; they were all terrified of the big savage
who killed on a whim. To minimize the risk of discovery, he set
only one sentry at the edge of the brush. If he had been attempting
to defend the hill, he would have had pickets on all sides, but he
wasn't defending, he was hiding, waiting for the foolish Colonel to
wander into his trap.

If Werner had placed proper sentries, he may
have thrown back the brazen attack. They had marched straight up
the hill through open country. A few dozen alert men with rifles in
the bushes could have shredded the thin line. As it was, the first
of his men to see the attackers had his pants around his
ankles.

The prevailing wind was from the south so,
to avoid breathing the stench from the droppings of four hundred
unhealthy men, Werner had declared the northern end of the patch of
brush to be the latrine. He announced that any man caught shitting
upwind of the camp would be castrated on the spot and forced to eat
his own excrement. The bandits had no reason to doubt the threat.
So, as the soldiers of the Republic marched warily into the dense
brush, the first sight they had of their enemy was a pale, pimpled,
and hairy half-moon.

The snapping of a twig under a heavy boot
made the shitting man turn. The sight of a line of grim men in grey
made him stand, the pants around his ankles kept him from running,
and a bullet in his back put him down.

All along the top of the ridge, disheveled,
bearded men stood up when the shot rang out in the still morning
air. The bushes were low, in most places they only came up to a
tall man's chin. To the advancing infantry, the enemy seemed to
bloom like hairy, cursing fruit from the thick brush. The line
opened fire at the sight. More than seven hundred men pulled their
triggers. The tremendous volley swept the hill, ripping the tops
from bushes and plucking the hairy fruit from between the
branches.

Those outlaws smart enough to stay crouched
knew they had been discovered and began crawling away from danger.
Many moved to the edges of the brush to scamper down the hill, but
when they burst into the open the Bradleys were there, lumbering
along either flank, belching lead and smoke from machine guns and
cannon.