William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

Ben spent two years in Africa, fighting in dozens of little no-name wars as a mercenary. Then he had returned and found, to his amazement, he could write, and make a living at it. He had lived in Louisiana for fifteen years. Until the great war of 1988.

He remembered that strange phone call he’d received that night so long ago. Those two words: Bold Strike. The words Bull Dean had told him to remember. He recalled his confusion.

That man who had visited him back in ‘84 with the ridiculous idea that Bull Dean and Carl Adams were still alive; that they were covertly heading some underground guerrilla army; that they were going to take over the government.

Ben had sent the man packing; had laughed at him.

Then, only a week before the world exploded in nuclear and germ warfare, Ben had called the CO of his old outfit, the Hell Hounds. Sam Cooper had told Ben to “hunt a hole and keep your head down, partner.”

Then the connection had been broken.

Five days later the world blew up.

“…about this Hickman woman, Ben?” he caught the last of Colonel Ramos’s question.

Ben shook himself back to reality; broke the misty bounds of memories of things past and people long dead and gone. He looked up and smiled.

“Sorry, Hec. I was long ago and far away.”

“We all do it, Ben,” Hector said. “I sometimes have to fight my way back from memories. When my wife and I were stationed out at Huachuca. The kids…” He trailed it off, then cleared his throat. “Never did find them. Finally gave up hope about five years ago.” He shook his head. “What I was saying, Ben: Have you and this Hickman woman worked out any code?”

“No. That’s Cecil’s department. I never was much for secret handshakes and codes. Personally, I wish this Olivier woman had never dreamed this up. I think she’s playing a game that is going to get her killed.”

Hector nodded. “You know I soldiered with Sam Hartline, don’t you, Ben?”

Ben’s head came up, eyes sharp. “No, I didn’t, Hec. When was this?”

“Seventy-nine. We were stationed at Bragg together. He was prior service and reenlisted. I think he’d had about three or four years in Africa—this was right after ‘Nam—and came back stateside and went Special Forces. He got kicked out of the Army; a rape charge that was never proved. But we all knew he did it. Young girl. ‘Bout twelve or thirteen, as I recall. He’s loco de atar, that one. And cruel mean. All twisted inside. This Olivier lady, she’s got courage, but I don’t think she really knows what she’s up against.”

“Beginning this Friday,” Hartline told Cody, “I want your cryptography section to videotape all shows that have anything about me or Raines on them. Go over them from top to bottom for coded messages.”

“Olivier is playing games?”

“Why, hell, yes. Whole goddamn thing is a game. One day she hates me so badly her eyes are like a snake; next day she’s inviting me to her house and lickin’ my dick like it’s peppermint candy—doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

“And…?”

“So we’ll let her play her little games. If she’s sending codes to Raines—and I believe she will—I’ll give her all the false information she can use; let her play her games. Raines isn’t going to buy it. He’s an ol’ curly wolf that’ll puke up the poison soon as it hits his stomach. Wish I could figure out some way to kill that son of a bitch.”

Cody let that slide. Lots of people would like to figure out a way to kill Ben Raines; lots of people had tried to kill him—for years. Cody was beginning to think the man was untouchable. And he wasn’t alone in that. He had heard of those who felt the man was God-touched; that even some in his command were viewing him as if he rested on some higher plane than mere mortals. Some of those he had seen broken under torture went out calling Raines’s name. Not Jesus Christ. Not the Holy Mother. Not God—but Ben Raines.

It was enough to make a person wonder…

He looked at Sam Hartline. “Lowry wants the Olivier woman… sexually.”

“Yeah, I know. He can have her any time he wants her. I’ve got that all set up. She thinks by fucking him she’ll get brownie points. She’s just like all broads: keeps her brains between her legs. Let Lowry get his jollies humping her, then we’ll dispose of her. Who do you want?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What cunt do you want, Al—Lowry wants you with him when he jazzs Sabra.”

“I…” Cody shook his head. “I don’t want any, Hartline.”

The mercenary laughed. “That’s not the way we play this game, Cody. What’s the matter, Al? You like boys, maybe?”

“Good God, no!”

“Okay, then, I’ll get Little Bit for you.”

“Who?”

“Jane Moore. The blond cunt you’ve mentioned a time or two. Little Bit, I call her.”

“I don’t want her, Sam.”

“She’d be a fine romp, I’m thinking. Hell, she isn’t but about five feet tall and you know what’s said about those kinds of gals: Big woman, little pussy; little woman, all pussy.”

Hartline laughed and slapped the desk with his heavy hand.

Al Cody felt sick at his stomach. He thought he might know, now, how an animal felt trapped in a cage; or like that man riding a tiger; afraid to stay on, afraid to get off.

He fought back his sickness and wondered how he ever got involved with this sick creature who walked upright like a man.

“I’ll set it up for next week,” Hartline said, rising from his chair. “That’ll give you time to think about dipping your wick in that blond muff.” He found that hysterically amusing and stood chuckling for a moment. He sobered and looked down at Cody. “Relax, Al. You act like a man who is about to be hanged instead of a man who is about to get some prime gash.”

Cody inwardly winced at that. “That isn’t it. Look, Sam, you’ve been around the world a number of times; seen things that most other people haven’t seen. One of my agents reported something to me last week. I found it… well, odd, to say the least.”

“Oh?” Hartline sat down.

“Yes. At first I dismissed it as an overactive imagination under stress. The men were on the fringes of a dead city…”

“Where?”

“Memphis. They were looking for another suspected Rebel cell. They didn’t find that, but they… well, goddamnit, they said they saw rats in there as big as dogs!”

Hartline was silent for a moment. Cody thought the mercenary was going to laugh at him and was surprised when the man said, “I don’t doubt it. There is no telling what aftereffects the bombings might have produced. What the radiation and the germs might have done to genes in humans and animals. I’m surprised something like this hasn’t turned up before this.”

“Are you serious!”

“Sure,” Hartline said with a shrug. “Scientists don’t have—and never did have—the vaguest idea what massive doses of radiation might cause or produce in humans or animals after a period of time. There were monsters born in Japan after the bombings in ‘45—I’ve seen the pictures and read the reports; but the Japs and the Americans hushed it all up.”

“Monsters! Jesus Christ!”

“Oh, hell, Cody. I’ve seen things in Africa and Asia that would make a dog-sized rat look like something of beauty. Just tell your men to be careful; don’t get bitten by one. No telling what that might do.”

Hartline laughed at the expression on Cody’s face. He was still laughing as he walked out of the director’s office.

Cody rubbed his face with his hands. “As if Ben Raines isn’t enough to worry about,” he muttered. “Now I have monsters and boogymen and king-sized rats. What next?”