Ashes - Standoff In The Ashes Part 32

He checked the vehicle for gas. Full tank and several full gas cans in reserve. There were cans of water and food and ammo.

He was set.

The area around the minimall became quiet as the last of Ben's security detail pulled out. He had aced his security, and his own team.

Ben smiled. "Working so far," he said. "The Raines luck is still working."

Ben checked a map. He knew that Berman was leading 'A' Team in from the north. B Team was coming in from the south. C Team from the west. D Team from the east.

"OK, General Berman," Ben muttered, slipping the HumVee into gear. "You wanted to meet me eyeball-to- 263.

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eyeball, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. You're going to get your chance."

He turned on the radio and set it to scan the Federal frequencies. The Rebels had all of them. It wouldn't take Ben long to get a fix on Berman.

Then the two commanding generals would settle this thing. One way or the other.

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Ben slowly drove the back roads, listening to the chatter as the scanner locked onto Federal frequencies. He listened for talk of landmarks that would help him find Ber-man's team. Finally, just as the sun was going down, Ben pulled in behind a falling down piece of a barn, tucked the Hummer under what remained of the roof of a lean-to, and had something to eat.n.o.body had to tell him that what he was doing was totally stupid. He knew that. He and Walt Berman had been talking back and forth for days, die insults getting more and more personal, until Ben finally remembered where he had met Berman . .. long before he'd been his prisoner at the nudiouse.

Berman had not been his name then. It had been years back, long before die collapse and the Great War. Ben had been doing contract work for die Company, and Berman's talents as a hired gun were for sale to any country, any cause, diat had the money to hire him.

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Berman had been an international terrorist.

Ben remembered that just before the collapse, he had learned that the Agency had put a contract out on die man who now called himself Berman.

Obviously Berman had survived, and made quite a name for himself as a soldier.

The man called Berman also hated Ben Raines, although Ben had no idea why. Ben finally gave up trying to figure it out. The why wasn't all that important, anyway. Ben intended to kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d . .. one way or the other.

Call it male pride or whatever anyone wanted to call it-perhaps a sudden surge of testosterone. Whatever.

Ben ate his meager-but filling, if not a bit tasty-supper of cold rations, then made himself a cup of coffee using a tiny field stove and a heat tab. He rolled a cigarette and smoked and drank his coffee slowly, enjoying each sip. He listened for die sounds of combat, but could hear no shots or explosions.

He knew that the Rebels had s.h.i.+fted troops around and had thrown up a circle around this part of Tennessee ... those had been the last orders Ben had given before bugging out. Berman and his infiltrators were trapped-he had outfoxed himself. All Ben had to do, really, was just stay hidden and let his troops finish off Berman and his men.

But Ben had no intention of doing that.

That would be too easy.

Ben had vivid memories of the aftermath of the terrorist attack deep in SUSA territory: dead and maimed civilians, mosdy women and children and elderly.

And Ben had learned that Berman planned the entire operation.

"I'm going to kill you, Berman," Ben whispered. "Believe it, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

From listening to radio transmissions Ben learned that all the reporters had made it out safely, not that he really 266gave a d.a.m.n whether any of the left-leaning b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and b.i.t.c.hes had or not. He was quite certain that if any of them had gotten hurt or killed he would have been blamed for it. He'd been doing battle with liberals-verbally at first, before the collapse and the Great War-for years . . . usually to no avail. There was no compromise in liberals.

For socialist/democrat it was either all their way, or no deal.

Ben's team had all made it out safely. He had talked very briefly with Corrie just before pulling behind the old ramshackle barn, and a.s.sured her he was all right. He made it plain that he wanted to be left alone to tend to some personal business. He made it a direct order that there would be no rescue teams sent in after him unless he requested them. He had Corrie tape the order and play it back to him.

"Strange order, Boss," Corrie had told him. "Lots of people are not going to like this."

"I can't help that. This is something I have to do, and that's that."

"What is it you're going to do, Boss?"

"Personal, and for the time being, Corrie, private."

"OK, Boss. I have no problem with that. You take care."

"I will. I'll contact you when the job is over."

"I sure hope so, Boss."

"Eagle out."

Ben fixed himself another cup of coffee, and when it was brewed he rolled another cigarette and sat and readied himself to watch a very lovely sunset.

"Very peaceful place," he whispered. "Nice way to finish a day." He sipped his coffee and relaxed and enjoyed the view.

A few seconds later he heard the sounds of a vehicle on the old blacktop highway in front of the deserted farm. He couldn't tell, as yet, which direction the slow moving vehicle was coming from.

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Ben took his CAR and rucksack from the seat of the Hummer and slipped inside the old barn, working his way carefully toward the front of the building.

"Federals," Ben muttered, catching sight of the military painted truck.

"This will be a better way to finish a day, I believe."

Thoroughly trained professional soldiers do not think of enemy soldiers as male or female, or even as human beings. They are the enemy, and it is time to kill or be killed. Survival instinct takes precedence over all. Training and experience push everything else out of a professional warrior's mind. That same warrior might risk his or her life to save the life of a child or an elderly person caught up in a dangerous combatsituation, or even a horse or dog, but he or she doesn't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n about someone wearing the uniform of the enemy . .. not if that warrior in question wants to live.

The bed of the truck was covered with a tarp over a frame of some sort, so Ben had no idea how many men might be in the bed: One, or half a dozen or more, it really didn't make any difference. If they stopped to do a search of the old farm, he was going to kill them all. That was the way it was. That was the way it had to be. A soldier has no choice in the matter, no other option.

The truck drove slowly past the old, rundown house and barn. The driver gave the place only a cursory glance- too d.a.m.n relaxed a look from him to suit Ben-and the other two soldiers in the cab didn't turn their heads. That was, to Ben's mind, a dead giveaway that they felt something was amiss and would be back to check it out.

He had not seen any one of the three in the cab use a radio. Of course, they might very well be radioing in their location now that the farm was behind them.

Ben waited. The minutes ticked past in silence. Then 268.

he heard the sounds of the truck returning, coming up the road very slowly.

"Stupid," he muttered. "They should have returned on foot through the woods to the south."

The truck stopped and the driver cut the engine. Half a dozen uniformed and well-armed men got out of the tarp-covered bed, and three more una.s.sed the cab of the truck.

"Nine to one," Ben whispered. "And I've got about forty-five minutes of good daylight left. Going to be interesting."

The nine men stood and talked for a few minutes, then began to fan out: three on each side, three facing the front of the decrepit old house.

Ben didn't see any need to wait for an invitation. "Might as well open the dance right now," he muttered.

He lifted his CAR and took out the three men walking up the ragged and overgrown front yard. He burned a full mag into the trio and then quickly ejected and stuck home a full thirty round magazine, s.h.i.+fting locations in the litter of what remained of the front room as he reloaded. There was some returning fire, but Ben was not hit.

"Lonnie?" one of the three men on the south side of the house called.

Lonnie, Ben guessed, was one of the trio who now lay dead or dying in the front yard. He did not reply.

"Eddie?" the same man called.

Nothing from Eddie.

"Vance?"A moan from the front yard.

"How hard are you hit, Vance?" The voice came from the north side of the house.

"Belly," Vance called. "My guts are on fire, Peter. Help me."

"Can you see him, Carl?" Peter called.

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"No. All I know is he's in the house."

"There's a HumVee parked in the back," another voice added.

"I need something for the pain!" Vance yelled. "G.o.d-d.a.m.nit, somebody help me."

"Shut up, Vance," Carl shouted. "We'll get to you. Just hang on."

"Hang onto what?" Vance groaned. "I got Lonnie's brains all over me.

When he was. .h.i.t he pulled the trigger and shot himself in the head. Blew his f.u.c.kin' head all to pieces and his brains all over me."

The gunfire Ben had heard.

"Is Eddie dead?" another voice on the north side called.

"Deader than h.e.l.l," Vance moaned. "He took half a dozen rounds in the chest."

"Let's blow him out of there." Another voice called the suggestion.

"I want that Hummer," Carl yelled. "Hold up with the grenades for a while."

"Yeah," this voice came from the other side of the ramshackle house. "My a.s.s is sore from ridin' in the back of that G.o.dd.a.m.ned truck."

"Vance?" Carl called.

Vance did not respond.

"Vance?" Peter yelled.

No response.

"He's either pa.s.sed out or dead," yet another man called. "Probably dead."

"How do you figure that, Miles?" Carl yelled. "You close to him? Can you see him?"

"I seen him get hit," Miles called. "He took half a dozen rounds in the belly. He got tore up pretty bad. Them rounds lifted him d.a.m.n near off his feet and then doubled him over. He's dead."

Ben popped the pin on a Fire-Frag and chunked it out 270a caved-in part of the north side of what remained of the house.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t!" he heard one of the meres yell just a couple of seconds before the deadly grenade blew.

Ben bellied down on die rotted floor a second before the Fire-Frag blew and sent shrapnel all over the place.

Before the echo of the explosion had died away, Ben scrambled across the rotted floor to the other side of the house and chunked another grenade.

Before it blew, he was running hard as the old floor would allow out of the rear of the house and diving behind a pile of rotting firewood.

The Fire-Frag blew, and Ben heard someone screaming in great pain.

Serves you right for picking the wrong side in this fracas, he thought.

Ben lay behind the pile of old firewood catching his breath and acutely aware that he was not as young as he was behaving. The landing on his belly hurt, and Ben would not be ashamed to admit that to anybody.

"Carl!" someone screamed. "Oh, Jesus, his guts and b.a.l.l.s and legs and other s.h.i.+t are all over the d.a.m.n place."

"Whose guts?" Carl yelled.

"Davy. He's dead."

"I got one dead over here, too," Carl yelled. "Whoever that son of a b.i.t.c.h in the house is, he's taking us out and taking his own sweet time doing it."

"That f.u.c.kin' grenade landed right in front of Davy. He froze at the sight."