Ash: Rise of the Republic (23 page)

“Very. He and his cronies are drinking the
Mayor dry and dreaming up excuses for yesterday. What’s this I hear
about Hempstead falling?”

Collier looked surprised for a moment. “The
Major’s man already reported huh? I’m going to go ahead and guess
he left out the part about the four hundred men Werner hid in the
bushes on a hilltop, ready to ambush us?”

The Captain chuckled, oddly satisfied with
the development. “The Major’s intelligence has a way of coming up
short doesn’t it? Come on, I’ve got a plan brewing. Let me buy you
a drink and we can mull it over.”

“That depends, where do I fit in this little
plan?”

“It’ll be an easy day for you. Think you can
keep those boys from running again?” He gestured at the nervous
troops who still milled about in the street.

“An easy day huh?”

****

McLelland’s rangers left before dawn. The sentries at
the south gate, sluggish at the end of a long watch, slowly swung
the heavy log doors shut as the three UTV's sped into the waning
night. They shook their heads, joking with each other, glad they
had not been fated to join in the coming fight.

All night, while the ranger companies drank
and gambled, The Captain, Deb, and Collier had worked on the plan.
They only had a few short hours now to get everything in place. He
knew the troop was tired, and more than a little hung over, but
that was life. He had no mercy for pounding heads and sour bellies
this morning. They had work to do; the young rangers would just
have to suffer.

Ten miles south, halfway to Hempstead, the
rear UTV split off, heading west away from the lightening sky.
Spare fuel cans were strapped tightly to the frame. McLelland knew
he could trust the two scouts to find a good spot to drop the
twins. They had a lot of ground to cover, he hoped the stealthy
vehicle was fast enough. His whole plan hinged on their success.
The remaining vehicles ground to a halt a few minutes later. As
they had drawn closer to the town where the enemy waited, a glow on
the southern horizon had emerged, bright enough to rival the one in
the east. Now that they had crested a final hill they could see its
source. Hempstead was burning.

The jumble of shacks was ablaze in the dim
morning light. There were still a few refugees stumbling north away
from their smoldering homes. Their clothes were singed and filthy.
They leveled accusatory glances at the rangers as they herded their
children and struggled with their belongings.

The Captain didn't bother hiding his troops
as he surveyed the area. He wanted the enemy to know that justice
was coming for them. He could plainly see the raggedly dressed men
huddling behind breastworks of fat sandbags on the high curving
sweep of the eastbound interchange. Many of them appeared to be
sleeping in the roadway. He could see that anyone who wished to
push those men off that overpass would have to funnel into the
narrow road and climb the gentle, curving slope into heavy fire.
There were at least three heavy machine guns on tripods in the
sandbagged fighting positions.

Any force which was committed to assaulting
up the narrow, confined roadway would be under withering fire from
above and terribly vulnerable to an enemy force coming in surprise
from the rear. The attacking force would be sandwiched between two
enemies and corralled by concrete walls and a thirty foot drop. All
that the trap would require would be a convenient place to hide
some troops.

He risked a glance to his right. The high
ground on the west side of the highway was dense with the ragged
scrub brush which had grown to dominate this part of the region.
Once, these gently rolling hills had been home to shady live-oaks
and tall, stately pecans. The new mixture of dense bushes and
stunted mesquite was less pleasant to look at, but ideal for hiding
troops. He had to give Werner credit. If the ambush worked it would
annihilate the Republic troops. It was exactly what the Captain
himself would have done if the situation had been reversed.

He gave the low hill another quick glance
before he returned to his vehicle and signaled his wife to head
back north. He smiled to himself as they sped back over the crest
of the hill: maybe it was just the lack of sleep, but he told
himself he had seen the faintest sparkle in the dense and dusty
green tangle that lined the low ridge. A flash of orange light;
flames reflected off of glass. Maybe Werner himself, peering at his
foe through some old battered pair of binoculars.

****

When they rolled back through the south
gate, they found the army standing idle in their column of march,
impatient and sweating in the humid morning. They had risen early,
as ordered. Their officers had paraded them for inspection, they
had assembled in their companies in the order of march, and then
they had waited. The Colonel had yet to emerge from his lavish
billet. The finest brothel in town had been reserved for the senior
officers. The head of the column stood waiting in full view of the
thickly draped windows, growing resentful as the minutes and then
hours ticked by.

By ten o'clock, the junior officers, not
privileged enough to have been granted the luxury of the brothel's
feather beds and satin sheets, released their men to shed their
packs and sit in the ash. The men found what comfort they could
while they waited for their leader to appear. The Captains and
Lieutenants gathered together in the street before the silent
brothel and argued over who would risk knocking on the elaborately
painted iron door. Finally a young lieutenant took it upon himself
to swallow his anger and grasp the ring of the great cast iron
knocker. He hammered it down three times in succession. He was
about to deliver another series of blows when the latch clicked and
the heavy door opened slowly inward, silent on its well-greased
hinges.

The establishment's Madame, a handsome
middle aged woman elegantly attired in a flowing blue gown, stood
tall in the doorway. Without a word she glanced at the crowd of
irritated men in the street. She raised an eyebrow at the flustered
lieutenant.

"Can I help you? It's a bit early for a poke
isn't it Lieutenant?"

The man blushed. "Is the Colonel awake?"

"I highly doubt it. The fat bastard and his
sniveling friends went through every drop of liquor I had, and then
some." Her normally kind and welcoming manner had been stripped
away by the irritating customers who had taken over her house the
evening before. The drunken officers had thoroughly sampled the
wares, swilled her wine, and wrecked her furniture, and had then
insisted she bill the Republic for the damages.

"Come on in, they're upstairs, last room on
the right."

The Lieutenant glanced over his shoulder for
support from his brother officers, and, finding none, squared his
shoulders and slipped into the dim lobby.

The Madame slammed the huge door and waved
him to the ornate staircase in the center of the room. With his
first step he nearly tripped over a pretty young whore who was on
her knees scrubbing a huge wine stain from the lobby's elaborate
rug. He mumbled an apology and hurried to the stairs, taking them
two at a time. He drew courage from a knot of anger that began to
seethe within him. He had left his family behind to fight, and so
had the men sitting in the dusty street. If all the Colonel wanted
to do was to drink wine and molest whores, he could have saved
everyone the trouble and gone to Waco or Bastrop.

With deep breath, he calmed his rage and
knocked sharply on the door at the end of the hall. There was no
response. With his ear to the hollow door he could hear jagged
snoring. The anger welled up again and he cursed, turning the knob
and throwing the door open. The sudden rush of light and noise did
nothing to disturb the drunken slumber of the occupants, who lay in
various states of undress and indecency around the lavish room.
Majors and Captains lay intertwined with prostitutes; bottles
littered the floor. The Colonel lay on his back, a mound of flab,
alone in the huge bed, thankfully still in possession of his
shorts. The thunderous snores came from his open mouth.

Uncertain again, the lieutenant cleared his
throat, loudly. He tried calling out, "Colonel, sir!"

Behind him a loud voice, "Let me try,
Lieutenant." He whirled around in surprise.

Captain McLelland walked past him into the
room, shaking his head at the sight. The grizzled veteran paused,
then in one smooth motion, drew, cocked, and fired his big revolver
into the ceiling three times. He sidestepped the loosened plaster
which fell to the carpet like ash. There were moans from around the
room. At the third shot, the Colonel's snore choked to a sudden
halt. He lifted his head, squinted his eyes at the harsh light
filtering in from the open door. When his befuddled gaze found
McLelland, he grunted in sudden recognition. The recognition slowly
turned to confusion, and then fear. He began to emit a petulant
wine.

"McLelland! What's going on? Are we under
attack? Was that a shot? Turn off that damned light! Where are my
clothes! God, my head!"

McLelland kept his anger in check, somehow
managing to speak without growling, "Colonel Garza, with respect,
it's damn near noon. The men have been ready to march for
hours."

The Colonel squinted even harder, grimacing
as he fought the pounding thunder behind his eyes. "Men...march?
What the hell are you babbling about? Lower your voice. I'm not
sure I like your tone." He said this last without much conviction.
Memories were beginning to flood back. The sight of pale, pimpled
limbs in indecent tangles on the floor around his bed made his
stomach turn.

"If you will recall sir, the enemy is in
Hempstead? You ordered a march at dawn? If we don't leave soon the
bastards will die of old age and cheat us of a good fight."

The Colonel uttered a drawn out moan, the
facts continued to flood back. "Major Price!"

The Captain saw one of the pale, pantsless
figures roll over at the sound of his name.

"Sir?" Price slurred. He stood up too
quickly for his fragile stomach. He bent suddenly at the waist to
retch on the stained rug.

"Find my pants!"

McLelland turned at this, not bothering to
wait for dismissal. He waved the shocked infantry Lieutenant back
through the door and followed him down the stairs. He smiled at the
girl scrubbing at the carpet, and on his way out the door shouted
to the Madame, whom he knew quite well, "Liza, if it's not too much
trouble, a bucket of water and a bottle of aspirin for the good
Colonel and his men?" She laughed at him.

Out in the street the Captain took it upon
himself to order the officers to prepare for the march. He took a
few minutes to walk down the column, sharing some idle chatter with
the bored and irritated men. He could tell their morale was already
dipping. Their leader was proving to be not only pompous and
insulting, but useless as well.

At an outbreak of angry muttering, he turned
to look back at the brothel. The gallant Colonel had finally
emerged, blinking and unkempt, into the grey, mid-morning light.
Without a word to the angry men lining the street, he began
waddling toward his command vehicle, flanked by his equally groggy
and disheveled staff. On his approach, his driver climbed down from
his lazy perch atop the machine gun turret and slipped into his
hatch. A moment later, the beast roared to life.

McLelland met them at the rear hatch. The
Colonel raised an annoyed eyebrow at his presence and offered a
inquisitive grunt.

"I took it upon myself to scout the enemy
position this morning, sir, we’ve just now returned."

Garza nodded, rubbed his aching eyes, and
waved him to continue.

"Only two hundred in sight sir, they've
taken up defensive positions on the interchange. They’ve got their
machine guns dug in. Sir, it is my duty to warn you that it is my
professional opinion that this is just a token force, meant to
distract us while the real muscle maneuvers behind us. We should
acquire more intelligence before we attack blindly."

The Colonel only dimly recalled that the
Captain had said something similar the night before. He tried to
fit his fragmented memories together. He knew he had decided to
attack the small force in Hempstead, but he could not remember
exactly why. The pounding in his head discouraged further thought.
He was in no condition to be changing his mind at the moment, so he
waved the Captain off and began to climb the short ramp into the
Stryker.

"We will proceed as planned. Good God
Price!" The Major had vomited again when he had bent over to
squeeze into the low ceilinged crew compartment. The stinking
puddle he left on the ramp would doubtless slide onto the Colonel's
shoes if the hatch were closed. "Goodwin! Breiner! Take Major Price
to one of the Bradleys. The three of you can ride to battle in a
puddle of your own vomit if you like, but I won't have it in my
vehicle!"

The two staff Captains, singled out because
they were, like the Major, bent double at the base of the ramp,
retching the night's victuals into the ash at their feet. Shaking
their heads in misery, the three of them stumbled toward one of the
other waiting APC's.

The Colonel leaned over to peer out at the
column of soldiers across the street. "Sergeant!" He beckoned at a
middle aged man with triple chevrons on his shoulders. The sergeant
walked nervously over, unsure what was expected of him.

"Clean that up." The command was given
arrogantly, eyes closed against the pain in his head, with a
flippant wave at the offending puddle of wine and bile.

The sergeant visibly struggled with his
self-control. Hatred flared in his eyes. Captain McLelland,
watching from a few feet away, thought for a moment that the man
would snap, but discipline held. After a loaded pause, the sergeant
turned to his squad, "Private Jones! A bucket of water for the
Colonel!"