Ambush in the Ashes by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

boring,” Ben agreed. “But that can’t last forever. These gangs number in the thousands. They don’t dare try to slip into Bruno Bottger’s territory; he’d shoot them on sight. We’ve got them between a rock and a hard place. Sooner or later, they’ve got to turn and fight. Probably before we reach the Senegal and the Niger rivers. And there, folks, is where I suspect we’re really going to hit some hard fighting …”
    The other members of Ben’s team had wandered in and were listening.
    “… Those countries have been cut up into sections-tribal hatred, warlords, dissident army factions. You name it, and we’re going to run into it.”
    “So we had better enjoy this more or less calm while we can, huh, boss?” Cooper asked.
    “That’s about the size of it, Coop.” Ben cut his eyes to Corrie. “Did those additional water and fuel trucks arrive?”
    “They just pulled in, boss.”
    “Good. We’ll sure need them. Once we pull out of here, it’s fifteen hundred miles to the next port. That’s at Nouakchott, in Mauritania. And there is a lot of desert between here and there.”
     
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    “And not many people?” Anna questioned.
    “Not many, Anna.” Again he looked at Corrie. “Any word from Nick Stafford’s 18 Batt?”
    “He’s running into the same thing we are,” Corrie replied. “Starving people and looted towns. It’s the same thing all across to Ike. Somebody really did a number on North Africa.”
    “South of here we’re going to see starving people by the thousands,” Ben said, then added grimly, “Or find the bones of thousands.”
    “What the hell is with this country?” Coop asked. “I mean, I can understand up here, it’s desert. The land’s no good. But south of here, it’s fertile.”
    Ben stood up and walked to a window, gazing out for a moment. “You don’t really want to get me started on that, Coop. So let’s just call it bad land management.”
    The Rebels did what they could in Rabat, then moved on down the coast to Fedala, better known as Mo-hammedia. Then down to Ed Dar el Baida, better known as Casablanca. There they almost got caught up in their first food riot.
    “Put warning shots over their heads!” Ben ordered, as the mobs of starving people surged toward the Rebel column. “Now!”
    The mob paused, hesitated for a moment, then began moving toward the column again. Additional Rebel tanks rumbled forward; armored personnel carriers joined then. The mass of starving humanity stopped.
    “Have the interpreters tell them we have food and medical care,” Ben said. “But if we don’t have order, we’ll move on.”
    The local, who had joined the column at a village just north of the city, said, “They might take that the wrong way, General.”
     
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    William W. Johnstone
    “If they do, and they rush us,” Ben said, with menace in his voice, “I’ll put a lot of them out of their misery. Be sure and tell them that, too.”
    “Would you really do that, General?” the interpreter asked, worry in his words.
    “You want to find out?”
    “Ah … no, sir.”
    “Then advise the people to settle down.”
    The interpreter spoke quickly and the mob began slowly backing up. Several males stepped out of the mob, rocks in their hands. One drew back his arm to hurl the stone and the muzzles of several Rebel machine guns swung in his direction. The citizen suddenly had second thoughts and the rock dropped from his fingers.
    “That’s better,” Ben said. “I just knew we could reach some sort of peaceful resolution to this altercation.”
    The interpreter cut his eyes to Ben and whispered a small prayer under his breath.
    “Did you say something?” Ben asked.
    “I thanked Allah for sending us such a benevolent commander of the relief column,” the local answered quickly.
    “I just bet you did,” Ben muttered. “All right, Corrie. Tell the troops to unass the vehicles and throw up a defensive perimeter. Once that is done, get Chase and