Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 9

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan’s bedroom was furnished with odds and ends of furniture and generally messy. Some of that had to do with the clutter that covered the long, conference-room-style table that stood against one wall. It served as a place to stack his homework as well as a surface to work on. Sloan had both a laptop and a printer but had chosen to write the letter longhand. He read the most recent draft and swore. The shredder whirred as it consumed the letter. Then, determined to succeed, Sloan tried again.

Sloan read it over, concluded that it was the best he could do, and signed it. The letter went into an envelope that already had an alter ego’s name and return address on it. Mrs. Farrow would mail it in the morning. That was all he could do.

Sloan sighed, took a document off the top of a pile, and began to read. Bo Macintyre had spent time on Mexican President Salazar’s vast ranch a week earlier and, according to a CIA agent who was also present, the two men had a private meeting. A great deal of encrypted radio traffic had been flying back and forth between Houston and Mexico City ever since.

Meanwhile, Confederate engineers were working to repair the B&M Bridge over the Rio Grande River. Even though their forces had destroyed it months earlier. Why? The question followed Sloan into his dreams.

NAVAL AIR STATION JOINT RESERVE BASE, NEW ORLEANS

Hangar 3 was barely large enough to accommodate all 250 members of Mac’s Marauders. Mac entered through the enormous door, made her way over to the staging normally used to work on airplane engines, and climbed the stairs to the top. Company Sergeant Chris Bader’s voice was loud enough to be heard outside. “Battalion! Atten-hut!”

Mac scanned the first rank of faces. Some were familiar, but they were the exception. There had been casualties during the months since the battalion had been commissioned. Lots of them. And, as the unit gained increased notoriety, there had been no shortage of volunteers. So many that two-thirds of the people assembled in the hangar had clean records. A fact that Commander Trenton seemed to be unaware of. When Mac said, “At ease,” she was pleased to see her troops shift position in unison. Mac could thank Executive Officer Trey Munson for that… Along with Bader and the rest of the NCOs.

“We have a mission,” Mac began. “A top secret mission the exact nature of which will become clear over the next couple of days. But I can tell you this… Mac’s Marauders are going to operate behind enemy lines. That means we will be surrounded from the very beginning. And we won’t be able to count on a whole lot of air support, either. Other than that, this is going to be a piece of cake.” The words produced nervous laughter and scattered “Hooahs.”

Mac smiled. “Simply put, our mission will be to take an objective and hold it until we are relieved. We were chosen for this task because our armor will give us an important edge—and because we are the best of the worst.”

That produced a hearty cheer even though most of the battalion had never seen the inside of a jail cell. They liked the battalion’s bad-boy rep as well as its edgy motto. Mac felt guilty about manipulating their emotions. But that was part of the job. “Now listen up,” Mac told them. “Rather than drive into enemy territory, we’re going to drop our Strykers from planes. Why? To scare the shit out of the rebs, that’s why.”

That wasn’t why. But the line got a laugh. “We are going to spend the next two weeks learning all about parachutes and gravity,” Mac told them. “During that time, there won’t be any passes, there won’t be any access to the Internet, and we’ll be logging twelve-hour days.

“But, if you do well, I’ll throw a party forty-eight hours prior to takeoff. And liquid refreshments will be served.”

A predictable cheer went up, Mac waved, and Bader yelled, “Atten-hut!” There were tears in Mac’s eyes as she left the hangar. A lot of her soldiers were going to die. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

MATAMOROS, MEXICO

The sun was little more than a buttery glow beyond the perpetual haze as General Bo Macintyre stood at the south end of the Brownsville & Matamoros Express Bridge and looked north. He felt guilty, and for good reason. Rather than being in Mexico, working on Operation Overlord, he should have been in Houston attending Kathy’s funeral.

But Bo knew he couldn’t get through it. And, after losing two generals and an admiral to a single missile, the last thing citizens needed to see was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sobbing on TV. Fortunately, Bo’s job gave him an excuse to be at “an undisclosed location,” “fulfilling his responsibilities,” while Kathy’s sister handled the funeral arrangements.

As for Kathy, well, she would understand. Would she approve of his new mission in life? Which was to avenge her death? No, she wouldn’t. “That won’t solve anything,” she would say. But that’s where Kathy was wrong. Killing Sloan, as well as the people who made him possible, would cleanse North America of a dangerous infection. Then, once he was dead, the North and South could reunite. In that way, something good would come out of Kathy’s death.

Bo eyed the scene in front of him. Forces under Victoria’s command had destroyed the B&M Bridge so that a Mexican drug lord couldn’t use it. Now, ironically enough, Bo was in charge of the effort to repair it. Cranes had been brought up the Rio Grande on barges. And as Bo looked on, people from both sides of the border were working to drop a new support beam into place.

The Confederacy had delivered a ton of gold to Mexico City a few days earlier. And that meant all three of the bridges that crossed the river between Matamoros and Brownsville would be required as sixty thousand Mexican soldiers traveled north. By crossing at that point, the allied troops could enter Texas and pivot to the east without encountering the sort of resistance they would have confronted in New Mexico and Arizona.

Bo’s train of thought was interrupted as a helicopter clattered overhead, circled the construction site, and came in for a landing. One of Bo’s aides was a burly major named Ted Caskins. He arrived as the helo touched down. “The polo team has landed.”

Bo made a face. Among other things, Major General Matias Ramos was one of Salazar’s nephews, a graduate of the Citadel in South Carolina, and a well-known polo player. And, since Ramos liked to surround himself with other polo players, most of the people on his staff were better suited for a commission in a seventeenth-century cavalry regiment instead of a modern infantry division. “Here’s hoping Ramos is on a sightseeing tour,” Bo said darkly. “God help us if he wants to get involved.” Caskins laughed.

Fortunately, Ramos didn’t need to be competent in order to play his part in defeating the North. Bo planned to use the Mexican divisions as cannon fodder. If they fought well, then so much the better. And if they didn’t? No problem. Bo saw Ramos and his peers as linemen in a football game. Meaning people the North would have to circumvent or run over in order to score. That would free Bo’s forces to sack the quarterback, intercept passes, and do an end run on the enemy’s defenses. So if Bo had to put up with the polo team, he would.

Ramos was still twenty feet away when Bo plastered a smile on his face and went forward to shake hands. “Matias! What an unexpected pleasure… I hope you have time for lunch.”

“Of course, amigo,” Ramos replied. “But first the bridge. I would like a tour.”

It was going to be a long afternoon.

BASTROP, LOUISIANA

Tiny Morehouse Memorial Airport was located in Bastrop, Louisiana, and had been chosen for a number of reasons. It was well inside territory controlled by the North and, because the single runway had been employed by both sides, local citizens were used to all manner of military comings and goings. A fact that might put rebel agents to sleep. But, even if the rebs were watching the training exercises, it would be difficult to discern what the North was up to.

Mac was standing on the west side of the field, looking east, as the four-engined cargo plane dropped down to fly just fifty feet above the runway. Once the C-150 was lined up, an extraction parachute shot out through the rear hatch and jerked a Stryker out of the plane’s hold. Cargo parachutes acted to slow the weighty package as it fell toward the ground.

Except that “slow” was a relative term. The platform the vic was strapped to hit hard. And having logged three such drops herself, Mac knew she would never forget the spine-jarring impact. As the platform skidded to a halt, six soldiers boiled up out of the cargo compartment. Then they jumped to the ground and hurried to release the tie-downs.

That was when Company Sergeant Bader popped up out of a firing position and opened fire on them with an LMG. The machine gun was loaded with blanks, and the soldiers knew that. But what they didn’t know, or had forgotten, was what to do. Should they fire back? Or free the tie-downs?

Mac had a bullhorn, which she brought up to her lips. “Cease fire. Two of you are supposed to remain aboard and provide covering fire, while the others release the tie-downs. Remember… we’re going to land on a two-lane highway. Once your vehicle is down, and freed from the pallet, you must clear the LZ quickly so that the next Herc can drop its load.

“Twenty-seven Strykers. Plus three trailers loaded with supplies. That’s how much stuff we have to insert. We’ll have the advantage of surprise at first… But that won’t last long. Clear the runway.”

They did it over and over again, day after day, until everyone was pissed. The long days were concluded with flights back to the Joint Reserve Base in New Orleans. Then, after a hurried meal, it was time to pack. Each container had to contain a little bit of everything. That way, if one box was lost, it wouldn’t mean that all of their food, ammo, or medical supplies were gone.

Finally, after nearly two weeks of hard work, graduation day arrived—and Commander Trenton was on hand to witness the full run-through. The demonstration began with a series of successful drops. That meant all of Alpha Company’s first platoon was on the ground when disaster struck.

The battalion had been able to carry out more than 135 drops without suffering anything more serious than a sprained ankle until then. But as the fifth Herc roared in, and the extraction chute popped, something went wrong. The Stryker and its platform slumped to the right and hit the runway hard. Sparks flew as the vic skidded on its side, screeched to a stop, and caught on fire.

Mac’s RTO, Larry Duke, was standing next to her. Her voice was level. “Tell the ETV driver to push the wreckage off the runway. Clear the next C-130 to make its approach.”

Part of the landing plan called for each company to drop a dozer-blade-equipped ETV first—so that it could clear wreckage. That hadn’t been necessary before. Now it was, and the flaming vehicle was barely clear of the runway when the next Stryker landed.

A pre-positioned crash truck rushed in to put the flames out. It was a luxury the team wouldn’t have at Hackberry. It soon became clear that while some of the soldiers in the damaged vic were okay, the rest hadn’t been so fortunate. Air-evac helicopters were called in to take them out. They’re the lucky ones, Mac thought to herself. They’ll come to realize that eventually.

Mac glanced at Trenton. The navy officer’s expression hadn’t changed one iota. The demonstration continued. Finally, once it was over, Trenton turned to face Mac. “That was acceptable,” Trenton said. “Carry on.” And with that, the navy officer boarded a Black Hawk and left for New Orleans.

Mac felt a momentary sense of disappointment. Some sort of attagirl would have been nice. But, given Trenton’s persona, perhaps “acceptable” qualified as high praise. Besides, it doesn’t matter what Trenton thinks of you, Mac told herself. What matters is whether the battalion is ready for combat. Or as ready as it can be under the circumstances.

The battalion’s vehicles had been kept at the Morehouse airstrip during the training period. Now it was time to transport them back to NAS/JRB for two days of maintenance and a final loadout prior to the attack on Hackberry. That necessitated dozens of flights during a six-hour period.

But finally, once the entire battalion was back in New Orleans, Mac threw the party she had promised. There was plenty of beer, endless buckets of crawfish, and plenty of side dishes. All of which were well received.

Once the party was going full blast, Mac filled a cooler with beer and loaded food into Styrofoam containers. Then a delegation that included Company Sergeant Bader left for the hospital. One of Mac’s soldiers had suffered a severe head injury and was in a coma. But the rest were well enough to enjoy the visit—even if the nurses weren’t that thrilled about it.

Secure in the knowledge that her XO would keep a lid on the party in Hangar 3, Mac allowed herself to go off duty. After returning to the BOQ, Mac entered her room to find that a letter had been slipped in under the door. From the notations on the envelope, she judged that it had been sent to three other locations prior to winding up at NRS/JRB.

The name in the upper-left-hand corner didn’t mean anything to her, but Mac recognized the handwriting immediately and knew the letter was from Sloan. The bastard.

Mac ripped the envelope open, removed the letter, and scanned it. Then she read it again. Everything Sloan said was true. It would have been wrong for him to disclose the assassination plan in advance. And Mac knew that killing Bo Macintyre was the right thing to do in that it would set the Confederacy back and save Union lives. But those were intellectual arguments. And as her father’s daughter, Mac found the whole thing to be repugnant.

As for Sloan’s willingness to take her on a date, even as Union forces sought to murder her father, that was appalling. Fortunately, he had the stones to admit it. Could she forgive him? Yes, no, maybe. It didn’t matter. When Mac tried to visualize the future, there was nothing to see. Everything beyond Hackberry was blank. Mac tore the letter into tiny pieces and dumped them into a wastepaper basket.

The next two days were spent getting ready. And there were multiple issues to resolve. A soldier named Harkin had gone AWOL. Would he wind up in reb hands? And would he spill his guts? If he did, the enemy could be waiting when the battalion landed. The MPs were looking for him. All Mac could do was hope.

Then there was the need for antiaircraft weapons. The battalion would have air cover on the way in. And Mac could call for more. But the air force was stretched thin and wouldn’t be able to fly CAPs over Hackberry twenty-four/seven. That’s why Mac had requested, and been granted, thirty FIM-92A man-portable launchers, with ten missiles each. But the weapons were sitting in a warehouse located fifteen miles away. Mac ordered Captain Munson to round up some trucks and go get them.

Finally, there was the issue of the Stryker that was generally referred to as the HANGAR QUEEN. It was a miserable piece of shit, which, no matter how much work the techs put into it, always broke down a few days later. No way in hell was Mac going to take the QUEEN into combat. And she needed to replace the vic that had been totaled on the final day of training as well.

Unfortunately, Supply Officer Wendy Wu hadn’t been able to find any replacement vehicles. But after some hurried research, Mac discovered that two Marine Corps LAV-25s were available. And, having commanded some LAVs during the battle at the Choctaw Reserve, Mac knew how devastating the jarhead 25mm chain guns could be.

With support from Commander Trenton, Mac was able to requisition the vics and talk the Marine Corps out of a qualified wrench turner. And because the LAVs were very similar to Strykers, Mac’s personnel would be able to crew them.

Finally, having done all that she could, Mac hit the sack. She didn’t think sleep would come, but it did—and the alarm woke her four hours later.

Mac hadn’t found the time to fill out a last will and testament, but it didn’t matter. She had some money in the bank but no one to leave it to. As for packing her personal belongings, well, that would be the same as declaring herself dead. So she went to breakfast instead.

After finishing the meal, Mac went outside to peer up at the sky. She saw the usual high haze, but visibility was reasonably good, and that was critical.

Odds were that the rebs were watching from space, and Mac could imagine what they were thinking. Why were so many C-150s gathered in one place? What were the Yankees up to? But the possibilities were endless. And, now that Private Harkin was in custody, Mac felt better knowing that she would have the advantage of surprise.

Soldiers dashed from place to place as they ran last-minute errands, engines thundered as the Hercs taxied into position, and jet fighters circled high above.

Captain Munson had responsibility for the loadout—and he assured Mac that everything was proceeding smoothly. Mac thanked him and made a show of strolling over to the lead plane. Then, after surrendering her ceramic coffee cup to a member of the ground crew, Mac walked up the ramp. Duke held Mac’s TAC vest up for her to inspect. “Good morning, ma’am. I took the liberty of adding four candy bars to your loadout.”

Mac grinned as Duke lowered the vest into place. “Thanks, Corporal… That’s the kind of ammo I need. Is everybody on board? Good. Pass the word to the cockpit. Let’s roll.”

The flight from New Orleans to the drop zone was scheduled to take thirty minutes. Rather than force everyone to remain inside their tightly packed vehicles, Mac’s soldiers had been authorized to sit outside for the first half of the flight. Did Mac’s claustrophobia have something to do with that? Hell yes, it did.

Mac was seated in front of the ESV called LITTLE TOOT with her back to the port-side bulkhead as the Herc rolled down the runway and lumbered into the air. Mac felt sleepy even though her adrenaline was pumping, and she knew that it was a reaction to her fear. Then her ears popped, and she wanted to pee.

It was important to look confident even if she wasn’t. So Mac removed a fingernail file from one of her pockets and began to file her nails. Would that produce a story? Something that would burnish the legend? “There she was,” one of the others might say, “doing her nails while we flew into enemy territory.”

Or, would they notice that her hands were trembling? And tell their friends about that? At least she hadn’t peed herself. Not yet, anyway.

Suddenly, it was time to release the seat belt and follow the rest of the team into the Stryker. Rather than a squad of infantry, the ESV was going in with Mac, her RTO, an air force JTAC (Joint Terminal Attack Controller), her assistant, a medic, a mechanic, two machine gunners, and the Stryker’s two-person crew. Ten people in all. Captain Munson was on plane five. The hope was that at least one of them would survive the landing.

Even though Mac couldn’t see what was taking place outside the plane, Duke had a headset on and delivered a stream of reports. “Our F-35s are keeping the reb fighters at bay,” Duke announced. “There’s no AA fire yet… We’re a minute out… Stand by… Here we go!”

Mac felt a violent jerk as the extraction chute snatched the Stryker out of the cargo bay. One of the gunners swore as LITTLE TOOT entered a brief moment of free fall. The Stryker hit hard. The ESV’s shock absorbers helped to cushion the blow, as did the foam squares that they were sitting on. “Now, now, now!” the TC yelled, and that was Mac’s cue to release her harness.

The gunners surged up through the hatches first so they could provide covering fire should that be necessary. They were followed by Mac, the air force JTAC, her assistant, and the medic, each one of whom was expected to flip one of the quick-release latches that secured LITTLE TOOT to the platform it sat on.

As Mac scrambled up and out, she was painfully aware of the fact that the next Herc was lining up on the LZ by then. Highway 390 ran east and west. It was straight as an arrow, with nothing more than low scrub bordering it to the north and south.

Mac rolled off the vic, landed on her feet, and went straight to the red-colored release. A single jerk was enough to do the trick. Every soldier was wearing a boom mike and a TAC radio. “Hook one is clear,” Mac announced. “Over.” And so it went until all four had been released.

LITTLE TOOT’s TC was a corporal named Olson, or Ollie to her friends, and she knew what to do next. Once her machine was free, Ollie gunned the engine and drove the ESV off the highway and into the neighboring field.

Once the vic cleared the road, it was time for the team to grab one side of the platform and lift it up. A set of built-in wheels allowed them to push it off the road.

What ensued could only be described as organized chaos. Engines roared as a succession of C-150s swooped in over the road. There was a loud bang as each platform hit, usually followed by a screech, and shouting.

In the meantime, air force JTAC Lieutenant Cassie Cassidy was standing atop the LITTLE TOOT talking into a boom mike. “You’re too high, Bad Dog… That’s better… Hit the gas, Surfer Girl… Bad Dog is right behind you.” And so forth, as the Hercs made their runs.

Then something went wrong. Mac, who was standing next to Cassidy, heard the other officer’s inflection change. “Roger the flameout, Backhauler. Break it off, I repeat break it off and return to base.”

Mac could see the plane coming in from the east. It was flying on three engines, and that spelled trouble. Maybe three power plants would be enough, but maybe they wouldn’t. The plan called for each C-150 to drop a Stryker and pull up hard. But Backhauler was determined to go for it, and in he came.

Mac saw the chute blossom behind the transport, saw the load appear, and saw the Herc falter as a second engine failed. “Forget the pullout,” Cassidy instructed. “Turn north and climb out gradually.”

The pilot tried. But he was too low by then… And as the C-150’s starboard wing dipped, it hit the ground, and part of it sheared off. That threw the transport into a loop. A propeller scythed through the air, the fuselage surfed on a wave of dirt, and Mac heard a dull thump. Flames appeared seconds later.

Mac turned to Duke. “Send the rescue truck.”

The battalion didn’t have a crash truck. But the third Stryker to land had been designated as the rescue vehicle—and was equipped with some fire extinguishers and extraction tools. It wasn’t much, but it beat the hell out of nothing.

Mac turned back, and was about to tell Cassidy to carry on, when she realized that the JTAC was still doing her job. The next C-150 dropped an LAV and pulled up. Commander Trenton would approve.

Mac eyed her watch. The insertion was running five minutes slow… But that was pretty good given the nature of the situation. Now that she had ten vehicles on the ground, Mac had enough firepower to attack the rebel base. And the sooner the better. LITTLE TOOT was going to remain at the LZ, as were two “enemy-response trucks,” and the rescue vehicle. The plan called for Mac to take the other Strykers with her. “Bravo-Six to Bravo-Five. Over.”

“This is Five,” Munson replied, from a position a thousand yards to the west. “Over.”

“The LZ is yours. Keep me informed. Over.”

“Roger that, over.”

Six vics were lined up in the field behind Mac, with their engines running. The detachment was under the command of Tommy Whitehorse, Alpha Company’s commanding officer. He tossed Mac a salute as she arrived. “Let’s roll, Tommy… We wouldn’t want to keep the rebs waiting.”

“No, ma’am,” Whitehorse agreed. “Perish the thought.”

Mac climbed up on top of the THUMPER while Duke entered via the ramp. Whitehorse lowered himself through the front hatch—while Mac took the one to the rear. The Stryker belonged to him, after all. As did responsibility for the assault.

Had Mac taken command, not only would it make Whitehorse look bad, it would have diverted her attention away from the big picture, which included what was taking place back in the LZ. The vic jerked into motion.

Rather than use the local roads, which might be mined, Whitehorse ordered his drivers to cross open fields instead. What remained of the Herc lay to the left and continued to burn. A thick column of black smoke spiraled up into the sky.

It took less than five minutes to reach Black Lake Road and cross it. And that was when the platoon took fire. It came as no surprise. Mac and her officers had been studying high-altitude recon photos for weeks by then and knew that Hackberry was only lightly defended. What they estimated to be a single company of troops was stationed at the reserve, and that made sense, since the main battle front was located one hundred miles to the east. And the rebs weren’t expecting trouble. Not at Hackberry, anyway.

Still, even though Black Lake offered some protection on the north, east, and west sides of the complex—the officer in charge had put his or her troops to work digging a network of trenches on the south side of the reserve. Some were wide enough to keep vehicles from crossing over them, while others were narrower and intended to connect defensive positions together.

Mac heard a series of thumps as mortar shells landed, followed by the rattle of machine guns. The incoming fire forced Mac to drop down into the cargo compartment. Bullets pinged against the THUMPER’s hull as the vic’s gunner fired her 105mm gun, and the driver took evasive action.

Meanwhile as the THUMPER and a vic called JERSEY GIRL gave the rebs something to shoot at, the rest of Whitehorse’s machines were circling around to attack the enemy’s left flank. A large trench had been dug to prevent such a maneuver.

But the ditch was visible on recon photos, so the Marauders were prepared to deal with it. Two of Whitehorse’s vics were carrying military-grade pierced-steel planks. And once they were thrown across the moat-like ditch, the Strykers could cross.

The reb commander sent a squad to stop the invaders, but it was no contest. The handful of defenders didn’t stand a chance against the heavily armed vehicles. And Whitehorse’s troops were able to take control so quickly that Mac found herself with more than sixty POWs to keep track of. Something she hadn’t planned for.

All the Marauders could do was disarm the enemy troops, corral them in one of the wider trenches, and post guards. But what seemed like a simple situation wasn’t. “Don’t do it!” one of the rebs yelled. “Don’t machine gun us!”

That was when Mac realized that the rebel troops had been fed a steady diet of propaganda—and believed that the Marauders were going to massacre them. Even though every second was precious, Mac did her best to assure the POWs that they wouldn’t be harmed.

And it seemed that the effort was working until a reb removed a wanted picture from his pocket and held it aloft. “Look!” he said. “It’s her! The officer who murdered her sister!”

At that point, Mac had to turn her attention elsewhere. Reports continued to flow in from Munson. All of the Strykers were down safely, all of the crew members on the Herc were dead, and a C-150 had been shot down while returning to base. There was no time in which to grieve. That would have to wait.

With the landings out of the way, Moody was about to bring the rest of the battalion onto the reserve. And not a moment too soon since word had arrived that a rebel relief column had departed Fort Polk and was coming their way. That meant the Marauders had only hours in which to prepare for a major counterattack.

Mac waved a noncom over. His name was Logan. “Keep the prisoners corralled until I send word to release them. We can’t spare the personnel or the supplies required to cope with them.”

Sergeant Logan nodded. “Yes, ma’am. No prob.”

Thanks to the reconnaissance photos taken weeks earlier, Mac and her officers had been able to map the reserve and how their defenses would be laid out. As ESVs went to work scooping out revetments for the vehicles, teams of soldiers began to lay mines, while others took possession of the enemy’s machine guns and mortars. Each weapon had to be checked, more ammo had to be brought forward in some cases, and more fighting positions had to be dug.

Meanwhile, Mac’s supply officer, Captain Wendy Wu, had inventoried all of the equipment that had been captured from the enemy. Mac was watching a platoon leader position a Stryker when the diminutive officer arrived. Wu was one of the original marauders and a person Mac had come to rely on. “What’s up, Wendy? Did you find some instant Starbucks for me?”

Wu’s expression remained unchanged. “No, ma’am. But we are the proud owners of an uparmored Humvee, two trucks, a backhoe, some private vehicles, and an underground gas tank. There’s an emergency generator, too… Plus a pallet of MREs.”

“What about ammo?”

“There’s a reserve supply, but it isn’t especially large.”

“Okay, good work. Let’s put that backhoe to work digging more trenches. Eventually, we’re going to need some fallback positions.”

Duke spoke as Wu departed. “Lieutenant Cassidy reports that two attack helicopters are inbound from Fort Polk, with four Chinooks bringing up the rear. ETA, five minutes. She put out a call for air support.”

Mac swore. The enemy had decided to send an airborne force ahead of the relief column, in the hope that they could recapture the facility quickly. And since each Chinook could carry up to thirty-three passengers, Mac could expect a 132-person assault team.

What was she up against? Mac wondered. A highly trained rapid-response force? Or a conglomeration of troops who happened to be available when the poop hit the fan? The first possibility was worse than the second, but both amounted to a threat. The battalion’s Strykers didn’t mount any AA weapons other than light machine guns and, once in their revetments, they couldn’t maneuver. A ground attack would have been preferable from Mac’s perspective, but the rebs didn’t give a shit about her perspective.

Mac took the handset. “This is Bravo-Six actual. Even-numbered Stinger teams will prepare to engage two attack helicopters, ETA, four minutes. Odd-numbered Stinger teams will engage four Chinooks, in six minutes. The rest of the battalion will get ready to engage airborne troops. And remember… The enemy might try to land aircraft inside the compound, or they could fast rope down, so be ready for both.

“Don’t forget… You are the best of the worst. Let’s kick some ass. Over.”

There were cheers all around. And then, as the sound died away, Mac heard the distinctive sound of helicopter engines, and the whup, whup, whup of rotors as the Apache gunships appeared from the north. Rockets flashed off stubby pylons and explosions marched across the compound. The battle had begun.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Samuel T. Sloan awoke in a good mood. And why not? The war was going well, or as well as any war can go, realizing that good people died every day. So he took a shower, got dressed, and ate a hearty breakfast. Then with Secret Service agents in tow, Sloan made his way through underground tunnels to the Situation Room for his daily briefing.

But, as Sloan entered the room, he could tell that something was wrong. Twice the usual number of briefers were present for one thing, and all of them had long faces. “Uh-oh,” Sloan said as he paused to look around. “What happened?”

Director of National Intelligence Martha Kip cleared her throat. “Nothing good, Mr. President. Based on orbital imagery, plus photos taken during high altitude flyovers, it’s clear that thousands of Mexican troops are streaming into Texas! The lead element passed through Brownsville last night. And if you look at the main screen, you’ll see a montage of pictures taken an hour ago.”

Sloan looked. What he saw was a bird’s-eye view of American Humvees, French Jaguars, German personnel carriers—and what might have been Kenworth trucks hauling tank carriers behind them. All of which was consistent with Kip’s report since the Mexicans had a tendency to buy military equipment from everyone. He dropped into his chair. “Please tell me that the Mexicans are attacking the Confederacy.”

“There are no signs of resistance,” Secretary of Defense Garrison said tactfully. “So we aren’t looking at an invasion.”

Sloan’s mind flashed back to the report he’d read. The one that mentioned a meeting between General Macintyre and President Salazar. And a lot of encrypted radio traffic flying back and forth between the Confederacy and Mexico. Shit, shit, and more shit.

Various theories had occurred to him at the time, including the possibility of a drug deal, but an alliance? That never crossed his mind. Sloan’s previously high spirits plummeted. “Okay, lay it out for me. What are we looking at?”

“That depends,” General Jones said cautiously. “President Stickley cut some sort of deal with President Salazar. That much is clear. But, as with most things, the devil will be in the details. How many Mexican troops are coming our way? What role will they play? None of their units have combat experience… Yet a lot of their officers were trained in the U.S. And, based on our experiences fighting Mexican mercenaries, we know they can be effective.

“But one thing is for sure,” Jones continued. “Assuming the Mexicans plan to fight, the strategic situation will change.”

“In what way?” Sloan inquired. “What does that mean in practical terms?”

“It means that the advantage will shift to the Confederacy,” National Security Advisor Toby Hall said. “It means the big push will stall.”

“Or the big push will turn into a big retreat,” Garrison added gloomily.

Press Secretary Besom broke the ensuing silence. “There’s another problem as well. Once news of this gets out, it will reenergize our critics, scare the crap out of our citizens, and have a negative impact on military morale.”

Sloan scowled as he scanned the faces around him. “Okay,” he demanded. “Would anyone else like to chime in?”

Lora Michaels, the Secretary of the Treasury, raised a hesitant hand. “Yes, Mr. President. Once the news comes out, the Dow Jones Industrial Average is likely to drop by three or four hundred points.”

Sloan winced. “All right. We have a lot to do. Let’s get to work.”

WEST HACKBERRY STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE, HACKBERRY, LOUISIANA

Mac jumped down into a trench as the Apache helicopters fired their rockets. Duke was right behind her. An engine roared, and Mac could feel the wash from the gunship’s rotors as it passed over her head. Rather than leave the Stinger teams in their respective companies, Mac had chosen to consolidate them into a single platoon, led by Lieutenant Burns. He had orders to coordinate their efforts. And that plan paid off as Burns called the shots from his position near the center of the complex. “Stand by, six. Stand by, two. Fire!”

The FIM-92A Stingers were infrared-seeking, fire-and-forget weapons specifically designed for use against low-flying aircraft. And when two missiles struck a single Apache, the results were spectacular. A loud BOOM sounded as the gunship exploded, sending pieces of fiery debris whirling in every direction. Wreckage continued to rain down as Burns spoke again. “Nice job… Now let’s…”

Burns never got to finish his sentence because a Union A-10 swooped down out of the sky. Rockets flashed off the Warthog’s wings and barely missed the remaining Apache as it turned to race away. “Bravo-One-One to Warhorse-Three,” Cassidy said over the air-ground frequency. “Thank you, and good hunting. Over.”

So far so good. But as Mac climbed up out of the trench, she was painfully aware of how little she’d been able to see from down in the ground. And that would be an even greater problem once the rebel soldiers arrived.

“Come on!” Mac said, and began to run. Duke had little choice but to follow. They ran toward a white storage tank that loomed to the north and would offer a good vantage point. The distant drone of helicopter engines was getting louder as Mac reached the tank, made her way to a maintenance ladder, and started to climb.

Mac was short of breath by the time she stepped off the ladder onto the top of the tank. And sure enough… the lead Chinook was halfway across Black Lake and coming straight at her! Closer in, at the edge of the lake, Mac could see a dock and the barges that were moored just offshore.

“We’re kind of exposed up here,” Duke observed. “And what’s in this tank anyway? Something flammable?”

Mac’s mind was elsewhere. “Give me the handset. This is Bravo-Six actual. I have eyes on four Chinooks coming in from the north. Odd-numbered AA teams will stand by. Over.”

“There’s no cover up here,” Duke said wistfully. “Maybe we should find a place to hide.”

Mac’s attention was focused on the lead Chinook. It was turning west. Why? They’re going to put down south of the complex, Mac concluded. And that works for me… The rebel troops will be forced to cross the minefield and face the Strykers to enter the compound.

The second helicopter followed the first. But just as Mac was starting to feel good about her chances—the third ship began to bore straight in! Closely followed by the fourth. They’re going to fast rope down on the north side of the complex, Mac decided. And crush us in a vise.

“This is Bravo-Six actual… It looks like choppers three and four are going to drop troops on the north side of the reserve. Wait for the Chinooks to hover, then hit them hard.

“Bravo-Six-One, do you read me? Over.”

Six-One was a second lieutenant named Taylor Forbes. She was in charge of the six-Stryker fast-response team that was hiding in a metal building at the center of the reserve. “This is Six-One,” Forbes responded. “I read you five by five. Over.”

“Wait for it, Six-One… Then make your move. Over.”

The lead Chinook had swung into position by that time. Ropes fell, soldiers slid down them like beads on a string, and the Chinook was firing flares that were intended to pull Stingers away from them. Burns ordered one of his team to fire, but the ruse was successful, and the Stinger missed.

The second missile wasn’t to be denied, however… It slammed into the Chinook as the last soldiers touched down. The resulting explosion blew the big ship in half. As a rotor blade whirled away, Mac saw a stick figure drop out of the aft section of the fuselage and fall free.

The forward half of the ship slammed into the ground, quickly followed by the other section. There was a loud whump as the wreckage burst into flames. One down, and one to go.

But as Mac turned her attention to Chinook Four, she saw that the helicopter was flying north and racing away! Was it running? Yes, but only after dropping its load of thirty-plus soldiers into the water. As they waded ashore, the troops from Chinook Three were there to greet them.

Forbes was ready. Her vics began to fire seconds after they emerged from hiding. Rebel soldiers fell like tenpins as the Strykers fired their .50 caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers. “We have a problem,” Duke told her. “Chinooks One and Two put down half a mile south of the reserve and sent troops north. But that isn’t the worst of it… The POWs were able to overwhelm our guards and are holding them hostage.”

Mac felt a terrible sinking sensation. She’d forgotten to turn the POWs loose. And, as a result, the battalion had something like sixty enemy soldiers inside the compound—while more attacked from the south. Mac remembered her conversation with Sergeant Logan. “Yes, ma’am. No prob.” That’s what he’d said. But Mac had let Logan and his fire team down. Now it was her responsibility to free them, but how?

Mac turned to the south and raised her binoculars. Thanks to the height of the storage tank, and the angle involved, Mac could see into the trench. And sure enough… four of her soldiers were seated on the south side of the ditch, with their hands clasped behind their heads. Five of the rebs had weapons. Four assault rifles plus Logan’s handgun.

Mac held the glasses with one hand and motioned for the handset with the other. Negotiations were out of the question under the circumstances. Was there a bloodless, risk-free way to resolve the situation? If so, she couldn’t think of it. “Bravo-Six actual to Bravo-Five. Pull a rescue team together. Tell them to put night-vision gear on and drop smoke into the trench. The rest of it is obvious. Over.”

“Roger that,” Munson replied. “Over.”

A full-fledged firefight was under way by then as the rebs on the south side of the complex attempted to advance and were systematically driven back by the wall of fire from the Strykers and two LAVs. Had things gone as planned, the Confederates attacking from the south would have faced half of the Marauders—while the rest were forced to turn north. But things hadn’t gone as planned, and the rebs were getting their asses kicked.

“This is Six,” Mac said. “Put some mortar fire on those bastards… Push them at least a thousand yards back. We need to regroup before the rest of our guests arrive.”

The mortars began to thump even as gray smoke billowed up out of the trench where the POWs were corralled. Mac heard the sharp crack of pistol fire, followed by the rattle of an assault rifle on full auto, and knew there would be casualties. She was correct. “This is Five,” Munson said. “We lost a hostage but rescued the others. Three POWs are down. Over.”

Mac felt a terrible mix of sorrow and self-recrimination. There was nothing she could say except, “Well done. Carry on.”

A strange silence settled over the scene. As Mac turned to the north, she saw the scattering of bodies marking the area where a quick, decisive battle had been fought by the response team. A column of reb prisoners was being marched south to join the rest. Mac wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Something had to be done regarding the POWs.

Mac closed her eyes and opened them again. Everything looked the same. West Hackberry was hers for the moment. But more enemy troops were on their way—and she was supposed to hold the facility for what? A few days? A week? When will the big push arrive? Mac wondered. And who will own this chunk of land when it does? There was no answer other than the crackle of static from Duke’s radio, the intermittent pop, pop, pop of rounds cooking off inside the burning Chinook, and the raucous caw of a crow.