Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 10

EAST OF HOUSTON, TEXAS

It was a surreal moment. Bo was sitting next to Major General Matias Ramos in that officer’s restored Cadillac convertible as they rolled through the town of El Toro, Texas. Locals lined both sides of the highway, and many of them were waving Mexican flags. Never mind the dislike that many citizens of Texas had felt for Mexico prior to the war.

Now, based on the carefully managed news reports they’d seen, Texans were ready to welcome the Mexican Army with open arms if it could defend them from Yankee aggression. “God bless you!” a man in a Stetson shouted, and Ramos waved at him.

The whole thing was a shit show. As the convoy traveled east, at least a hundred disabled vehicles had been left in its wake. Ramos expected the Confederates to recover, repair, and deliver them to the front. And that was the least of it. Bo’s supply people were struggling to obtain the fuel required to fill hundreds of Mexican gas tanks and keep them filled.

Meanwhile, thanks to iffy communications, the Mexicans had fired on and done damage to a Confederate supply column that was traveling in the other direction. And that would happen again if steps weren’t taken to stop it. And on and on. So it wasn’t surprising that most of Bo’s staff were in favor of a four-or-five-day pause. Time that could be used to address some if not all of the problems associated with the sudden influx of soldiers.

But Bo was adamantly opposed to the idea. “We will deliver at least a third of this traveling circus to the front and do so within three days,” Bo had insisted. “Because if we don’t, the Yankees will take more ground. Once the Mexicans are in place, you can work on the logistical problems.”

Meanwhile, Sloan and his lapdog General Jones had been trying to hit the column from the air. But, thanks to the brave pilots of the Confederate Air Force, only a handful of Northern bombers had been able to break through. That situation wouldn’t last forever, however. And when push came to shove, the Mexicans would have to earn their ton of gold.

In the meantime, a cruise missile launched by a Union submarine had struck the expeditionary force. But since each cruise missile cost 1.4 million prewar dollars, they were poorly suited for that type of mission. Four of the weapons had been fired the previous night. And, even though all of them were on target, the damage had been negligible. Five-point-six million was a lot to pay for the privilege of killing twelve soldiers and destroying three trucks. And that, Bo felt sure, was why there hadn’t been any missile attacks since.

Bo spotted an overpass up ahead. A banner was draped along the front of it. ¡VIVA MÉXICO! it proclaimed. People waved and cheered as a Humvee passed beneath the span.

Bo looked up, saw what looked like a black dot start to fall, and shouted: “Grenade!” He tried to catch the object but fumbled it. There was a thump as it hit the floor. Ramos picked it up. “Look, General, a beer! And a Pacifico at that… Do you have an opener?”

Bo felt stupid as he passed a pocketknife over. No, there was more to it than that. He was old, tired, and stupid. Kathy… Kathy was gone. The Union would pay for that.

A news chopper clattered overhead. “Pink Cadillac,” by Bruce Springsteen, was playing on the sound system, and General Ramos was sipping beer. The world had gone crazy.

WEST HACKBERRY STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE, HACKBERRY, LOUISIANA

The attack on the West Hackberry Petroleum Reserve had failed. But, according to the satellite imagery available via the people in New Orleans, a battalion-strength convoy of Confederate soldiers was southbound from Fort Polk. Mac expected them to arrive in the evening or just after dark.

With that in mind, she drove her people hard. There were more revetments to scoop out of the rich soil, more trenches to dig, and more bunkers to construct. Not the least of which was an underground command post.

But for reasons known only to them, the Confederates had chosen to stop short of Hackberry and spend the night. Or so it appeared. But what if the bivouac was fake? What if enemy troops were going to attack under the cover of darkness? Mac had to consider every possibility.

That meant that the Marauders had to work through the night. But Mac knew her soldiers had to get some rest as well. So she ordered Munson and roughly half of the battalion to grab four hours of sleep. Then it would be time for the rest of them to get some shut-eye.

A building at the center of the compound had been chosen for use as a communal sleeping hall. The metal roof and siding might stop a .22 caliber bullet but nothing larger.

So even as some of the battalion’s troops slept, others were busy reinforcing the roof and walls with whatever they could lay their hands on. That included pieces of metal taken from neighboring buildings and sheets of plywood “liberated” from a construction site.

Later, Mac hoped to construct underground quarters that could withstand a direct hit from a five-hundred-pound bomb. For the moment, however, most of the battalion’s resources had to go into military fortifications. And Mac was supervising the construction of what she called a “pop-up” ramp when Lieutenant Forbes approached her.

Forbes had a bowl haircut and was sporting a pair of army-issue “birth control glasses.” She delivered a smart salute, which Mac returned. “You did a nice job today, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Forbes was visibly pleased. “I’ll pass that on to my soldiers, ma’am. I know you’re busy, but there’s something that worries me. I took it to my CO, and he sent me to see you.”

Mac was running on empty at that point… And the last thing she needed was another problem. But she’d been a lieutenant not that long ago and knew it was important to hear junior officers out, even if it was a drain on her energy. “Shoot… What’s on your mind?”

“It’s the lake, ma’am… What’s to stop the rebs from sending boatloads of soldiers across the lake? It surrounds us on three sides.”

The question fell on Mac like a thunderbolt from the sky. Mac should have addressed the threat but hadn’t done so. Because she was stupid? Or because she was exhausted? No. If others weren’t allowed to offer excuses, then neither could she.

Then a scary possibility entered her mind. Was that why the rebs were taking the night off? So that a second force could make preparations for an amphibious assault? One which, like the airborne attack, would try to put the battalion in a vise?

Maybe, and maybe not. But one thing was for sure… The hole had to be plugged. And that realization was enough to get the wheels turning. Mac smiled. “That is a very important question, Lieutenant. Thank you for asking it. Let’s put our heads together and come up with an answer.”

Mac spent the next fifteen minutes with Forbes, gave the platoon leader some additional resources, and responsibility for defending the battalion’s north flank. It was nearly midnight by then, and Forbes delivered another textbook salute before disappearing into the night. That one has promise, Mac thought to herself. And her company commander gated her through. I won’t forget either one of them.

Munson returned to duty shortly thereafter. That gave Mac the chance to get her pack out of the LITTLE TOOT’s cargo bay, eat half of an MRE, and stretch out on one of the cots the rebs had been forced to vacate. The POWs, Mac thought, as sleep pulled her down. I need to deal with the POWs.

“Major? I’m sorry to bother you… But the rebs are closing in. Captain Munson sent me to wake you.”

Mac opened her eyes. RTO Larry Duke was standing next to her cot. What had it been? Five minutes since she’d gone to sleep? No. According to her watch, four and a half hours had elapsed since then.

Mac yawned, swung her boots over onto the concrete floor, and stood. The soldiers around her were getting up as well. Most were bitching and griping. “Thanks, I think,” Mac said. “Are they shooting at us?”

Duke shook his head. “No, ma’am… Not yet. But we have a drone up, and Sergeant Evans says they’re no more than thirty minutes out.”

“Okay. That means I can pee before they kill me. Is there something else?”

“Yes, ma’am. Captain Munson told me to tell you that they have tanks. Two of them.”

Mac swore. “All right, thanks. I’ll meet you in the command bunker.”

Duke looked what he was, a scared nineteen-year-old kid. “Your coffee will be ready, ma’am. And an MRE, too.”

Mac smiled. “Keep it up, soldier, you’ll be a sergeant major by Friday.”

Mac arrived in the command post fifteen minutes later. It was located on the south side of the oil reserve, which was where Mac expected most of the fighting would take place.

The bunker had been dug just off one of the larger trenches. By placing sheets of metal siding over a hole and dumping two feet of soil on top, the Marauders had been able to create a serviceable bunker. A table occupied the center of the room. That’s where the controls and monitor for the RQ-11 drone were located. “Good morning,” Sergeant Evans said. “Check this out. It looks like the rebs want to parley.”

Mac accepted a hot mug of coffee from Duke before circling around to look over the drone operator’s shoulder. And sure enough, four rebel soldiers were crossing the open area where two dozen of their comrades had been killed the previous day, and where their bodies still lay.

Two of the enemy soldiers were carrying flags. One was white, and the other bore the iconic blue X, on a field of red. Mac assumed that the others were officers. Once the party arrived at the edge of the bloodied ground, they came to a stop. “I have a reb on the horn,” Duke said. “They want a meeting.”

Mac was surprised. Very surprised. She’d been expecting an assault rather than a chat. But if the rebs wanted to talk, she was happy to accommodate them. The longer Mac could run the clock, the better. She turned to Duke. “Tell them that I’m on my way. Where’s Sergeant Bader? We need flags. A Union flag and Old Glory.”

It took five minutes to round up the flags and depart. Bader carried one of the flags and Duke had the other. Mac couldn’t ask Munson to accompany her on the off chance that the rebs planned to kill her, so she asked Bravo Company’s commander to go instead. His name was Bruce Holly, and he was the officer that Forbes reported to. None of them were armed with anything other than pistols.

In order to reach the meeting point, the Union soldiers had to pass through their own minefield. And as they did so, Mac knew there was the distinct possibility that the enemy was watching via a drone and mapping their route. There was no way to fully counter such an effort. But Mac was careful to pursue the most complicated path possible, hoping to make things difficult for the enemy.

It felt strange to cross a battlefield in order to attend the sort of meeting that had been a common occurrence during the first civil war. A lot of things had changed since then, yet in many ways, war remained the same. Especially the dying part.

As the parties came together, Mac saw that two officers were waiting for her, a colonel and a major. She saluted the colonel. “Major Macintyre, sir… And Captain Holly.”

The colonel appeared to be fortysomething. He had the long, lean body of a runner. “I’m Colonel Oxley, and this is Major Boyington. Macintyre you say… Not the Major Macintyre by any chance? Meaning the officer who rescued President Sloan from Richton?”

There was no point in denying it. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, well,” Oxley said. “I worked for your father until recently, and it might interest you to know that your sister reported to me prior to her death. She was an excellent officer. It’s too bad that you chose to murder her.”

“I didn’t murder Victoria,” Mac replied stiffly. “She was killed by a rebel deserter, not that it matters, since dead is dead. Is there something you wish to discuss, Colonel? I hope so, because I have better things to do than stand around and shoot the shit.”

Oxley’s anger was plain to see. “We want to recover our dead.”

Mac nodded. “That’s a good idea. I like a tidy battlefield. How much time do you need?”

“An hour.”

“Perfect… That’ll give me time to eat breakfast. Is there anything else?”

“You are holding Confederate prisoners.”

“That’s correct, I am,” Mac conceded. “I’ll tell you what… Once you’re done hauling bodies away—I’ll send the POWs out ten at a time, every hour on the hour, until all of them have been released.”

Oxley squinted. “You’re stalling for time.”

Mac smiled. “Yup.”

“It won’t help you,” Oxley told her. “The Mexicans will roll over this area soon. Then they’ll push farther east, throw your forces back into New Orleans, and establish a new front. So you can surrender to me or die. Which would you prefer?”

Mac was floored. Mexicans? What Mexicans? And her astonishment must have been visible on her face because Oxley laughed. “Oh, my! You didn’t know, did you? Our government cut a deal with Mexico—and they’re sending sixty thousand soldiers to fight alongside us! I wonder why your commanding officer failed to mention it. Will your superiors leave you here to die? That’s how it appears to me. I will restate my offer. Surrender now or die here. I have a battalion of troops waiting ten minutes away—plus two Abrams tanks. You know what that means. Your Strykers won’t stand a chance.”

Mac looked him in the eye. “Fuck you, sir… And your tanks. This meeting is over.”

And with that, Mac turned and walked away. The rest of her party hurried to catch up. “I think he’s pissed,” Holly said. “Real pissed.”

“I hope so,” Mac replied. “Angry people make mistakes.”

“It’s going to be battalion on battalion,” Holly observed. “But they have the edge.”

“That’s what Oxley believes,” Mac allowed. “But we’ll see.”

They had to wind their way between the dead bodies on the way back. Crows had been feasting on them. They lumbered into the air.

Mac felt guilty about leaving the corpses to rot. But Oxley had left her with no other option. If Mac gave Oxley the bodies, and the POWs, he would win a psychological victory. And that was a piss-poor way to start a battle. No, it was better to make Oxley’s troops advance through an obstacle course comprised of their own dead as they attacked the compound.

Something was eating away at Mac, however… And that was the fact that Trenton had chosen to leave her in the dark. Was Oxley correct? Had JSOC written the battalion off? Doing so might be advantageous. Mac could imagine Sloan’s press secretary putting some top spin on it. “We’re sorry to announce that Major Robin Macintyre, and her entire battalion, were lost in a desperate battle to control the strategic oil reserve located in Hackberry, Louisiana. This was a particular blow to the president, who has made no secret of his admiration for Major Macintyre and commissioned the battalion that bore her name.”

Would Sloan allow the battalion to die? Mac didn’t think so. But did Sam know? He’d gone to considerable lengths to stay clear of operational matters, both as a matter of policy and good politics. Holly must have been harboring similar thoughts. “What do you think, ma’am?” he inquired, as they jumped a trench. “Did the rebs cut a deal with Mexico?”

“They must have,” Mac allowed. “That shit is too weird to make up.”

“So why haven’t we heard anything from JSOC?”

Mac glanced at him. “I don’t know. But we have our orders—and people to shoot at. What more does a soldier need?”

Holly grinned. Mac knew he would pass the comment on. “Nothing, ma’am. Nothing at all. You can count on Bravo Company.”

“I will,” Mac replied. “I certainly will.”

Captain Cassidy was waiting for Mac in the command bunker. She looked tired. “I requested two A-10s,” the air force JTAC said. “But it doesn’t look good. It sounds like something big is in the works—and everything that can fly has been assigned to that.”

Mac took the news in. Something big? Like the arrival of sixty thousand Mexican soldiers? Yeah, that made sense. “No problem,” Mac lied. “We’ll take care of the M-1s ourselves. Duke, find out where Lieutenant Burns is. I want to speak with him.”

“Here they come,” Sergeant Evans warned, as his drone circled to the south. “They’re sending the tanks in first.”

No sooner had the words left the noncom’s mouth, than Mac heard a dull thump and knew that a 105mm round had exploded nearby. “All right,” Mac said, as she turned to face Captain Holly. “Get in touch with the truck commanders on the Stryker 1128s. Tell them to start their engines and prepare for Operation Pop-Up. I’m going to rely on you to direct their fire.”

Mac heard a thump followed by a dozen more in quick succession. She frowned. “What was that?”

“The rebs are using cannon fire to clear a path through the minefield,” Evans replied.

Mac’s estimate of Oxley’s abilities went up a notch. He wasn’t the first officer to use the strategy. And it made sense to clear a path before shelling Mac’s defensive positions. Once Oxley accomplished that, he could send his infantry forward even if his tanks had been destroyed.

Just as Mac couldn’t stand being cooped inside a Stryker, she didn’t like being stuck in the bunker. Plus, she needed to talk to Lieutenant Burns, who, according to Duke, was on the front line just east of the HONEST ABE.

Mac left the bunker, with the RTO following close behind. She led him through the main trench to a smaller ditch that provided access to a four-man fighting position. Burns was present, along with a two-man AA team, and their launcher. “Good morning,” Mac said cheerfully. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Burns had dark skin, wide-set eyes, and a friendly grin. “Thanks, ma’am… We aim to please.”

Mac brought her glasses up and swept them from left to right. The tanks were out in the open but partially obscured by the smoke that was pouring from their onboard generators. Both M-1s fired, and high-explosive shells landed in the minefield. Each impact triggered secondary explosions that launched geysers of black soil up into the air. Mac turned to Burns. “Divide your fire between the tanks. Both groups will launch on my command. Understood?”

Burns looked concerned. “Permission to speak freely?”

Mac nodded. “Of course.”

“Aircraft are one thing,” Burns said. “They’re relatively fragile. But a Stinger doesn’t pack enough punch to stop a tank.”

“That’s true,” Mac agreed. “But we’re going to fire fifteen Stingers at each one of those bastards, and our Stryker 1128s are going to hit them, too.”

Burns’s eyebrows rose. “Holy shit, that might work.”

Mac smiled grimly. “Here’s hoping it does. Get your people ready. Let me know when they are.”

Burns spoke into his TAC radio, answered a couple of questions, and turned back. “We’re ready, ma’am.”

Mac took the handset from Duke. “This is Six actual. The 1128s and the AA teams will fire on my command. Ready, aim, fire!”

A lot of things happened at once. Four Strykers, all equipped with 105mm cannons, rolled to the top of specially graded pathways and paused. Because of the way the vehicles were designed, they couldn’t depress their guns very far. That meant the “pop-up” ramps had to be just right in order for the vics to target the tanks.

Four seconds passed while their gunners used the heat generated by the M-1s to target them. Then they fired. Not in perfect unison, so the reports overlapped each other, to create a sound like rolling thunder. Six seconds were required to reload and fire again. Then, after ten seconds in the open, the Strykers backed down and out of sight.

Mac’s binoculars were focused on the tanks. She caught glimpses of them through the drifting smoke. M-1s were equipped with composite armor. It offered superior protection against the sort of high-explosive, antitank rounds the Strykers were firing at them.

Mac saw that five out of the eight shells fired at the tanks had been on target. And having been through the armor school at Fort Benning, Mac knew the pounding would take a toll.

Meanwhile, fifteen Stinger missiles had been fired at each tank. Each launch resulted in a loud bang. So as thirty of them sped downrange, it sounded as if a string of giant firecrackers was going off. Smoke trailed behind each missile. And there were so many of them that most of the battlefield was obscured as the Stingers found their targets.

Mac saw bright flashes through the haze. But she couldn’t assess how much damage had been done until a light breeze blew some of the smoke away. There was a loud boom as the tank on the left fired its gun, but the machine on the right had been holed, and the crew was bailing out. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “Don’t fire on the tank crew… Let them go. Over.” The Marauders watched the rebs sprint to safety.

“All right,” Mac said. “Let’s finish this. Ready, aim, fire!”

The pop-up Strykers loosed another salvo. But, because all of them were aiming at the same target, the results were even better. After taking seven hits, the remaining M-1 exploded. Flames shot up through the top hatch, and the tank shuddered as shells cooked off inside the hull. That was followed by a loud BOOM as the hull disintegrated, and chunks of metal flew every which way. “It worked,” Burns said. “It actually worked!”

“Of course it worked,” Mac replied with a confidence she didn’t feel. “But this is far from over. The tanks plowed a passageway through our minefield, and now their infantry will try to use it.”

Duke interrupted them. “Lieutenant Forbes is on the horn, ma’am. She says that three self-propelled barges are crossing Black Lake—and all of them are loaded with troops. ETA, fifteen minutes.”

Even though the move wasn’t unexpected, Mac felt a sudden stab of fear. Could the Marauders fight on two fronts and win? They were about to find out.

Jet engines screamed as two enemy fighters swooped in, dropped two-thousand-pound bombs on the complex, and accelerated away. Powerful explosions shook the ground as three Strykers were destroyed, and a dozen soldiers were killed. The real battle had begun.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

Sloan had been in New Orleans for a day by then. The purpose of the visit was to convince critics that he wasn’t asleep at the wheel, as some of them claimed, and to boost sagging morale. Even though the Mexican advance wasn’t pretty from a military perspective, the sudden influx of enemy troops had been devastating. Because contrary to what some people expected, the Mexican troops had come to fight. The reason for their fervor wasn’t entirely clear and was the subject of considerable conjecture.

Fortunately, Union forces had been able to stop the advance west of Baton Rouge. But a lot of hard-won ground had been lost. And now, rather than the big push that Sloan had been planning, he faced another stalemate.

That was what he’d been told the previous afternoon. And now, as Sloan sat through still another briefing, everything he heard amounted to more bad news. The latest tidbit was that a battalion of troops had been sent deep into enemy territory in order to capture and hold the West Hackberry Strategic Oil Reserve. Now they were trapped and fighting for their lives.

That would have captured Sloan’s attention no matter what. But the fact that he’d been to the Hackberry site as Secretary of Energy and survived the ill-fated attempt to capture the reserve in Richton, Mississippi, meant that he could imagine the battle that was taking place. He raised a hand. “Excuse me, Admiral… Let’s back up. I’d like to know more about that battalion and our plans to extract it. There are plans, right?”

Three generals, two admirals, and a dozen lesser officers were present in the meeting room. The admiral gestured toward one of them. “The battalion in question is part of JSOC—and that’s Commander Trenton’s area of expertise. Commander? What can you tell us?”

Trenton stood. Sloan saw that the woman had a hard face and was dressed in camos, rather than the khaki uniforms that the other naval officers had chosen to wear. Was that intended to set her apart? To emphasize her membership in the special forces community? Perhaps.

“Yes, sir,” Trenton said. “The unit you referred to is Mac’s Marauders under the command of Major Robin Macintyre. The original plan was to take control of the facility in advance of the big push—and prevent the rebs from destroying it when they were forced to pull back. But the strategic situation has changed.”

Her eyes were locked with his, and Sloan could see the challenge in them. It seemed safe to assume that Trenton knew the battalion was his idea—and that she was cognizant of his relationship with Robin. And Sloan knew the people in the room were waiting to see how he would respond. He chose his words with care. “Yes, the situation has changed. So, since you’re in command, how are you going to get our people out?”

The emphasis on “you” was intentional—and Sloan watched Trenton’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She couldn’t pass the buck the way the admiral had and made no attempt to do so. “We have teams both large and small trapped inside enemy territory,” she answered. “Mac’s Marauders is in queue behind a platoon of Rangers and a couple of downed pilots.

“As you can imagine, combat search and rescue teams are in short supply right now. Would you like me to move the Marauders up to the top of the list?” It was said sweetly and with a sardonic smile.

Hell yes, Sloan wanted to move the battalion up, but it wouldn’t be right to do so. More than that, it would be political suicide to show any hint of favoritism. Something which, judging from the look on her face, Trenton was well aware of.

“No,” Sloan said. “I never interfere with operational matters. But I’m worried about all of the people on your list. For that reason, I’m going to ask my attaché, Lieutenant Colonel McKinney, to track the situation. Please keep him informed.”

“I will,” Trenton replied tightly. “Is there anything else?”

“Just this,” Sloan said flatly. “Thank you for your service to our country.”

Some of those in the room took the comment at face value. Others thought the sentence had an ominous ring to it. As if Trenton’s military career might be coming to an end. McKinney, who was seated behind Sloan, smiled.

WEST HACKBERRY STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE, HACKBERRY, LOUISIANA

Mac had returned to the command bunker. The good news, such as it was, lay in the fact that the air attack had taken place after the tanks had been neutralized. Mac knew it would have been nearly impossible to stop the behemoths while being bombed at the same time. “This is Six actual,” Mac said over the radio. “Get ready… They’ll be back.”

At that point, Mac left Lieutenant Burns to handle the AA effort while she focused on the ground war. “Here they come,” Evans said. And, as Mac eyed his monitor, she could see that at least two companies of enemy troops were moving forward. “Six here,” Mac said, as she watched a group of rebs bunch up behind the burned-out tanks. “Put mortar fire on both tanks. Then, when they break cover, take them down. Over.”

“Show me the lake,” Mac said, as the outgoing mortar fire began. “I want to see those barges.”

The drone circled out over Black Lake. “There they are,” Evans said. “It looks like there are about ten people on each one of them. That adds up to a platoon.”

Mac knew what the noncom was thinking. Once the platoon landed, Mac would be forced to shift resources to the lakeshore, thereby weakening the battalion’s southern defenses.

But, before the rebs could land, they’d have to deal with Lieutenant Forbes and her tiny command. “Six actual to Bravo-One-Six. They’re coming in. You know what to do.” Mac heard three clicks by way of a response.

Captain Cassidy was there along with her radio operator. “I put out a call for help,” the air force JTAC said. “Nothing so far.”

“This is Charlie-Two,” Burns said over the tactical frequency. “Two northbound aircraft at six o’clock. Ready, aim, fire!”

Even though Mac was in the command bunker, she could hear the now-familiar bang, bang, bang sound as Stingers took to the air. “The rebs are popping flares,” Burns added. “They’re trying to pull the Stingers away. Damn… No hits.”

Mac swore, and was about to reply, when a precision-guided 250-lb glide bomb hit the roof. It exploded, and half of the ceiling caved in. A sudden avalanche of dirt knocked Mac to the floor. They’ve been watching, Mac thought. They know where the command post is.

Duke was untouched. He bent over to give Mac a hand. Dirt fell away from Mac’s shoulders as she stood. Cassidy was okay, as was Evans, but a runner named Minsky was down. The reason was obvious. A beam had fallen on the private’s unprotected head. Cassidy’s RTO knelt next to the body. She looked up and shook her head. “He’s gone.”

Mac made a face and turned to Duke. “Help her haul Minsky out of here… Evans, it’s time to move. Follow me.”

With Evans right behind her, Mac exited the bunker, followed the main trench to the back end of a Stryker, and made her way inside. The vehicle was empty except for the truck commander and his gunner. Duke followed Evans up the ramp. “Forbes is about to engage the rebs,” he said. “They’re a thousand yards offshore.”

“Show me the drone feed,” Mac said, as Evans hurried to get his gear up and running again. The process ate fifteen long seconds, and by the time video appeared, the battle was under way. Mac had been forced to place most of Forbes’s vics elsewhere. But the platoon leader had one Stryker, and more importantly, both of the Marine Corps’ LAVs. Three vehicles in all.

When Forbes gave the command, the Stryker emerged from hiding, sped down to the lakefront, and opened fire. The rebs returned fire as geysers of water shot up all around the lead barge. They had an AT4 launcher, but the rocket went wide and struck a shed. There must have been something flammable inside it because the structure exploded. And that was fine with Mac since it was a good diversion.

The LAV-25s had been launched during the hours of darkness. Then they had been moored in between two-hundred-foot-long barges and covered with tarps. Now both of the amphibious vehicles were under way and about to attack the rebs from the east.

The LAVs weren’t fast, but they were steady, and Mac could see their wakes as the drone circled above them. The moment they came within effective range, both vehicles fired their 25mm chain guns.

That, combined with the .50 caliber fire from the Stryker, was devastating. The rebel soldiers had no protection—and were swept away by the hail of lead. One of the barges started to sink. And as the drone flew low, Mac could see the bodies heaped on the others, and the rivulets of blood that ran down into the lake. She felt sick to her stomach. It was her doing. But what choice did she have? It was either their people or her people. The choice warriors had been forced to make for thousands of years.

“Four navy F-14s are inbound,” Cassidy said, as a reb fighter roared overhead. “Maybe they can chase the bad guys away.”

Mac heard the now-familiar bang, bang, bang as Stingers were fired, followed by a whoop of joy from Burns. “A hit! We got a hit! He’s trailing smoke and losing altitude.”

That was good news indeed. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. The Stryker shook as the top-mounted fifty fired a burst. Listening to the TAC frequency was like checking the battalion’s pulse. “Put a rocket on that Bradley, One-One-Alpha… Kill that bastard. Over.”

“This is Two-Two-Delta… We need some ammo, and we need it now. Over.”

“Three-Three-Charlie here… The lieutenant is down. Send a medic! Over.”

Platoon leaders, and in some cases platoon sergeants, responded to the calls. But there was only so much they could do. The battalion was starting to bleed out. Mac turned to Duke. The RTO heard everything, which meant that he knew everything. “Where do we stand, Larry? How many wounded? How many killed?”

Duke flipped a page on his notebook. “Fifty-six wounded, eighteen dead,” he said. “Company Sergeant Bader was killed ten minutes ago.”

Mac felt something cold trickle into her veins. The situation was even worse than she had feared. “Put a call in to Kingpin. Tell them we have five-six WIAs to get out of here, plus at least one-eight bodies. And tell them we are prepping for Final Protective Fire.”

Duke’s eyes were huge. “‘Final Protective Fire’? What’s that mean?”

“It means this is the fucking Alamo,” Evans answered from a few feet away. “And you are Davy Crockett. Get on the horn. Maybe we can get some people out of here.”

Duke swallowed, keyed the handset, and went to work. “This is Reacher-Four-Six, calling Kingpin-Two-Two-One…”

Mac didn’t have time to hang around and see what Trenton would say. She grabbed an M4 carbine, and as she made her way down the ramp, Mac heard bullets snap overhead. The combination of Burns’s AA fire and the incoming F-14s had been enough to clear the sky for a moment. And that was a good thing.

The rebs were so close that Mac couldn’t separate the sound of outgoing fire from the sound of incoming fire. She was careful to keep her head down while she dashed from position to position. Mac wasn’t there to give orders. Lieutenants and sergeants could handle that.

No, Mac’s purpose was to be seen and to give her soldiers hope. Little things could make a difference. Like when she called a soldier by her name, helped to shift a machine gun from one location to another, or held a dying soldier’s hand. She’d done it before but never so many times. Tears cut trails through the grime on her cheeks as Mac trudged from place to place.

But the worst, the very worst, was the battalion aid station—where PA Lieutenant Tom Brody and his medics were sorting the Marauders into three groups: those they could help, those they couldn’t help, and those who were dead. The blood-covered medics looked more like ghouls than angels as they made their rounds. When Brody saw Mac, he came over. The PA accidentally wiped some blood onto his forehead. “How bad is it?”

Mac forced a smile. “I put in a call… Help will arrive soon.”

Brody nodded. “Thanks, I’ll try to believe that.”

Then they heard a burp of static from Mac’s radio followed by the sound of Duke’s voice. “This is Bravo-One-Zero to all personnel. We have two, repeat two friendly aircraft inbound from the east, ETA one minute. Put your heads down—and don’t fire on them. Over.”

“See?” Mac said. “I told you so.”

Brody grinned. “No offense, Major… But you’re full of shit.”

“And none taken,” Mac responded. “I’m not sure if this is the close air support that we asked for or the prelude to an extraction. Let’s hope for the latter. Prep your patients for the trip out. I’ll send a squad to help you with the KIAs.”

Brody was giving orders as Mac left. Once she was outside, Mac made her way forward, entered a fighting position, and was staring at the eastern horizon when the A-10s appeared. Rockets flashed off their wings as they came in low, 500-lb laser-guided GBU-12 bombs fell free, and the results were nothing short of spectacular. A Bradley took a direct hit and blew up. All of the enemy troops had to go facedown in the dirt, and the volume of incoming fire dropped accordingly.

Mac looked past the circling Hogs and up into the sky beyond. Yes! The navy F-14s were still there, keeping the reb fighters at bay. And that was crucial since the A-10s were especially vulnerable while operating that close to the ground.

A .50 caliber machine gun was sited just forward of the hole. “Uh-oh,” the loader said. “Here they come!” As the gunner opened fire, Mac saw that the soldier was correct and made a grab for her M4. The Confederates were on their feet and charging forward.

Were they brave? Hell yes, they were brave. And they were smart, too. If the rebs could reach the battalion’s front line, and if they could break through it, they’d be safe from the Warthogs. Because once the two sides were intermingled, the planes wouldn’t be able to attack. “Stop them!” Mac yelled into her boom mike. “Stop them now!”

Every Stryker was firing, and all of the troops were, too. The first rank of enemy soldiers appeared to wilt as the defensive fire swept across them. But there were more, at least a hundred of them, and they were only two hundred yards away when the A-10s returned.

Each A-10 was armed with a GAU-8/A Avenger 30mm Gatling-style auto cannon. And the fearsome weapons roared as the Hogs came in. Mac saw puffs of dirty gray smoke blow back from the nose of each plane and trail away.

Mac stopped firing as the armor-piercing shells plowed bloody paths through the rebel ranks and brought their charge to a halt. A noncom managed to plant a Confederate flag in his native soil before falling forward next to it. His body marked what amounted to the attack’s high-tide mark. Mac couldn’t help but admire the man’s courage.

There were very few survivors, and most of them were wounded. Those who could waved scraps of white cloth. Mac keyed her radio. “This is Six actual… Cease firing. Allow the rebs to pull back.” Then, to Cassidy, “Notify the A-10s. Tell them to lay off. Over.”

Once the firing stopped, voices could be heard. Some were calling for medics. One soldier wanted his mother. And another was singing. He had a beautiful voice, and the lyrics seemed to float over the battlefield.

Then Duke arrived, and the moment was over. “There you are,” the RTO said crossly, as if Mac had been hiding from him. “I just got off the horn with Kingpin. They’re going to pull us out. We have one hour in which to destroy all the pumping infrastructure we can, prep the wounded for the dust-off, and collect the dead. The F-14s and the A-10s will remain on station.”

“Thank God for that,” Mac said. “Let’s get to work.”

There was a lot to do. And as the minutes ticked away, Mac dashed from place to place. Were the truck commanders ready to destroy their vehicles? Check. Had the LZs been cleared and marked? Check. Had the Confederate POWs been loaded onto one of the barges? And set adrift? Check. And so on as Mac ran through a mental checklist of all the things that needed to be done.

And while all of that was taking place, more rebs were closing in. Except that the newcomers weren’t Confederate soldiers, they were Mexicans, at least a thousand of them according to Sergeant Evans.

But why? It was clear that the Marauders were getting ready to pull out by then. So all Oxley, or whoever was in charge, had to do was sit back and wait. Maybe the counterattack was a matter of honor. Or, and this seemed more likely, the Confederates were out for revenge. Whatever the reason, the Mexicans were coming in hard. So hard, and from so many directions, that it was difficult for the A-10s to hold them off.

That forced Mac to roll a dozen Strykers and position them around the LZ facing out. And not a moment too soon. Six Jaguar armored cars appeared from the south and opened fire. The Marauders responded in kind, and with Stingers, too, in hopes of scaring the shit out of the foreign troops.

Cassidy summoned the Warthogs again. But even though the A-10s destroyed six Jaguars, the rest remained operational. A wave of Mexican soldiers surged forward as the first Chinook landed. Mac was there, firing her M4, when Trenton jumped to the ground. The navy officer was wearing a ball cap, a TAC vest, and shorts. A red, white, and blue artificial leg completed the look. Trenton was armed with a Belgian FN SCAR-H. She nodded. “Good afternoon, Major… This is quite a shit show. But I’ve seen worse.”

And with that, Trenton knelt next to the LITTLE TOOT, raised the SCAR, and began to fire single shots. Mac was firing, too, but not as accurately. Each time Trenton squeezed the trigger, an enemy soldier died.

What ensued was a hellish symphony of roaring engines, machine-gun fire, and shouted orders. The Mexicans attacked, went to ground, and attacked again. Cassidy called for the Strykers to drop red smoke, waited for it to billow upwards, and put out the call.

Some of the Mexicans were belly-crawling toward the LZ. Mac was so focused on killing them that she barely noticed the roar of jet engines as the Hogs made another gun run. Thirty mike-mike rounds tore the enemy infantry to shreds.

Then the ground shook, and Mac thought the planes were dropping bombs, until someone shouted, “Incoming!” That was when Mac realized the truth. The rebs had brought artillery to bear and were determined to kill the Chinooks.

Mac shoved a fresh magazine into the M4 while Cassidy’s RTO spoke with one of the F-14 pilots. There was no way for them to know what the zoomie did, but the shelling stopped two minutes later. Mac’s ears were ringing, and she felt dizzy.

“Major,” a male voice said. “Shall we blow the charges?”

Mac turned to find that Captain Munson was standing behind her. He was alive! She wasn’t sure of anything by that point. “Yes, blow the charges,” she said. “And get your people on that Chinook.”

The ground shook as charge after charge went off, destroying all of the reserve’s infrastructure, the battalion’s supply dump, and the Strykers that remained in their revetments.

With only one helicopter remaining, Trenton approached her. The navy officer extended her right hand, and Mac shook it. “I apologize,” Trenton said. “You are the real deal. Come on… Let’s go home. There’s plenty of booze in the O club, and I’m buying.”

They walked side by side to the waiting helo and climbed on board. The twin engines spooled up, the ground fell away, and the battlefield appeared. Hundreds of people lay dead. For what? Mac asked herself. A failed plan? Yes. But there was no point in dwelling on that. Such things were outside the sphere of her control. We had orders, Mac concluded. And we followed them. And that is all that a soldier can do.