Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 11

NEAR CALUMET, LOUISIANA

The small group of officers were standing on the west side of the channel looking east as they sipped coffee and nibbled on the cinnamon rolls that had been brought forward from the town of Centerville. A layer of mist floated just above the land on the other side of the divide and eddied gently as a breeze slid in from the south.

The Yankees had been pushed east to Calumet, Louisiana. And that was a natural place for them to make a stand. The Atchafalaya Spillway formed a barrier that ran straight as an arrow all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and the only bridge was in Calumet. Or had been in Calumet, until the Confederate Army had been forced to destroy it thirty days earlier, when it appeared as though the enemy was going to chase them all the way to Houston. So, with swamps protecting both its north and south flanks, the Union Army was in a strong position.

And if it could hold the Mexicans off long enough, the Union might be able to force a stalemate and use it to buy some much-needed time. That scenario was one that Bo was determined to prevent by pushing through what he thought of as “the squeeze” at Calumet and recapturing the city of New Orleans, which lay to the east.

Unfortunately, Bo had more than the Union Army to worry about. His new allies were both a blessing and a curse. Major General Matias Ramos emptied his coffee mug and held it out. An orderly wearing a white jacket stepped forward to fill it up. “A nice day for it,” the Mexican general remarked, as a 155mm howitzer shell rumbled overhead and exploded somewhere behind them.

Much to Bo’s amazement, Ramos looked none the worse for wear despite the party he’d thrown the night before. “Every day is a good day for killing Yankees,” Bo observed. “It’s my pleasure to inform you that our engineers are ready to put an Improved Ribbon Bridge (IRB) in place, so that your forces can cross the spillway. Shall I give the order?”

Bo held his breath while Ramos dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. Would the son of a bitch agree to move forward? Or would he spend half the morning getting a hot shave? “Excellent,” Ramos replied. “Please proceed. I would like to send a brigade across before nightfall. However, it’s quite likely that our northern friends will object and send planes to destroy the bridge. Will we have air cover?”

“Of course,” Bo replied, hoping that the wish would come true. Based on previous experience, he knew that Ramos wouldn’t move even a foot without jet fighters circling above. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Work began immediately. In order to deploy the IRB, it was necessary to bring the sections in on Common Bridge Transporter trucks, dump the prefab elements into the channel, and hook them together. And as the Confederate engineers worked, Union gunners shelled the spillway, sinking two work boats. Shortly after that, a surface-to-surface missile severed the span, and a brace of the enemy A-10s attempted to sneak in under the fighters circling above. The span was repaired, and the intruders were shot down.

Still, by the time the sun set, the bridge was operational, and Ramos kept his word. A brigade of troops crossed the IRB, secured a bridgehead, and dug in. Bo wanted to push on and take more ground. But Ramos and his polo-playing buddies had other ideas.

They were quartered in the picturesque town of Franklin, which was located twelve miles to the rear, and they liked their comforts. So Bo had to accompany them there and sit through an evening of revelry or run the risk that a staff officer would take the opportunity to fill Ramos’s head with bullshit.

Ramos, Bo, and the other officers were staying at the Quality Inn. One of the hotel’s meeting rooms had been transformed into a lounge, complete with a buffet table and a makeshift bar. Plus, each night local beauties were on hand to offer the foreigners some Southern comfort. And if Ramos had a weakness, that was it. The man seemed to have an insatiable libido and typically took a different woman to bed every night, an indulgence that Bo saw as a weakness.

But finally, after Ramos and his entourage spent hours eating, drinking, and groping their female companions, they went to bed. Then, and only then, could Bo and his staff turn in. Once in his room, Bo lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling for a while, and closed his eyes.

Where were the dreams? The hopes? The plans? Nearly all of them were dead. Like his wife. Like his daughter. The exception, the thing Bo lived for, was the chance to kill Samuel T. Sloan. The man directly responsible for Kathy’s death… And the man who, according to various news stories, was screwing the daughter he no longer acknowledged. Why did he care then? Because Robin was his… That’s why.

Sleep pulled Bo down. Various people were waiting to speak with him. And all of them were dead.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

As Union troops were forced to retreat to the east, and reinforcements arrived from the north, the city of New Orleans struggled to absorb the sudden influx of people. Mac returned to NAS/JRB to find that another female officer was sharing her room, and there were long lines for almost everything.

And, when it came to locating the soldiers who had been wounded in Hackberry, Mac discovered that they were in three different hospitals. She went to visit each one of them nevertheless—and usually arrived with much-sought-after gifts like candy, spicy food, and magazines.

Meanwhile, it seemed as if her battalion had been relegated to a military never-never land. Though still part of JSOC, it wasn’t clear if the unit was going to remain there. Did JSOC need a battalion of Strykers? Some people said, “yes,” and others said, “no.”

Plus, as Trenton pointed out to Mac, “All of your Strykers were destroyed. And replacements aren’t available. Don’t worry, though… We’ll find something for you to do.”

The “something,” as it turned out, was a slot as the “Recreation Officer,” in a war zone where no one had time to recreate. So Mac was sitting around drinking coffee when a request came down for her to, “coordinate recreational activities in conjunction with the upcoming Southern Command Conference to be held at the New Orleans Hilton Hotel.” And, with nothing else to do, Mac found herself looking forward to the event.

As with all such functions, a committee had been formed to organize the gathering, and the first meeting was to be held in a conference room at the Louis Armstrong International Airport. But when Mac arrived, there was only one person there to greet her. “Hello, Mac,” Sloan said as he rose from a chair. “You look wonderful! I apologize for the misleading invitation… But I know you understand.”

Mac stood and stared. In marked contrast to the last time she’d seen Sloan, his face was drawn and tired. Not only that, but his clothes were loose, as if he’d lost some weight. Mac felt a surge of concern. The war was taking a heavy toll. Sloan offered a smile. “Did you get my letter?”

“Yes,” Mac replied.

“And? Is there any chance that you’ll accept my apology?”

Mac knew the answer should be “no” since Sloan’s actions should have been unforgivable. But the anger she’d felt earlier had dissipated. Because of the passage of time? Because she still felt drawn to him? It didn’t matter. “Yes,” Mac answered. “There’s a chance.”

Sloan’s expression brightened. “Thank you. Although, should I get another chance to kill your father, I’ll be forced to take it.”

The line was delivered with a smile, and dark though the humor was, Mac had to laugh. “Understood. But not while we’re on a date.”

Sloan came forward to place his hands on her shoulders. “You’re alive. Thank God for that. This is like a dream.”

He raised his hands to cup her face. “Can I kiss you? To make sure that you’re real?”

Mac closed her eyes as their lips met, felt his arms take her in, and wanted to cry. She was happy there. But conscious of how fragile life was—and the uncertainties that lay ahead. “Thank you,” Sloan said, as the kiss came to an end.

“For what?” Mac inquired as she looked up at him.

“For being you, for giving me a second chance, and for the kiss.”

“Consider it a down payment,” Mac said. “On the future.”

“Yes,” Sloan replied. “I need something to hope for.”

“The situation is that bad?”

Sloan looked away and back again. “I’m afraid so. The Confederates put a ribbon bridge across the Atchafalaya Spillway yesterday. Then the Mexicans sent a brigade across to protect the bridgehead. We tried to stop them and failed. I failed.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mac replied.

Sloan forced a grin. “Thanks. But, for better or worse, I’m the commander in chief.”

“And a good one,” Mac put in. “Remember where you are, which is deep inside what used to be enemy territory, only 350 miles from Houston.”

Mac saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. “You’re a good cheerleader. Were you one?”

Mac nodded. “Yes.”

“I wish I could have seen that,” Sloan said wistfully. A side door opened, and a man appeared. And, when Sloan raised a hand by way of an acknowledgment, the man disappeared.

“Take care of yourself,” Sloan said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Mac took the initiative, kissed him hard, and turned away. Tears were running down her cheeks as she left. Tears she needed to hide.

With the exception of the Marauders who were in hospitals, the rest had been given five days of leave and sent off to Biloxi, Mississippi, for some R&R. And now, as they returned to duty, Mac had a problem. What should the battalion be focused on? Training seemed like the obvious answer, and Mac was ready to make some specific recommendations, as she went to see Commander Trenton.

But as Mac entered Trenton’s office, everything changed. Because there, seated in one of the guest chairs, was Lieutenant Thomas Lyle! Mac had worked with the young Green Beret on two occasions in the past. The most recent occasion was the mission to grab Confederate Secretary of Energy Oliver Sanders down in Odessa, Texas, and take him north for interrogation.

There was a big grin on Lyle’s face as he came forward to collect a hug. “Good morning, Robin… I heard about Hackberry. I’m glad you’re safe.”

Trenton cleared her throat. “This is sweet. But I have better things to do than watch the two of you play kissy face. Have a seat, Major… We have work to do.”

Mac sat next to Lyle, and Trenton nodded. “Okay, that’s better. Two things… The first concerns Mac’s Marauders. I have some bad news to share. JSOC doesn’t need a Stryker battalion. Especially one that doesn’t have any Strykers. And the army wants its soldiers back. So your unit is being transferred to the 32nd Infantry Brigade. Captain Munson will assume command during your absence.”

The announcement didn’t come as a complete surprise since Mac had been aware of the battalion’s uncertain status, but she still felt a sense of shock. She was a cavalry officer, and that meant something. To her at least. Even if the difference between being an infantry officer and a cavalry officer wasn’t that great. And given the army’s pressing need for troops, Mac knew it made sense to put her people back in the fight.

But Mac could tell that something else was brewing as well. Trenton’s comment had an ominous quality. “During your absence.” What absence? And what about Lyle? Why was the Green Beret present?

Trenton had been watching. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I know how much you enjoy driving around and shooting people. But, if all goes well, some new Strykers will become available in the near future. In the meantime, we need to beat the Mexicans back.

“And that raises a very important question: Why are those bastards fighting for the Confederacy anyway? The easy answer is that the rebs are paying them to fight. According to a top secret report, one ton of gold was shipped from the Texas Gold Depository near Austin to the airport in Mexico City.

“That’s a lot of gold,” Trenton added. “And it’s worth a lot of money. Especially these days. But is it enough for Mexico to field four divisions of troops? And run the risk of winding up on the wrong side of our civil war? There are a whole lot of eggheads who don’t think so. They think the gold is part of a larger, more significant transaction of some sort. One that we need to know about and understand. And that’s where you two come in.”

Trenton looked from face to face. “Your job will be to slip in behind Mexican lines, snatch Major General Matias Ramos, and bring him back for questioning. If you succeed, maybe we can convince Ramos to tell us why his country was willing to do such a risky deal with the Confederacy.”

Trenton turned to Lyle. “The major will be in overall command. But you’ll be in charge of the snatch itself.” Trenton pushed two sealed envelopes over to them. “Study this stuff and return here at 1400. You will be leaving at 1700 tomorrow.”

Mac frowned. “Why so soon?”

“Because we know where Ramos will be tomorrow night,” Trenton replied, “unless the Mexicans break through our lines before then.”

Mac had all sorts of questions, not to mention objections, but could tell that Trenton didn’t want to hear them. Not yet, anyway. So she stood and tossed a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lyle did the same, and they left together. “Holy shit,” the Green Beret said, once they were outside. “Tomorrow? That’s tight.”

“It sucks,” Mac agreed. “Come on… We’ll get some coffee and do our homework. Then, assuming this mission is as fucked up as it sounds, we’ll go AWOL.”

Lyle laughed. “Done and done. I’m in.”

After a visit to the chow hall, the officers sought refuge in the tiny R&R office that Mac had been using. As the officers read the operation plan and studied the accompanying maps, it was clear that a lot of forethought had gone into the documents.

The team was to consist of ten people—two of whom would be navy Riverines. Their job was to take the team up the Atchafalaya Spillway to a rendezvous with a CIA agent. He would provide the operatives with the transportation required to reach the town of Franklin. That’s where Lyle and three Green Berets would carry out the snatch.

Maybe the vehicle the CIA agent furnished to them would be sufficient to get them home, or, as the operation plan stated, “it might become necessary to source additional transportation locally.”

“What,” Mac wanted to know, “is this ‘transportation will be sourced locally’ shit?”

“It means we might have to steal it.” Lyle replied. “That’s more common than you might think.”

Mac frowned. “But what if we can’t?”

“Then we’re SOL,” the Green Beret replied. “But we will,” he added confidently.

Mac made a note. When it came to recruiting some “volunteers,” she would need an extremely competent driver, and the best “wrench” available. Meaning a tech who could break into vehicles if necessary, hot-wire them, and carry out minor repairs while on the move. No problem there… Her battalion was home to some very skilled ex-criminals.

As for the proposed exfil route, that sucked big-time. They couldn’t, in the judgment of the people who had authored the plan, go east after the snatch. That’s what the rebs would expect them to do.

So the answer was to head west, turn north toward Lafayette, and flee east on I-10. The freeway would take them over the Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge to the outskirts of Baton Rouge, where a team of CIA spooks would be waiting. According to Mac’s calculations, the exfil would take roughly four hours. Assuming no one attempted to stop them. And how likely was that?

But what was, was. Both officers drew up wish lists, which they took to the meeting with Trenton. All of their requests were approved. And the whole thing was very matter-of-fact until the officers stood to leave. That was when Trenton circled her desk in order to shake hands with them. “I want you back,” she told them sternly. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Lyle grinned. “No, ma’am… We wouldn’t dream of it.” The meeting was over.

The rest of that day, and half of the next, were spent prepping for the mission. That included choosing people for the team, meeting with them, and drawing their gear.

Unfortunately, that left very little time for Mac to meet with Captain Munson. Mac wasn’t free to disclose anything about the mission, other than there was one, and it wouldn’t take long. “Assuming that things go well, I’ll be back within forty-eight hours,” she promised him. “And if they don’t go well, put in a requisition for a new major. I don’t know anything about the 32nd Infantry Brigade. Report in, find out what you can, and kiss some butt. I want the CO to be in a good mood when I request some Strykers.”

Munson chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. Take care out there. I’ll see you in forty-eight.”

In order to cut the travel time down, the decision had been made to depart from Port Fourchon, which was located southwest of New Orleans. Mac had been too busy to worry right up to the moment when the team boarded the thirty-six-foot Chris Craft that Chief Petty Officer Myron had chosen for the infil. Now Mac felt the first stirrings of fear. Because even though she had participated in three special ops missions, all of them had been large-scale endeavors like the attack on the Hackberry Reserve. And there was a certain amount of comfort to be derived from having a lot of people around even when outnumbered by the enemy.

But this felt different to her, even if Lyle took it in stride. “In and out,” the Green Beret said. “A piece of cake.” Maybe, Mac thought. And maybe not.

Like the rest of the team, Mac was dressed for a boat ride. Her outfit consisted of a cotton blouse and white shorts. Meanwhile, navy petty officer Casey Hunt had chosen to wear a two-piece bathing suit and a pair of slip-on tennis shoes. And, because Hunt had a nice figure, there were no complaints from the men. They were dressed in garish Hawaiian shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops. A disreputable group for sure, but members of a special ops team? No. Spies, if any, were unlikely to suspect the group of anything more than bad taste.

“Make yourselves at home,” Chief Myron said. “Hunt and I will handle all of the boatey stuff.” Mac knew that Myron was a very experienced member of the navy’s Riverine Squadrons. An organization that specialized in small-boat operations, often in conjunction with Navy SEALS. Myron had dark skin, a long, tall body, and the confident swagger typical of professional noncoms everywhere. There was a roar as the twin Volvo engines came to life, followed by the throaty burble that Chris Craft boats are famous for and a wave from Myron. He was playing his part and enjoying it. “Feel free to cast off, hon.”

“Fuck you,” Hunt replied sweetly, as the rest of the team laughed.

Once both lines were aboard, Myron pushed the throttles forward, and the boat pulled away from the dock. That was when “Kokomo,” by the Beach Boys, began to blare over the sound system, and the people on a sailboat waved. “Here you go,” Lyle said as he offered Mac a beer. “It’s your duty to drink this. Spies are everywhere.”

Thus began a wonderfully boring trip, past the point where the Atchafalaya River joined the Gulf, and into the maze of channels associated with the Atchafalaya Delta Wildlife Management area. Thanks to the boat’s three-foot draft, Myron was able to navigate the shallows without running aground, something they couldn’t afford to do, lest they be late for the rendezvous.

The sun was low in the sky by then, and based on aerial surveillance conducted the previous day, the team had been told to expect some sort of interdiction. It came in the form of a twenty-five-foot rebel patrol boat, which, given the gray-over-red paint job, had been the property of the United States Coast Guard before the war. It was armed with machine guns fore and aft, plus a police-style light bar on top of the cabin. Myron cut power the moment it began to flash. “No need to get up off your army asses,” the chief advised. “The navy will take care of this.”

Hunt had dropped her jacket by then and was standing by the rail, waving to the men on the patrol boat. “Hey there!” Hunt said loudly, as she raised a can. “Would you guys like a beer?”

The man at the wheel put it over, and all of the rebs were staring at the half-naked petty officer, when she tossed the incendiary grenade into the patrol boat’s cockpit. Myron applied power and was veering away when the device went off.

Mac saw a bright flash, followed by a BOOM, as the fire found both gas tanks. Part of the cabin soared up into the air—then fell like a rock. There was a splash as it hit dead center in among bits of still-flaming debris. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

Mac had witnessed hundreds of deaths, but the casual, almost offhand, way in which Hunt destroyed the patrol boat and killed its three-man crew came as a shock. This was a different kind of war than what Mac was used to. One that relied on surprise, subterfuge, and sudden violence to get the job done.

What remained of the patrol boat slid below the surface of the water as the Chris Craft sped upstream. Would it be missed? Certainly. But it would take at least a day to find the wreckage and figure out what had transpired.

“It’s time to gear up,” Lyle said. “Orney, Timms, Wynn, and Yang will go below first. Our female personnel will follow.”

The Green Berets were back on deck fifteen minutes later. The casual wear had been replaced by camos, heavily loaded TAC vests, and hydration packs. Three of the four were armed with Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns, all equipped with suppressors and laser sights. Yang was carrying a Remington Model 700 sniper’s rifle with a suppressor attached.

The armament had been chosen by Lyle. “We need to standardize our weapons,” he’d said. “So we can trade stuff around as necessary.”

Mac knew that was a nice way of saying that common weaponry would allow the living to scavenge supplies from the dead. It was a logical if somewhat off-putting thought.

As for handguns, the Green Berets were carrying Ruger Mark III .22LR pistols equipped with suppressors and laser sights. They were too damned long in Mac’s opinion. But Lyle insisted. “You’ll see,” he told her. “Stealth will be extremely important. And the Rugers are very quiet.”

Mac followed Hunt below, located her bag, and went about the process of gearing up. Despite the decision to prioritize mobility over everything else, Mac knew she would be carrying fifty pounds of armor, grenades, and ammo. Not to mention a chocolate bar or two. And that didn’t include the weight of the MP7 and the Ruger.

Hunt was carrying everything that Mac was, plus a field radio, because she was the navy equivalent of an RTO. And the team’s link with Trenton. Mac followed her up on deck. Hunt took the wheel, so Myron and Lyle could go below. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Hunt said. “I’m qualified to do everything the chief does except pee standing up.”

Mac laughed. “Men have us there… How are we going to navigate? The moon is up… But the haze doesn’t let much light get through.”

“See the laptop? That’s us,” Hunt replied. “All we have to do is stay in the groove.”

The computer was positioned in front of the wheel. The display showed a representation of the spillway with the boat icon centered in the middle of it. “That’s slick,” Mac said. “Stop if you see a Starbucks.”

Lieutenant Lyle and Chief Myron returned shortly thereafter. They were carrying a cooler loaded with thick, deli-style sandwiches and a selection of cold drinks. No beer though… Not at that point. Mac selected a Coke and what turned out to be a turkey sandwich. She ate sitting in the stern, with the TAC vest and the MP7 beside her.

There was no commercial traffic on the river. And that made sense given the fighting. Mac saw lights every now and then. Some were associated with boats that were moored along both sides of the spillway.

Others were deeper in the swamp and only visible for a split second before they disappeared. Houseboats? Probably. If so, Mac envied the people who lived on them. They could spend weeks or even months safe from the war.

After forty-five minutes of travel, Myron issued a warning. “We’re coming up on a turn to port… Then a straight channel will take us west, to the point where Highway 317 crosses the canal. And that’s where Victor-Romeo should be waiting for us.”

“You heard the man,” Mac said as she put her vest on. “Gear up, turn your night-vision gear on, and give me a radio check. Over.”

Because the team was small, and their transmissions were encrypted, the operators could use their names. “Lyle,” “Yang,” “Hunt,” and so forth.

The bow fell as the boat slowed, and a spotlight came on. It speared the left bank and coasted along until a gap appeared. The light disappeared as Myron put the wheel over, and the bow swerved. Thanks to the spill from the map light in the cockpit, Mac saw that a team member was stretched out on the seat across from her. Private Ryson? Of course. The ex-thief and ace mechanic had been written up for sneaking naps on numerous occasions.

Mac turned to Corporal Marci Carter. The truck commander was chewing gum. “Roust Private Ryson, Corporal. The method is up to you.”

An evil smile appeared on Carter’s face. “Say no more, Major… I’m on it.”

Ryson spluttered as the TC poured half a bottle of water on his face. He sat up. “What the hell?”

“Get your shit together,” Mac told him. “We’re counting on you.”

Carter took a sip of water. “Yeah, shithead. We’re counting on you.”

Ryson gave her the finger, and one of the Green Berets laughed. “Cut the crap,” Lyle said. “And stand by. The rebs might be waiting for us. Lock and load.”

Five long minutes passed as the engines burbled, and Mac stared into the darkness. Then she saw it. Three long flashes, followed by a couple of blips. That was the recognition signal. Hunt answered with three blips from the spotlight. So far, so good. Assuming that Victor-Romeo was the one who was holding the flashlight.

Myron couldn’t turn the engines off without compromising their ability to make a speedy departure. But he could shift into neutral, and he did. Lyle and Wynn jumped off the boat as it coasted to a stop. They were about four feet out and had to wade ashore. Mac was relieved to see a single figure standing on the beach.

Mac went next, felt the water come up to midthigh, and made her way up out of the canal. Green Berets rushed past her and immediately spread out into a skirmish line. Lyle was talking to Victor-Romeo when Mac arrived. They were using a penlight to examine a map. The spill was sufficient to reveal that the agent was a woman. More than that, a pretty woman. “This is Bravo-Six,” Lyle said, as Mac arrived.

The CIA agent smiled. “Nice try, but Major Macintyre is pretty well-known north and south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. Now, here’s where we are. I brought a van. Follow 317 north to the intersection with 90. Take that west to Franklin. Ramos and most of his officers are staying at the Quality Inn.

“He doesn’t trust the Confederates to protect him. So soldiers drawn from his division have been assigned to provide security. Don’t let that fool you… They are quite competent and extremely loyal. Chances are that Ramos will be in bed with a noncombatant when you enter his suite. There’s no reason to kill her.”

Mac looked into the other woman’s eyes. “How do you know all this?”

The answer was unapologetic. “I know because I slept with him two days ago.”

Mac thought about that. Here was still another aspect of warfare. Was it something she would be willing to do? Mac wasn’t sure. “Okay, thank you.”

“All right,” Lyle said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Victor-Romeo replied. “The major will be interested to know that her father, General Macintyre, has been spending a great deal of time with Ramos. And he’s at the Quality Inn, too. I’ll take the boat down the slipway and hide it. Good hunting.”

Victor-Romeo faded into the darkness, leaving Mac to think about her father. Would she see him? And what should she do if that happened?

The noise generated by the Chris Craft’s twin Volvo engines increased, and Mac saw the boat turn. Myron and Hunt appeared as it sped away. “Victor-Romeo knows her way around boats,” Myron commented. “We could use her in the canoe club.”

“This is Carter,” the TC said over the radio. “I located the van. The key is in the ignition. Over.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s hit the road.” A path led up to a graveled parking area normally used by fishermen and kayakers. The Chevy was HUGE, with seating for twelve. The team piled in. Carter slid behind the wheel—and Timms was going to ride shotgun. The rest of them were seated in back. It was nearly midnight by then, which meant there was very little traffic on Highway 317, and that was good.

But conditions changed as they turned onto westbound 90. A Mexican convoy was traveling eastbound in the lane next to them. None of the team members said anything. But Mac figured that their thoughts were similar to hers. How long could Union troops hold the line? Mac pushed the question away. Stay focused, she told herself. Do what you can do. Sam will find a way.

It was a short drive to Franklin, and with Victor-Romeo’s map to guide him, Timms gave directions. Would someone attempt to stop the van? If they did, the mission would be blown. That was Mac’s greatest fear. So she felt a profound sense of relief when the hotel appeared. It was a block away, and a Jaguar armored car was blocking the street that led to it. Carter turned without being told to, followed an alley into the parking lot located behind a restaurant, and parked.

“Okay,” Lyle said. “Let’s go over this again. Carter, Ryson, Myron, Hunt, and Yang will remain here. Find cover away from the van. If the cops stop to look at it, or the Mexicans come by, let them scope it out. What we don’t need is for you to start a firefight while we’re in the hotel.

“The rest of the team will follow me. The major will be in the six slot. She will assume command if I go down. And remember… No noise! And if you have to off somebody, hide the body. Are there any questions? No? Let’s do this thing.”

Lyle departed at a jog. The rest of them followed. And, thanks to the well-lit sign on the front of the hotel, they knew where they were going. The Mexicans have arrived, and the locals feel safe, Mac mused. But not for long.

According to the military intelligence, only 20 percent of the Mexican troops were equipped with night-vision gear. But it seemed safe to assume that the individuals assigned to protect Ramos would have the latest goodies. So concealment was important.

Lyle made good use of what cover there was as he led the team out and around the roadblock, as well as the troops stationed at it. Then he followed the edge of the parking lot past parked cars, islands of shrubbery, and a Dumpster to the east side of the hotel. A door was located there, but it was locked.

As the last person in the file, Mac had responsibility for the team’s six, and she was looking back, when Lyle spoke. “Down!” It was a whisper but emphatic nonetheless.

Mac dropped into a crouch. And, when she swiveled, the threat was obvious. A sentry had rounded the corner of the building and was walking toward them. He was using a flashlight to probe the surrounding shadows, and he had a dog on leash.

Mac knew that while the soldier might miss them, the animal wouldn’t. So she wasn’t surprised when Lyle rose from his hiding place and fired his pistol four times. Two for the dog and two for the sentry. Both died without uttering a sound.

“Timms and Wynn on me,” Lyle said. That left Orney and Mac to provide security, while the others went forward to grab the bodies and drag them behind a knee-high hedge.

So far, so good. But the clock was running. A noncom would go looking for the sentry eventually, find the bodies, and sound the alarm. In the meantime, every second was precious, and the team would have to rely on brute force rather than stealth to enter the hotel.

Lyle peeked around the corner. “Five soldiers are standing around the front door shooting the shit,” he whispered. “We’re going to approach them like Confederates on a patrol. Then, when we get close, we’ll put them down. Be ready, Timms… Use your HK.”

It went down exactly the way Lyle said that it would. The Mexicans had seen plenty of Confederate soldiers by that time—and had no reason to expect an attack. They turned as the team walked towards them, but showed no signs of alarm. “Buenas noches, amigos,” Lyle said. “¿Cómo va todo?” (Good evening, friends… How’s it going?)

The Mexicans never got an opportunity to answer as Timms opened fire with his MP7. It made a soft clacking sound as the Green Beret emptied a thirty-round magazine into the group. They jerked spastically. Some twirled, two collapsed, and one fell over backwards. Mac had seen a lot of killing, and killed people herself, but was shocked by the sudden brutality of it.

But there was no time for reflection as Lyle gave orders. “Drag the bodies over to that pickup truck… Throw them in back. Mac will provide security.”

That was Mac’s cue to turn her back on the carnage and scan the surrounding area for threats. None had appeared as the men completed their task.

As Lyle led the way into the lobby, Mac paused to pull a piece of indoor-outdoor carpeting over the bloodstains before entering the hotel herself.

The lobby was empty except for the night clerk. She took one look at the warlike intruders and raised her hands. Timms circled the counter and ordered her down onto the floor.

“Be sure to gag her,” Lyle instructed. Then he turned to Mac. “Take over the desk, Mac. Shed the vest and the shirt—but keep the headset. If someone enters, they’ll assume it’s for answering the phone. Your job will be to make things look normal. Are you up for that?” Mac had no choice but to nod.

Lyle smiled. “Good. Let me know if things go south.” Then he left, and the others followed along behind.

Mac circled around the counter to the point where the real receptionist lay hog-tied on the floor. The woman’s eyes were huge, and Mac felt sorry for her as she placed the MP7 on a shelf under the counter. Then she removed the vest and her shirt. The reception desk would conceal her clothing from the waist down.

The phone rang and rang again. Mac answered it. “Hello, this is the front desk.”

“Yeah,” a female voice said. “I need a six A.M. wake-up call.”

“No problem,” Mac told her. “Have a good night.”

The woman said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

Lyle and the others were up on the top floor by then. And Mac could listen in as Lyle gave orders. “Drag him into the linen closet. Okay… Wynn will blow the door. We’ll go in fast. Is the injector ready? Good. Place the charge.”

That was when a Mexican soldier dashed in through the front door, and looked around. He was an officer, judging from the railroad tracks on his epaulets, and his English was good. “I’m looking for my men… They were stationed out front.”

Mac brought the .22 up, waited for the red dot to center itself on the officer’s chest, and fired two shots. The soldier staggered, but he didn’t fall!

Because he’s wearing armor, Mac told herself, as the Mexican went for his sidearm. The pistol was halfway out of its holster when Mac put three bullets into the man’s head. There was a thump as the body hit the floor. “Mexican officer down,” Mac said into the boom mike. “I’m going to drag him out of sight.”

“Roger that,” Lyle replied. “We have the package, and we’re on the way.”

Mac hurried to tow the officer around to the other side of the counter. There were three entry wounds, but no blood. The receptionist saw the body and attempted to scoot away from it. The phone rang. “Front desk.”

“Yes,” a male voice said. “I heard a noise… Like a firecracker going off in the next room. Is everything all right?”

That was when Mac felt a sense of shock. The man on the phone was her father! Should she hang up? Or try to bullshit him? The answer was obvious. Mac had never been able to bullshit her father. Mac put the receiver down.

Now Mac faced a difficult decision. Bo Macintyre was an important target. Should she order the team to abduct him? Or failing that, to kill him? The possibility was tempting, in spite of the emotions involved. But, Mac concluded, going after her father would threaten the Ramos abduction. How long would it be before someone discovered the bodies in the pickup or behind the hedge? When that occurred, all hell would break loose. Her decision was made.

Bo was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the handset. The bitch had hung up on him! First the muffled thud from the room next door, then this. What did it mean? Nothing, most likely. And he wanted to sleep. But could he sleep? Or would he lie there, wondering about the noise?

Bo stood and crossed the room to where his pants were draped over a chair. After pulling them on, he grabbed his keycard and a SIG SAUER P226 off the dresser. With the pistol in his hand, Bo opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The first thing Bo noticed was that the soldier who had been stationed outside of Ramos’s suite had disappeared. And general’s door was ajar. The reason for that was obvious. The lock had been blown!

Bo raised the SIG, held it in the approved two-handed grip, and pushed his way in. The bathroom was empty. A light was on in the room beyond. And the only person present was the brunette that General Ramos had been sleeping with. She’d been gagged and bound with zip ties. Her big brown eyes looked at him beseechingly, and she made moaning sounds.

Bo had no interest in freeing the woman. Someone else could handle that. His mind was on the snatch. Had it been carried out by Union forces? Hell yes, it had… Hence the blown lock and the zip ties. But why? Because Ramos was a high-ranking officer, that’s why.

But unbeknownst to them, the Mexican was something else as well… Ramos was one of the few people who knew about the plan to give a chunk of the United States to Mexico in return for that country’s help.

Would Ramos tell them? Hell yes, the weak-kneed, polo-playing son of a bitch would spill his guts in return for a martini. And if Sloan made the news public, it would serve to rally the North and raise doubts in the South. The Confederacy had no intention of honoring the deal with President Salazar. But Stickley couldn’t say that, nor could she talk about the plan to conquer Mexico and Central America. What she could do, however, was come after the plan’s author… And that meant him.

Bo swore and hurried out of the room. It wasn’t over yet… The Union’s special ops team couldn’t get out by helicopter. Not with the Confederate Air Force protecting the Mexican troops. That meant the bastards would be forced to use surface transportation. Bo entered his room, grabbed his cell phone, and thumbed a contact.

The phone rang four times before Colonel Hiram Roston picked it up. And no wonder given how early in the morning it was. “I don’t know who you are,” Roston growled. “But you’d better have one helluva good reason for waking me up.”

“I do,” Bo assured him. “We have a problem. A BIG problem, and you’re going to solve it.”