Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 12

FRANKLIN, LOUISIANA

After leaving the hotel, the Green Berets took turns carrying Ramos and followed the edge of the parking lot, back to the point where the van was parked. After being injected with a powerful sedative, Ramos had gone out like a light.

The van was running when the team arrived, and there were plenty of hands to help. Once Ramos was stashed in the back, the team piled in. “Okay,” Mac said as she slid in next to Carter. “Take 90 west toward Lafayette. And don’t speed… The last thing we need is to get crosswise with the police. Hunt… get on the horn. Tell Kingpin that we have the package, and we’re headed home.”

They were on Highway 90 by then. Mac could see a backup ahead and flashing lights in the distance. Had there been an accident? Was roadwork under way? Or was she looking at a military checkpoint? There was no way to be sure, and they couldn’t afford to take any chances. “Get us off the highway,” Mac said. “And I mean now.”

“There isn’t any exit,” Carter replied.

“Then make one,” Mac said. Carter looked to the right. Because she was wearing night-vision gear, Carter could see the ditch next to the highway, the field beyond, and the transmission tower in the distance. “I’ll have to jump the ditch,” Carter said. “Or try to. Get ready.”

By letting the car in front of her pull ahead, Carter was able to create some running room. Tires screeched as she stomped on the accelerator, the Chevy took off, and landed hard.

But the rear wheels were in the ditch. And all they did was spin. “Everybody out!” Lyle ordered. “Timms… Wynn… Grab the general. We need to haul ass.”

Mac felt a sense of foreboding as she jumped to the ground. Everything had gone reasonably well up to the point where the exfil began. Now it was as if something had changed. But what?

They were jogging across the field when Mac heard the roar of helicopter engines and saw geysers of dirt leap up all around, as an Apache helicopter passed over them. Sergeant Orney went down and stayed down. Mac rushed to his side, and Hunt arrived seconds later. A huge chunk of meat was missing from Orney’s left thigh, blood was spurting, and she could see bone. Mac felt a sinking sensation as Hunt produced a tourniquet and went to work. Could the team carry two men? And still escape?

The Green Beret attempted to smile but produced a grimace instead. “No worries… I have this.” The .22 was in his hand, and Mac was just starting to react as Orney brought the barrel up under his chin. There was a pop, and his head fell to one side. Lyle had arrived by then. He winced. “Follow me… They’re coming back!”

The three of them began to run. The others were up ahead. Trying to escape was pointless, or that’s how it seemed, as the gunship began its second run. Then something unexpected occurred. In order to get a better angle on the fugitives, the pilot attempted to fly under the power lines that ran across the field but failed to give himself enough room. A rotor clipped a wire. The results were spectacular.

As the Apache started to tilt, its blades cut three lines, and caused electricity to arc, even as the ship hit the ground. The impact was followed by a muffled explosion, and the equivalent of a funeral pyre, as flames shot up into the air. There was no time in which to stop and stare.

“Run!” Mac shouted. And they were off. Timms and Wynn were lugging Ramos. A farmhouse was visible ahead. And there, parked next to an old barn, was a tractor-trailer rig!

“Ryson!” Mac said. “Head for the truck… Get it started. Carter will drive, and I’ll ride in the sleeper. I want everyone else in the trailer.”

Flashing blue lights could be seen on Highway 90 as both the police and the local fire department responded to the helicopter crash. What would they make of the van? And of Orney’s body? Mac hoped the locals would spend a lot of time sorting things out.

The house was dark. Thanks to the power outage? Or because no one was at home? The answer became clear as Ryson started the truck, and a man with a shotgun came dashing out of the house. Then he ran into Wynn and wound up flat on his back. “I’ll take that,” Wynn said as he appropriated the scattergun. “Stay where you are, and everything will be fine.”

“Come on!” Mac said. “Get aboard.”

Carter could drive anything, big rigs included. And it took only a minute to clear the farm and turn onto a country road. The owner chased them but was forced to give up as his property pulled away. “We’ll take Highway 182 instead of 90,” Mac said, from her perch in the sleeper. “Maybe we’ll have better luck with that.”

Then Mac’s thoughts turned to Sergeant Orney. The rule was, “No man left behind.” But Orney had been. And the thought of it made Mac feel sick to her stomach.

Orney’s last words had been, “No worries, I have this.”

Mac fought to prevent the tears from flowing. Not here, she thought. Not now. She forced herself to focus. Had the semi departed the farm unnoticed? That was possible since local authorities had a van, a burning helicopter, and a body to puzzle over. But a clean getaway was by no means certain.

So it wasn’t until they’d been under way for fifteen minutes that Mac allowed herself to relax a little. But something was bothering her… Something important. But what? Now, in the wake of the gunship attack, Mac felt increasingly certain that the traffic jam had been the result of a roadblock rather than a car accident.

And come to think of it, why send an Apache rather than the Black Hawk loaded with troops? Then it struck her. The rebs were trying to kill Ramos! But that didn’t make sense. Or did it? Maybe Ramos was even more valuable than JSOC thought he was.

But how? How had the rebs been able to locate the team so quickly? The answer came in a flash. Ramos was carrying a GPS tracker! Mac keyed her mike. “Thomas… I think Ramos is carrying a tracker. Search him. Check everything he has. Over.”

“We’re on it,” Lyle responded. “Stand by. Over.”

Mac saw a sign flash by. The semi had passed the turnoff for New Iberia, which meant Cade was up ahead. Lyle broke into her train of thought. “All Ramos has on is a pair of boxer shorts, a wedding ring, and a Rolex. The back is engraved with a Confederate flag, and the words ‘Amigos Para Siempre,’ or ‘Friends Forever.’ How much do you want to bet the rebs gave Ramos more than a watch? They want to keep track of him.”

“Damn it,” Mac said. “You can throw the Rolex out the back if you want to… But it won’t make much difference. The bastards have a drone following us by now.”

“Then why are they allowing us to run?” Lyle demanded. “A Predator could take us out with a Hellfire missile.”

Mac saw the Cade exit pass by. The town of Broussard was next. As for the “why,” that wasn’t clear. “I’m not sure,” Mac answered. “But I think they’ll be waiting for us somewhere.”

“So what’s the plan?” Lyle wanted to know.

There was no plan. But Mac couldn’t say that. So she said the only thing that she could. “We’ll take the semi as far as we can, fight when we have to, and complete the mission.”

“Roger that,” Lyle said flatly. “We’ll be ready.”

“Hunt,” Mac said. “Do you read me?”

“Five by five,” the petty officer answered. “Over.”

“Get Kingpin on the horn. Explain our situation. Tell them we need air cover. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I’m on it,” Hunt replied. “Over.”

At that point, all Mac could do was wait. The town of Broussard marked the point where Carter had to switch from Highway 182 back to 90. Mac half expected to encounter a roadblock at the crossover point. But for reasons known only to them, the rebs had chosen to let the tractor-trailer rig pass. Maybe the shit would hit the fan in Walroy then. Or when they arrived in Lafayette. “Hunt here,” the sailor said. “Kingpin says that most of their assets are up and trying to defend New Orleans from enemy bombers. They’ll see what they can do. Over.”

That wasn’t much but gave the team something to hope for. After they passed Walroy, Highway 90 turned into Highway 167. That suggested that the enemy would try to stop the semi in Lafayette. Mac spoke to Carter. “I think they’re waiting for us up ahead. If so, there won’t be time for me to give orders. Do what you think is best. But remember this… Our immediate goal is to reach I-10 east. If we get that far, there’s a good chance we can make it the rest of the way.”

“Uh-oh,” Wynn said. “Look at that. The road is empty.”

Mac saw that he was correct and knew what that meant. The rebs had been busy clearing a path and setting their trap.

Mac’s thoughts turned to Sloan. What would the outcome be? A paragraph in his morning briefing? Mac felt a moment of regret for what was… And for what could have been. Lights flashed ahead of and behind them. The trap snapped closed.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

During the period when they ran New Orleans, the Confederacy’s military commanders had chosen to meet on the ninth floor of city hall because that was where the city’s Emergency Operations Center was located. But then the North attacked. So to avoid the possibility of being killed during a bombing raid, or by a Predator drone, the military brass moved their meetings to an underground data-storage facility located just outside New Orleans. Now Union officers were in control, and the subsurface command and control center was theirs.

As a result, Sloan was spending a great deal of his time 650 feet below sea level, behind four-hundred-foot-thick limestone walls, living in what amounted to a series of interconnected caverns. But nice caverns to be sure… Complete with polished floors and excellent lighting.

So when Sloan and his bodyguards stepped off the freight elevator, two green golf carts were waiting. Motors whirred as Sloan and the members of his security detail were whisked away to what staff referred to as “the Situation Room South.” It consisted of a large oval table, surrounded by two dozen chairs, and banks of video screens.

A number of Sloan’s advisors were present, and all of them stood as he stepped off the cart and walked over to the table. “Take a load off,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry about the late hour, but I had to address a joint meeting of Congress this morning. Even our most ardent supporters are feeling a bit antsy. And for good reason. The rebs are, as the saying goes, knocking on the door.”

Sloan grinned. “I assured them that we have a plan and that there’s no reason to worry. Please tell me that I was correct.”

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Jones made a face. “We have a plan,” he agreed. “That’s true. But we aren’t ready to act on it yet.”

“Why?” Sloan demanded.

“Simply put, we’re twenty thousand soldiers short of what we require to push the Mexicans back,” Jones replied. “But even if the additional troops were here, ready to fight, we would need more of everything before launching a counterattack. Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “Most of the resources are in the pipeline. But it will take a week to get all of it here and spread it around.”

Sloan eyed the faces around him. “A week… Do we have a week?”

“That depends,” National Security Advisor Toby Hall replied. “According to the most recent intel reports, Confederate General Bo Macintyre is spending every waking moment with Division Commander Matias Ramos and wants him to launch an all-out attack.

“Fortunately for us, Ramos continues to drag his feet. Sources indicate that while Ramos is perfectly willing to fight—he doesn’t like to advance unless he has half of the Confederate Air Force circling overhead.”

“Meanwhile,” Secretary of Defense Garrison added, “Mother Nature is about to weigh in.”

Sloan frowned. “Meaning?”

“According to the National Hurricane Center, a powerful storm is headed our way. Assuming it maintains its present course, the hurricane will cross the coast somewhere between Biloxi and Port Arthur. And that might help or hurt us. It’s too early to say which.”

“It would keep all aircraft on the ground,” Director of National Intelligence Kip said. “Confederate planes included. And Ramos won’t advance without them.”

“That’s true,” Jones agreed. “But, while a serious storm might prevent Ramos from taking more ground, it would hinder our ability to help civilians as well.”

Sloan tried to imagine it. A meteor fall, followed by a war, followed by a hurricane. If there was a worse scenario, he couldn’t imagine it. “All right, keep me informed. In the meantime, I expect FEMA to keep the public informed and to coordinate with the usual NGOs.”

Sloan eyed the faces around him. “Cheer up, people… It’s like someone said to me a few days ago. We’re deep inside what used to be enemy territory—and only 350 miles from Houston. We have the bastards where we want ’em.”

LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA

“Hang on!” Carter shouted as she shifted into a higher gear and put her foot down. “We’re going through!”

Mac was forced to hang on as the truck accelerated. Lafayette’s streetlights were on. A flare popped high above the truck and began to float down. The roadblock consisted of three cop cars and two city buses, which were parked nose to nose.

That would have been sufficient to stop most vehicles. But the weight of the semi, plus the half-loaded trailer, totaled to something like seventy thousand pounds. And the combo tossed the police cars aside as if they were toys.

Then, with plenty of inertia left, the big rig smashed into the barricade that lay beyond. Tires screeched, and safety glass shattered, as the buses were forced to part. Mac was thrown into the sleeper, where thick padding kept her from being hurt. “The engine’s on fire!” Carter exclaimed. “Everyone out.”

The sleeper had a door. Mac pushed it open, jumped to the ground, and found herself surrounded by swirling smoke. But, thanks to her night-vision gear, she could see.

The team was surrounded. Rebs, Mexicans, and police officers were shooting at them from every direction. Bullets snapped past, pinged the truck, and buzzed like bees.

Mac saw Timms stagger as a burst of automatic fire took him down. Wynn ran forward to provide first aid but stood a moment later and began to return fire.

Myron bellowed a war cry and was firing his MP7 at a police officer when a bullet struck his head. Mac ran to check on him, but the chief petty officer was dead.

“Follow me!” Lyle shouted. “Get to the Hummers!”

Mac could see the vehicles through the drifting smoke. Mexican soldiers were using them for cover, and the Humvee on the right had a top-mounted fifty. It began to chug.

Lyle ran straight at the vehicles, pushing the half-naked Ramos in front of him. The general was wearing a Union TAC vest and a pair of striped boxer shorts. That was when Mac realized that Lyle had given his body armor to Ramos! In an effort to protect the prisoner. Mac shouted, “No!” But it came too late. A bullet knocked Lyle down.

Ramos stopped and raised his hands. “¡Dejar de disparer! ¡Soy yo! ¡General Ramos!” (Stop firing! It’s me! General Ramos!)

The fifty stopped firing as the rest of the team caught up. Then all of the Mexicans stopped firing, and one of them ordered the Confederates to do likewise. And they obeyed.

It seemed that even though the rebs wanted to kill Ramos, they couldn’t do so with the Mexicans looking on because the alliance would come apart. That meant Ramos was their ticket out. But only so long as he was alive. What if a gung ho reb took him out?

“Surround the general!” Mac ordered. “So they can’t shoot him. Grab Lyle… And take control of those vehicles.”

Mac looked back at Timms and Myron. She wanted to recover their bodies. But at what cost? Could the team retrieve and load the bodies without losing the initiative? And sacrificing the mission? Mac couldn’t take that chance.

Hunt and Wynn got Lyle up and on his feet as Ryson and Yang advanced on the Mexican soldiers. The Mexicans had no choice but to fall back. That cleared the way for Yang to scramble up onto the armed Humvee and aim the fifty at them. “Don’t fire,” Mac told him. “Not unless they try to stop us. We’re here to snatch Ramos… Not mow people down.”

Thanks to their hostage, plus Yang’s fifty, the rest of the team were able get in the vehicles and depart. No shots were fired at the Humvees as they pulled away. Ryson was driving the vehicle with the fifty and was in the lead.

But Mac, who was riding shotgun in the second Humvee, ordered him to fall back. “They’re going to tail us,” she told him. “And if the Confederates can get rid of the Mexicans, they’ll attack. That’s when the fifty will come into play.”

That prophecy was borne out five minutes later. The team was eastbound on I-10 when the Apache helicopter caught up with them. Yang’s fifty was the only defense they had, but it was a potent weapon and sufficient to draw the pilot’s attention. He or she fired a brace of unguided rockets at the Hummer and missed.

Mac turned to Hunt. The sailor was seated in the backseat with Wynn and Ramos. “Get Kingpin on the radio. Tell them we’re eastbound on I-10 in two Humvees—and that a Confederate helicopter is trying to take us out.”

“Should I request air support?” Hunt inquired.

“I think that’s implied,” Mac said dryly.

“You won’t make it,” Ramos predicted.

“You’d better hope that we do,” Mac countered. “Because if we go down, you’ll go with us. I guarantee it.”

Ramos shrugged. “So be it. You’re quite pretty for a commando.”

Carter produced a snorting sound. “Holy shit! He’s hitting on you!” Wynn laughed.

Hunt had finished speaking with Kingpin by then. She leaned forward. “They say help is on the way. ETA ten minutes.”

“Did they say what kind of help?” Mac inquired.

“No, ma’am.”

Mac considered it. Ten fucking minutes? That was a lifetime. And what could be a short one. She opened her mike. “Hey, Yang… Quit screwing around and grease that bastard.”

“I’d like to try something,” Yang responded. “I’m going to spin the fifty around. When I give the word, I want both Humvees to stop. Over.”

Mac understood the plan. The Apache would pass overhead. And, once Yang’s vehicle came to a stop, he would be able to fire at it from a stable platform. Could he shoot the reb helo in the ass? Possibly. It was worth a try. “Go for it,” Mac told him. “Ryson, Carter, stop when Yang gives the word. Over.”

“Here it comes,” Yang said. “Wait for it… Now!”

Both drivers stood on the brakes. And that ruined the copilot’s aim. At least a hundred rounds of 30mm shells plowed a furrow in the concrete up ahead.

Meanwhile, Yang was aiming forward, waiting for the Apache to appear in his sights. Once it did, Yang sent a long, uninterrupted flow of .50 caliber shells after it. Mac heard a celebratory whoop of joy as the helicopter’s port engine belched fire. The pilot banked out over the surrounding swamp before scooting away. One engine was sufficient to get him home… But his part of the fight was over.

Mac had just started to relax when Yang spoke. “Uh-oh… A couple of vehicles are coming up fast. They look like Strykers. Over.”

Mac felt a rising sense of hopelessness. Strykers. They could, and they would, grease the Humvees in a matter of minutes. She glanced at her watch. Help was supposed to arrive in ten minutes—which meant it was five away. Could the Humvees outrun their pursuers? No. The Strykers were faster. Okay, so maybe…

That was when Mac heard a loud explosion. She couldn’t see out the back, but Carter confirmed her worst fears. “It’s gone,” the TC said, as a fireball appeared in both outside mirrors. “I’ll take evasive action.”

Mac struggled to absorb it. Ryson, Lyle, and Yang. All of them were dead. And the rest of the team was going to wind up KIA, too, if help didn’t arrive soon. “The first Stryker is catching up with us,” Carter announced as she swerved to the right. “And my foot is all the way to the floor.”

“I don’t understand,” Ramos put in. “Don’t they realize that I’m in the vehicle?”

“Oh, they realize it all right,” Mac replied. “The rebs would rather kill you than allow you to be questioned. But they can’t murder you in front of your troops. Think about that if you’re still alive at this time tomorrow.”

“General Macintyre,” Ramos responded. “That sounds like something he would do.”

“It sure as hell does,” Mac agreed.

There was a burst of static from Hunt’s radio. “This is Super-Spooky-Three to Bravo-Six. We are on station and ready to perform some pest control. I see three vehicles. I want all friendlies to turn their lights off and on. Over.”

Mac understood. The AC-130 pilot needed to confirm which vehicles he was supposed to protect. Carter said, “Done.” And the pilot confirmed it.

“One vehicle, and it’s in the lead. Stand by. Over.”

Mac couldn’t see it but knew that the Lockheed AC-130 fixed-wing, propeller-driven transport was a flying weapons platform. There were a lot of different versions, but even the oldest planes mounted a fearsome array of miniguns. Four of each in some cases. “Come on!” Carter demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

The lead Stryker fired. The 105mm shell screamed past, and a bright flash lit the road up ahead. Then, as if in answer to Carter’s request, the AC-130 opened fire. Four streams of tracer fire poured out of the pitch-black sky, converged on the lead Stryker, and tore into it. Mac couldn’t see the action… But she heard the thunderous explosion as the vehicle behind them exploded.

“One down,” Super-Spooky said, “and one to go. Over.”

Strykers had no effective means to defend themselves against aircraft. Something Mac knew from personal experience. So it took the AC-130 less than a minute to score the second kill. “Your six is clean,” Super-Spooky announced. “We’ll escort you in. Over.”

It took fifteen minutes to finish crossing the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge and pass through the Union checkpoint located just west of Ramah. It was defended with troops and tanks. But because they had been ordered to clear the way for the Humvee, the concrete barriers had been pushed over to one side of the road.

Pole-mounted lamps threw an eerie glow over the scene. As the Humvee rolled through the checkpoint, Mac saw that clusters of soldiers were standing at attention while their officers saluted. All of them knew. Ten soldiers and sailors had gone out. Four had returned.

From there it was a short drive to the Tiger Truck Stop, where a Black Hawk helicopter and three black-clad men were waiting in the otherwise empty parking lot. One of the operatives gave Lyle’s TAC vest to Mac. “The general won’t need this where he’s going. I’m sorry you lost so many people.” Then the agents took Ramos away. The helicopter departed three minutes later. The team watched it go.

“What now?” Carter inquired, as the noise died away.

Mac looked across the parking lot to the truck stop’s brightly lit façade. “Now we go in and eat breakfast. Does beer go with pancakes?”

“Beer goes with everything,” Wynn assured her.

“Good,” Mac replied. “Then we’ll have a beer for every person we left behind.”

“They’d like that,” Carter said.

“Kingpin is calling,” Hunt said as she pressed a headphone to her ear.

“Turn the radio off,” Mac said. “This mission is over.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

The sun was rising in the east. But there was no way to see that from hundreds of feet underground in the Situation Room South. Sloan had just returned from a two-hour nap… It was the only sleep he’d had in more than a day. As Sloan scanned the faces around him, he could tell that things had gone from bad to worse. “Give it to me straight,” Sloan said, as Doyle Besom poured him a cup of coffee. “What kind of condition is our condition in?”

“Hurricane Whitney is packing winds of up to 145 miles per hour,” FEMA Administrator Nathan Freely said. “That makes it a class four storm. The eye is 130 miles out, and it’s going to hit New Orleans hard.”

Sloan took a sip of coffee. “Will the gates and levees hold?”

“We hope so,” Freely replied. “A lot of improvements have been made since Katrina. But there’s bound to be some flooding. And the locals are going to suffer.”

Sloan was under no illusions where the locals were concerned. A lot of them were Confederate sympathizers if not outright insurrectionists. And their activities were a continual drain on Union resources. But they were, like it or not, American citizens. And it was Sloan’s duty to assist them to the extent he could. Even if they were unlikely to thank him for it.

On the other hand, Sloan reflected, Hurricane Whitney would buy him some time. The enemy wasn’t likely to attack during a major storm. The thought prompted a memory. Something he’d read about. A war in Korea? Or was it Japan?

Sloan put the coffee mug down. “I need to borrow a computer. One with Internet access.” It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. All Sloan had to do was enter the words “Divine Wind” in the search bar. What he found was inspiring.

The First Mongol Invasion of Japan took place in the autumn of 1274, when approximately six hundred vessels, loaded with forty thousand Chinese and Korean warriors, arrived on the shores of Hakata Bay. The Mongols attacked, and the Japanese had to pull back.

Fearing that the Japanese would return with reinforcements, the Mongols retreated to their ships. A typhoon struck that night, destroying most of the ships and killing thousands of Mongol warriors. That battle was over, but the Mongols were still determined to conquer Japan.

During the next seven years, the Japanese built high walls to protect themselves from future attacks. And a good thing, too. Because when the Mongols returned, they had forty-four hundred ships and as many as 140,000 soldiers.

But thanks to the recently constructed walls, the Mongols couldn’t land where they wanted to and spent months on their ships—before deciding to go ashore. But on August 15, as the Mongols prepared to attack, a powerful typhoon struck, saving the Japanese yet again! A divine wind indeed.

Sloan stood and took another look around. General Jones was nowhere to be seen. Major McKinney was present, however. “Sam, find General Jones. Tell him to get ready. The moment the storm hits, we’re going to attack.”

McKinney’s eyebrows shot upwards. “You’re joking.”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I’m serious. The Mexicans won’t expect it, and neither will the rebs. Mother Nature can be a bitch, but she’ll be on our side, and we’re going to win.” McKinney reached for a phone.

Sloan looked up at the main monitor. A computer-generated image of Whitney filled most of it. Come on honey, Sloan thought. We need you.

HOUSTON, TEXAS

Bo had been taken to Houston in a Learjet, transported to the command and control center in a helicopter, and escorted to the room that Stickley was using as an office. And now, as Bo looked across the table at her, he could see the anger in the president’s eyes. “So let me see if I understand,” Stickley said. “You tucked General Ramos into bed with some slut, went beddy-bye next door, and awoke to discover that the stupid bastard had been abducted.”

Bo didn’t like the sarcastic tone or the implied criticism. But the account was essentially correct. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you issued the order to have Ramos killed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But he wasn’t killed.”

“No, ma’am.”

“And the Union is draining him dry.”

“Probably,” Bo allowed. “We don’t know for sure.”

“I think we can assume that they are,” Stickley replied. “Just as we can be sure that Ramos will trade what he knows for better treatment.”

“If you say so,” Bo agreed reluctantly.

“I do,” Stickley said. “And the information he gives them will result in a fucking disaster. You are relieved of your duties, General. And you are hereby restricted to the city of Houston. In order to go anywhere else, you will need permission from me. Do you understand?”

Bo knew his face was flushed, and he could barely contain his rage. Victoria and Kathy had been sacrificed to the cause. And now it was his turn. All because of Robin and Samuel T. Sloan. “Yes, I understand.”

And with that, Bo left. He had no office, no home, and no place to stay. And once his situation was made public, he would be a pariah. What could he do? Who could he turn to? The answer, when it occurred to him, made Bo smile.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

The wind was blowing, and sheets of rain were falling by the time the team left the truck stop and made their way over to the Humvee. All of them were wasted, including Carter. The woman shouldn’t be allowed to drive, Mac thought to herself. And then she passed out.

When Mac awoke, it was to find that it was light outside, and Carter was touching her shoulder. “Wake up, Major… We’re at NAS/JRB.”

Mac could hear a continuous rattle as rain hit the Humvee’s roof. She sat up straight. “Thanks for getting us here, Carter. I’m going to put you in for the army’s drunk-driving medal.”

“I’ll wear it with pride,” Carter replied. “Are you okay? Can you make it inside?”

Mac looked out through rain-streaked glass. The wind was tearing at a trio of oak trees. They swayed alarmingly. A piece of aluminum siding sailed past. “Yes, thanks.”

Mac turned to look at the others. Hunt was asleep, with her head on Wynn’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” Carter told her. “I’ll get them home.”

Mac thanked the TC, battled to push the door open, and got out. The wind tried to bowl her over—and Mac was soaked by the time she entered the BOQ. Her room was on the second floor. And when Mac opened the door, it was to discover that her roommate wasn’t there. Was she on duty? Probably.

Mac put the HK on the floor, shrugged her vest off, and went facedown on the bed. Rain tapped against the window, and sleep took her down.

When Mac woke four hours later, it was in response to someone pounding on the door. “Major Macintyre? Are you in there?”

Mac swore, rolled off the bed, and clumped over to the door. I went to bed with my boots on, Mac observed. And I need a shower. She opened the door. A corporal was standing there with a fist raised, ready to knock again. “Yes?”

Mac saw the soldier’s eyes widen—and knew she looked like hell. “Spit it out,” Mac said. “What do you want?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Prevus wants to speak with you, ma’am. He’s on the phone.”

Mac didn’t bother to ask who Prevus was because she felt sure that the corporal didn’t know. “Okay, thanks.”

Mac followed the soldier down to the reception desk and was surprised to see how dark it was outside. She lifted the phone. “This is Major Macintyre.”

“My name is Prevus,” a male voice replied. “I’m the division’s supply officer. Most of the 32nd pulled out at 0600 this morning, and that includes your battalion, under Captain Munson’s command. So the CO handed you off to me. And I have a job for you.”

Mac was mystified. “The 32nd left? To go where?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Prevus demanded crossly. “Some idiot decided to launch a full-on counterattack in the middle of the goddamned storm! And I have supplies to move. So get your butt down here.”

“Sir, yes, sir. Where are you?”

“Jesus H. Christ, don’t you know anything?”

Mac scribbled as Prevus gave her the address. “Got it.”

“Good,” Prevus said, before slamming the phone down.

Mac returned to her room and took a hot shower. And just in time, too… Because the power went down ten minutes later.

After donning a fresh uniform and shoving some personals into an AWOL bag, Mac put her combat gear on. Then, with the MP7 in hand, she made her way down to the empty lobby. What she needed was some transportation—and the corporal didn’t know where to get any. “Everyone left,” he said forlornly. “Some of the officers drove their own cars.”

For some reason that, more than anything Prevus had told her, served to communicate the true scope of the effort that was under way. It looked as if Sloan was risking everything he had on what Kipling would have called “one turn of pitch-and-toss.”

Would the strategy work better than the disastrous airborne attack on the Richton Oil Reserve had? Mac hoped so. And, in order to do her part, Mac needed to join Prevus. She made her way over to the window. Heavy rain lashed the parking lot beyond. And there, parked all by itself, was a navy-gray bus.

Mac turned to the corporal. “Who has the keys to the bus?”

“I do,” he admitted. “But you can’t…”

“Oh yes, I can,” Mac replied. “Give.”

Ten minutes later, Mac was behind the wheel of the bus and leaving the base. The address Prevus had given her was for a freight terminal located near the river. Rain thundered on the roof, and no matter how hard the wipers tried, they couldn’t keep up with the deluge. Each time there was a gust of wind, it felt as if the bus was going to tip over. The whale had one advantage, though… And that was lots of ground clearance.

Even so, Mac had to traverse intersections where the water was so deep she feared that it would rise high enough to kill the engine. The traffic lights weren’t working, columns of miserable-looking civilians were trudging toward higher ground, and at one point a man with a pistol banged on the door. Mac pointed the HK at him, and he backed away.

A Humvee and a squad of soldiers were guarding the gate to the terminal. And once Mac was inside the compound, she saw more soldiers, plus some civilians, all loading trucks.

Mac parked the bus and left the keys in the ignition, knowing that somebody could and would use it. Then she went looking for Prevus. When Mac found the colonel, he was standing in the door of a warehouse, shouting at a civilian on a forklift. “Jesus H. Christ! No, you can’t put all of the food on one truck… What if it’s destroyed? I’m surrounded by idiots.”

It wasn’t the lead-in that Mac would have preferred. She popped a salute. “Major Macintyre, sir. Reporting as ordered.”

Prevus was short, built like a fireplug, and too old for his rank. A reservist then? Pulled in to help with the war? Mac thought so. The supply officer had a round face and beady eyes. They looked her up and down. “You’re a cavalry officer,” he said accusingly.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Well, something is better than nothing,” Prevus allowed. “Now listen up… Because I’m too busy to tell you twice. The 32nd had to leave on only a few hours’ notice. That meant they couldn’t take much with them. Your job is to lead a convoy loaded with supplies west and find them. Follow me,” Prevus said as he gave Mac an umbrella. “Your vehicles are lined up and ready to roll.” The wind threatened to grab Mac’s umbrella, and whip it away as they walked out into the storm. She battled to keep it under control.

“It’s going to get worse,” Prevus predicted. “The eyewall will pass over New Orleans during the night. That’s one of the reasons why we need to get you out of the city as soon as we can.”

There were ten vehicles in the convoy. The first was an up-armored Humvee with a fifty mounted on top. Immediately behind that was a hulking, mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicle. They were commonly referred to as MRAPs, or Cougars. The trucks came in all sorts of configurations. This one boasted a remote-controlled fifty, firing ports along both flanks, and was sitting on six wheels rather than four.

Seven thin-skinned civilian tractor-trailer rigs were lined up behind the Coug. They were old, new, and everything in between. Most of the semis had colorful paint jobs. And why not? Mac mused. We wouldn’t want the reb pilots to miss them.

“Your drivers are civilian contractors,” Prevus informed her. “But don’t worry… A soldier will ride shotgun next to each one of them.”

“Why would I worry?” Mac wanted to know.

Prevus looked at her as if she was stupid. “Jesus H. Christ, Major… Any one of those bastards could be a rebel agent or a resistance fighter! So keep a close eye on them.”

It keeps getting better, Mac thought. “So, what about the soldiers? What outfit are they from?”

“What outfit aren’t they from?” Prevus replied. “I pulled them out of a transit barracks. You have a little bit of everything.”

The last vehicle was a Stryker M1128 MGS, complete with a 105mm tank gun. That, at least, was a source of comfort.

“Okay,” Prevus said. “Lieutenant Carey is your XO. She graduated from West Point two weeks ago—and believes all of the crap they taught her. Here are your orders, plus a map. Vaya con dios.”

Mac took the envelope. “That’s it?”

Prevus frowned. “Of course that’s it… What did you expect? A going-away party? Your call sign is Road-Runner-Three.”

A gust of wind found his umbrella as Prevus turned away and tried to turn it inside out. Mac looked up at the gray, forbidding sky. Cold raindrops hit her face. Whitney was coming.