Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 13

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

As the rain swept across the huge parking lot, and Mac made her way toward the front of the column, a small figure hurried toward her. Once the woman was closer, Mac realized that she was a second lieutenant. The officer came to a stop and delivered a crisp salute. “Second Lieutenant Lisa Carey, reporting for duty, ma’am!” Then, as an afterthought, “I’m your XO.”

Mac returned the salute. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant, and welcome to the war. Please don’t salute me unless we are in a secured area. And don’t let the troops salute you either. Snipers look for things like that.”

Carey had a small, finely boned face. And Mac saw her eyes widen as she took the advice in. “Oh,” Carey said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mac said. “There’s a lot to learn. I see you have a radio. Can you get one for me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carey said eagerly. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “Tell our soldiers to meet us in the warehouse. And instruct the civilians to gather separately. I’ll speak to them after I talk to the troops. Oh, and tell the drivers to make sure that their fuel tanks are full and that they have a full day’s worth of food and water aboard. And that’s for two people. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carey said, and took off at a jog. Ring knockers, Mac mused. They’re so cute.

It took fifteen minutes for Carey to pull the soldiers together and herd them into two ranks. That was unnecessary, but Mac couldn’t say that without undermining the officer’s fragile authority. So Mac had to wait until the process was complete before starting her impromptu speech. “Welcome to whatever this is.”

That produced some laughs, and Mac nodded. “My name is Major Macintyre. Lieutenant Carey is my XO. I know you represent a lot of different units. But for the moment, you are part of this one… And our mission is to deliver critical supplies to the 32nd Infantry Brigade, which is fighting somewhere west of here. It’s an important task, and it won’t be easy. Chances are that we’ll have to defend ourselves and the convoy.

“Those of you assigned to ride shotgun in one of the civilian trucks will have an additional responsibility as well. No one had time to vet our civilian drivers. That means one or more of them could be working for the enemy. I want you to support them, and help in any way that you can, but remain vigilant. If you notice something suspicious, report it to Lieutenant Carey or me immediately. And if you’re unsure of whether you should report, then report it. We’ll sort it out from there.

“Remember, you aren’t here to make friends. So just to stir things up, I’m going to rotate you from truck to truck on a daily basis. Do you have any questions?”

There weren’t any. None the soldiers dared ask, anyway.

“Okay,” Mac said. “We have radios. Please use your headsets so I can communicate with you privately if needed. And one more thing… As soon as you have time, write your name and MOS (military occupational specialty) on a slip of paper and hand it to Lieutenant Carey. We may have need of your expertise during the days ahead.

“Take a bio break and report to your assigned vehicle. The convoy will roll in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

As the soldiers dispersed, Mac made her way over to where the civilians were gathered. There were seven of them. Six men and a woman. Mac counted one pair of bib overalls, two cowboy hats, and three potbellies—one of which belonged to the female driver.

“Hello,” Mac said, as they turned to look at her. “I’m Major Macintyre. I look forward to getting to know you during the days ahead. A soldier has been assigned to ride with you. If we come under attack, he or she will try to protect you.”

“She-it,” a man wearing a do-rag said. “If we come under attack, I will sure as hell protect myself!” So saying, he hauled a .44 out of a shoulder holster and waved it around. “Anybody who shoots at my truck is gonna die.”

Mac decided to ignore the bravado. “And your name is?”

“Ollie Eason. My handle is ‘Road Warrior.’”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Here’s hoping you won’t have to shoot anyone with that hog leg. Now, one more thing… If you take exception to something a soldier says or does, try to work it out with them. Failing that, take the matter to Lieutenant Carey. I will get involved if necessary. Are there any questions?”

“Yeah,” the man in the bib overalls said. “What about hazardous duty pay?”

“Was that mentioned in your contract?”

“No.”

“Then there isn’t any,” Mac replied. “All right… We’re leaving in ten minutes. Be ready.” And with that, she made her way over to the enormous doorway. The sky had an ominous look, the rain was falling in sheets, and large puddles were forming on the concrete parking lot. How was the counterattack going? Mac wondered. Did Sloan have reason to be happy? She was about to find out.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

Four-Star General Bo Macintyre was AWOL as Hurricane Whitney closed in on the Gulf Coast. And he didn’t give a shit what President Stickley thought. It had been a three-hour drive from Houston to Fort Hood, a normally bustling city that looked like a ghost town. Why? Because the army was the engine that made Fort Hood go, and most of it was in the field fighting, and all too often dying.

One of the people who had given their lives for the Confederacy was Bo’s daughter, Major Victoria Macintyre. All of her possessions had been left to him, and that included the sleek, modernistic condo that was located a few miles from the base.

Did the military know that he owned it? Bo didn’t think so, although he knew they would figure it out once they got around to looking for him. But that would take a while. And Bo would be gone by then. In the meantime, the condo represented a link between Bo’s past and his future. Bo put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

It was the first time Bo had been inside the condo since Victoria’s death. And that had been what? Three months earlier? Something like that. He should have come sooner, like Kathy urged him to do, but he’d been busy.

No, that was a lie. He could have visited the condo, in order to pack things up, but that would have required him to accept Victoria’s death. Something he hadn’t been ready to do. So as Bo closed the door behind him, he expected to feel a surge of raw emotion. There wasn’t any.

What was the saying? “The passage of time heals all wounds?” Yes. And that’s why the tears weren’t flowing.

The kitchen was just the way his daughter had left it, which was to say neat as a pin. And that was very different from the fifteen-year-old who hated washing dishes, taking out the trash, and cleaning the house. That was one way in which the army had left its stamp on her.

The living room was nicely furnished but reminiscent of an upscale hotel suite. The guest room was equipped with a treadmill, free weights, and a yoga mat. The only thing that resembled a personal touch was the photo montage on the wall next to the treadmill.

All of the pictures had a common theme: Victoria crossing the finish line. Victoria running an obstacle course. And Victoria jumping out of a plane. Bo smiled. The girl was an asskicker… That was for sure.

But the master bedroom, well, that was different. It had a feminine flair… And like an echo of Victoria’s younger persona, the bed was unmade.

A single photo sat on the dresser. A photo of a much younger him. And he was in uniform. Was that important somehow? Bo figured it was. And the realization produced a twinge of regret. What if he’d been an accountant? Or a teacher? Maybe Victoria would still be alive.

As for the big walk-in closet, that was the way Bo expected it to be, which was filled with uniforms. But there was something else as well. Something most young women didn’t have. And that was a refrigerator-sized gun safe.

Most fathers would have been surprised to make such a discovery, but Bo wasn’t one of them. Victoria had been part of an elite special operations organization. Although it was classified as a counterterrorism team, and functioned as such, the supersecret cell had been called upon to carry out “special sanctions” when they were deemed necessary. Were the assassinations legal? No. Were they necessary? Yes. And that was why Victoria needed to keep an array of “clean,” untraceable weapons in her home.

Bo entered Victoria’s birthday into the combination lock and heard a click. The door swung open. And there, racked side by side, were three assault rifles and two submachine guns. Pistols were kept in separate drawers. But the real prize was a .50 caliber ammo box filled with American Eagle gold coins! Each eagle would fetch something on the order of three thousand dollars on the wartime black market. And, after twenty-seven years of service, Bo figured that he was entitled to something. Especially since he wasn’t going to get any retirement checks. Bo sat on the floor, leaned back against the safe, and began to sob.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

As Mac left the building, she saw that teams of soldiers were placing magnetic stickers on the vehicles in her convoy. The graphics consisted of a huge red ball without text. Lieutenant Carey was supervising the process. “What’s going on?” Mac inquired, as rain rattled on her slicker.

“This is a high-priority convoy,” Carey explained, “and the red balls signify that. Other vehicles are supposed to get out of the way.”

It was an echo of the famous Red Ball Express of WWII, when trucks emblazoned with the iconic red balls rushed desperately needed supplies from the beaches of Normandy up to the front. Most of the big six-by-six trucks had been driven by African-Americans, who were prime targets for German planes. Now someone up the chain of command was bringing the concept back. “Good,” Mac said. “When you’re finished, report to the Stryker. I will ride at the head of the column. If I get killed, you’ll be in command. So conduct yourself accordingly. The way the troops perceive you now is how they will perceive you then.”

Judging from the expression on Carey’s face, the possibility of being in command hadn’t occurred to her. And no wonder… Like most butter bars, she hadn’t led anything more than a play-pretend platoon. She swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then Carey started to salute, stopped, and brought her arm down. Mac grinned. “Well done. Learn everything you can about Strykers… The knowledge might come in handy sometime. Who knows? Maybe we can turn you into a cavalry officer.”

Mac made her way up along the column of trucks to the Humvee, checked to make sure the front passenger seat was available, and opened the door. The wind tried to snatch it away, but Mac held on, and pulled it closed.

A corporal was seated behind the wheel. He smiled. “Welcome aboard, Major. I’m Corporal Ito. Private Ann Green is your RTO, and Private Duncan Hemmings is our gunner.”

The other soldiers were seated in the back. Mac greeted both of them before turning to Green. The RTO had black hair, brown skin, and a serious demeanor. “Who is supposed to track our progress?”

“That would be Pushback-One-Two.”

“Call ’em,” Mac said. “Get a weather report if you can—and tell them that we are about to depart.”

As Green made the call, Mac made use of the tactical frequency to hold a roll call. All of her personnel were ready to roll. An MP waved as the Humvee passed by him. And that, Mac knew, was the only fanfare they were going to receive.

“Pushback says the storm will get steadily worse,” Green said.

Mac thanked Green and opened the map that Colonel Prevus had given her. The plan was to drive west on Highway 90. A route that, ironically enough, would take her back to the same spillway that she, Lyle, and the rest of them had used what? Two days earlier?

The thought of Lyle and the others caused a lump to form in Mac’s throat. She turned to look out of the side window. There was so much grieving left to do. When would it end? Mac pushed the thought aside—and forced her eyes onto the map.

This time, instead of speeding up the spillway in a boat, they would have to cross it. According to the colonel’s handwritten notes, the rebs had thrown a ribbon bridge across the waterway. But after crossing it, and having secured a bridgehead, the Mexicans had chosen to retreat to Franklin, the town where Ramos had been staying.

Was the retreat the result of Sloan’s surprise attack? The effects of the storm? The sudden loss of General Ramos’s leadership? Or a combination of those factors? It didn’t matter. What mattered was whether the bridge was intact. Mac hoped it was as Ito led the convoy through partially flooded streets and out of the city.

Under normal circumstances, the ninety-five-mile trip would have taken an hour and a half. But current conditions were anything but normal. The winds were getting stronger, and that forced the high-profile trucks to move slowly or run the risk of tipping over.

There were very few civilian vehicles to deal with, thank God… Most refugees were smart enough to flee north, or east, rather than enter the war zone.

But although Union forces were using three lanes of the four-lane highway to push people and equipment west, there were lots of slowdowns. Some were the result of storm-related accidents, others were caused by human error, and the rest could be attributed to the enemy. Dozens of reb mines and IEDs had been left behind to delay Union forces, and they were taking a toll.

When the column was forced to stop, so that a Cat could push a burned-out Bradley off the road, Mac took the opportunity to move the mine-resistant Cougar up into the one slot. That meant Mac and her RTO had to transfer because it was important to take the same chances the MRAP crew did and to see what lay ahead.

The Red Ball designation was helpful because it allowed the convoy to use the so-called express lane, which normally served eastbound traffic. That was good but only in relative terms. Rather than traveling at 5 mph, they were doing 10, with occasional spurts of 15.

It took four hours to reach the checkpoint located east of Calumet. That’s where a team of MPs had the unenviable task of deciding who, if anyone, would be allowed to cross the increasingly dangerous ribbon bridge.

Mac opened the passenger-side door and jumped to the ground as a lieutenant approached. The officer’s face was haggard, and he needed a shave. He had to yell in order to make himself heard over the storm. “I won’t say ‘good afternoon,’ Major… That would be absurd.”

“Agreed,” Mac replied. “We need to cross the spillway. Is the bridge intact?”

The lieutenant made a face. “Yes, ma’am. But it won’t be for long. The wind is playing hell with the floats, and the water continues to rise. Once all of the slack comes out of the cables, they’re going to jerk the anchors up off the bottom, and the bridge will swing sideways. So you might want to turn around and head back.”

Mac shook her head. “No, way. The 32nd Infantry Brigade needs the food and ammo in those trucks.”

“Roger that,” the lieutenant replied. “Follow my Hummer. I’ll lead you to the ramp. Good luck.”

The MP’s Humvee was equipped with yellow lights. So all Private Brown had to do was follow the strobing lights off Highway 90 and into a neighboring field. In order to make sure that the Mexican vehicles could get plenty of traction, Confederate engineers had laid pierced-steel planking down for them. And a good thing, too, because it would have been impossible for the big rigs to proceed without it. The war-torn landscape was turning to mud as the rain continued to sleet in from the south. Everywhere Mac looked, she saw water-filled bomb craters, trash-strewn trenches, and burned-out wrecks. And no wonder… The fields had been fought over three times: When the Confederates were forced to retreat, when the Mexicans fought their way forward, and when they, too, were driven back across the Atchafalaya Spillway.

Would Sloan manage to follow up? Or would his decision to attack in the midst of a hurricane turn out to be a disastrous mistake? Mac didn’t know. But she was determined to do her part. The moment the spillway came into sight, the MP turned his Humvee around and waved to them as he drove by.

“Pull up here,” Mac instructed. “I want to look around.”

Brown braked to a stop, and Mac got out. The wind attempted to knock her down but failed. Mac followed the slope down to a spot just above the raging flood. The spillway was doing its job, which was to transport runoff down to the Gulf of Mexico, and do so quickly.

A hard rain whipped the gray-brown flood into a froth as the water ripped past and took all sorts of flotsam with it. Mac heard a series of booming sounds as uprooted trees struck the bridge before being trapped along the side of it. The weight of that, plus the force of the current, had caused the span to bow.

Mac knew the span consisted of large floats. But how were they connected? And how much stress could those connections endure? Plus there was the possibility that the anchors would be jerked up off the bottom. An engineer would know, but Mac didn’t. One thing was for sure though… The longer she stood there, the worse things would get.

Mac made her way to the MRAP and climbed up into the cab before keying her mike. “Listen up… We’re going to cross the bridge one vehicle at a time. I want those of you who are riding shotgun to share the following with your drivers: Keep the speed down but don’t stop.

“And one more thing… We don’t have any personal flotation devices. So shed those TAC vests before you cross. If you wind up in the water, keep your feet downstream, work your way over to one side of the channel, and look for a place to eddy out. All right… Stand by. Private Brown will show us how it’s done. Over.”

Mac turned to Sergeant Buck Percy and the squad of soldiers riding in the back. “I don’t know if you and your people should cross on foot or remain in the vehicle.”

Percy took a look around. “How ’bout it?” he inquired. “Walk or ride?”

“Let’s stay in the Cougar,” Private Hernandez said. “The wind might mess my hair.”

Apparently, Hernandez was known for his hair because the rest of them laughed.

“Okay,” Mac said. “That’s a risk we can’t afford to take. Let’s do this thing.”

Brown took his foot off the brake, allowed the sixteen-ton MRAP to roll down to the bottom of the slope, and powered up onto the bridge deck. Mac felt the span heave and shudder and wondered if she was going to be sorry. The rain, combined with the spray breaking over the north side of the span, made it impossible to see more than a few yards.

So Mac opened the door, got out, and lurched forward. The wind was hitting her from the south, and it was all Mac could do to stand up straight, as she made her way out to stand facing the Cougar. Then it was a matter of using the radio and hand signals to keep Brown on course while she backed away. Foot by foot, yard by yard, the MRAP crept across the bucking bridge until it was fifty feet from the western shore.

That was when Mac stepped out of the way, and ordered Brown to “Hit it.” He did. The engine roared as the Cougar’s all-wheel drive powered the boxy vehicle up the slope and onto the metal planking beyond.

The Humvee went next, followed by the first semi, with a driver named Austin at the wheel. There was a bad moment when a sudden gust of wind hit Austin’s rig and lifted all of the tires on the left side up off the deck. But disaster was averted when the wind shifted, and the Peterbilt landed.

Then a different sort of problem arose. Carey was on the east side of the spillway managing things there. And Mac could hear the stress in her voice as she spoke. “We have a problem, Major… Mr. Bowers is refusing to cross. He says it’s too dangerous.”

Mac was standing midspan at that point—waiting for truck four to complete the crossing. She swore under her breath. “I believe that one of our soldiers is a qualified motor transport operator.”

“Yes,” Carey replied. “That would be Private Rigg.”

“Is he with you? Or on the west side?”

“He’s over here,” Carey answered.

“Perfect. Tell him to drive Mr. Bowers’s vehicle. And tell Mr. Bowers to walk home. Someone will notify him to come get his truck eventually. Oh, and don’t sign anything.”

All of the soldiers had been privy to the interchange, and Mac figured that most of them would share it with their respective drivers. Maybe that would prevent further defections. She hoped so. Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. “Look upstream! It’s going to hit the bridge!”

Mac turned to the left. “It” was a full-sized houseboat! Complete with a satellite dish mounted on the roof. And all Mac could do was watch as the barge-like vessel crashed into the bridge and sent an earthquake-like tremor in both directions.

Mac lost her footing and fell. Her arms were wrapped around a bollard when the current sucked the front end of the houseboat under the span. That caused the stern to rise into the air! Then it toppled over onto the semi owned by a man named Raskin.

The soldier assigned to Raskin’s truck was out on the bridge, giving directions at that point. And he remained untouched as the force of the blow knocked the Kenworth and its trailer off the bridge and into the churning water.

There was nothing to be done, as Raskin and tons of desperately needed supplies were swept downstream. Meanwhile, what remained of the shattered houseboat was sucked under the span to surface farther down the spillway.

The truck and its driver were a terrible loss. But what about the bridge? It was intact. But for how long? Mac staggered forward to the point where the private still stood. “Check the downstream side for damage!” Mac yelled. “I’ll take the upstream side.”

Mac expected to find damage and did. A huge dent was visible where the houseboat’s bow had hit. But the float remained airtight as far as Mac could tell. And, when the soldier gave her a thumbs-up, Mac made the call. “Send the next truck. We have three vehicles left to go.”

Finally, with six of the original seven semis safely across, it was time to bring the Stryker over. Mac held her breath as Truck Commander Larry Washington guided the BUFFALO BOB over the bridge. The span was shaking as if palsied at that point, and Mac feared that it would disintegrate at any moment. So she felt a tremendous sense of relief when the vic rolled up the slope to join the rest of the trucks.

Then something unexpected happened. “Look!” a soldier exclaimed, as she pointed to the east. And there, rolling down the slope and onto the bridge, was an M984A4 Wrecker! Mac turned to Green. “Contact the driver… Tell him we think the bridge is about to go.”

But before Green could respond, another soldier said, “Oh, shit! There it goes!”

And he was correct. The group watched as the bridge snapped in the middle. The force of the current pushed both halves over to their respective banks, where it caused them to wiggle from side to side.

Mac watched as two tiny figures fled the wrecker, made their way to the shore side of the bridge, and took the jump. Mac felt a sense of relief as they landed safely. “What now?” Carey inquired.

“We have supplies to deliver,” Mac said. “Let’s saddle up.”

The east half of the bridge broke free and was carried away.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

Gusts of wind as high as 135 mph had been recorded over the previous six hours. Now, as the eye of the storm crossed the coast west of New Orleans, conditions had begun to moderate. Sloan had opened the underground command center to the public early that morning. Except for Doyle Besom, the rest of Sloan’s aides were against that, citing security concerns.

But Besom saw everything in terms of good or bad publicity. And he knew that video of the president welcoming refugees into his sanctuary would play well both north and south of the New Mason Dixon Line. Plus, the old mine was huge. So it wasn’t all that difficult to isolate the area being used for command purposes.

Sloan took his role as host seriously and had spent two hours passing out blankets and trying to comfort people. When he arrived in the Situation Room South, it was to find that a new executive summary was sitting on the table waiting for him. And there was some good news for a change. “The storm has lost some of its strength,” FEMA Administrator Freely said. “We think the worst is over.”

“That’s what I want to hear.” Sloan said as he turned to General Jones. “How is Operation Pushback going?”

“Pretty well, all things considered,” Jones answered. “The army has been able to force the Mexicans west to the town of New Iberia. The enemy is holding for the moment. But a brigade of Marines will land to the south of them the moment weather conditions allow. And once the jarheads arrive, we’ll be able to push them back.”

“There is one problem, however,” McKinney added. “And that’s supplies. In order to move quickly, our people took off with only five days’ worth of food, ammo, and fuel. Normally, we could fly supplies in. But Whitney has kept our aircraft on the ground.”

Sloan frowned. “So we can’t use the roads?”

“The rebs dropped the Highway 90 bridge at Calumet when they retreated the first time,” Jones explained. “Then, when the tide turned, they threw a ribbon bridge across the Atchafalaya Spillway for the Mexicans to use.

“But, based on the most recent report from a convoy with the call sign Road-Runner-Three, Whitney took the ribbon bridge out. That leaves I-10 to the north—and we’re advancing on Lafayette.”

Sloan nodded. “Good. Is there anything else?”

“I have two things to report,” Director of National Intelligence Kip said. “The first is a special operations coup! A team led by Major Robin Macintyre snatched Mexican Major General Matias Ramos out of his bed in Franklin and brought him out. Ten soldiers and sailors went in. Four of them survived.”

Sloan felt his heart sink. His staff knew about the rumors—so he couldn’t ask about Mac. McKinney came to Sloan’s rescue. And he did so in a very skillful manner. “We lost some good people. By way of a side note, it’s worth mentioning that Major Macintyre is in charge of Road-Runner-Three, and her convoy crossed the bridge just before half of it went downstream.”

Sloan managed to conceal the surge of relief that he felt. Mac was alive! He cleared his throat. “Please give me some background on each person who died. I will write letters to their families.”

McKinney nodded. “Yes, sir. That will mean a lot.”

Sloan turned to Kip. “So where did you stash the general? And how is the interrogation going?”

“He’s at Fort Knox,” Kip replied. “And he wants to cut a deal. Negotiations are under way. But, regardless of how that turns out, we know that the abduction was a blow to Mexican morale. In fact, it looks as if the snatch, plus the impact of the storm, were largely responsible for the pullback.”

“Sweet,” Sloan said. “That makes sense. If you’re a foot soldier, and the enemy can snatch a general, what does that say about your chances? What’s the second item you have for me?”

“It’s related to the first,” Kip replied. “President Stickley relieved Confederate General Bo Macintyre of his duties and named an admiral to replace him. The announcement was made immediately after the Ramos abduction, so the two events could be related. Macintyre was at the front. So, when the pullback began, it’s possible that he made a convenient scapegoat.

“But,” Kip continued, “regardless of the reason, imagine the fallout! A replacement was named, the command structure was severely disrupted, and all of Macintyre’s standing orders had to be reviewed. All while running a war.

“The whole episode is extraordinary,” Kip added. “So much so that our analysts wonder if there was another reason for Macintyre’s dismissal. Did he have one hand in the till? Was he having sex with an underage girl? Time will tell.”

“That’s amazing,” Sloan said. And it was amazing. Especially given the roles that Mac and her father had played in the campaign. But there were more important things to focus on.

“Supplies,” Sloan said. “Let’s talk about supplies. Can the navy help us? How strong are the rebel defenses at Port Arthur? Could we capture it? And bring supplies in by sea?” The discussion began.

NEAR CENTERVILLE, LOUISIANA

The rain was falling, and the MRAP shuddered each time a gust of wind hit it. But as the eye of the storm passed over, conditions had improved.

It was getting late by the time the convoy cleared the spillway and made its way onto Highway 90. Thanks to the combined effects of the storm and the war, they had the much-abused road to themselves. The convoy couldn’t travel at night, however. Both the civilians and Mac’s soldiers were bone tired.

So as Mac spread the map out in front of her, she was looking for a place to laager up. And the logical choice was the town of Centerville, which lay near the intersection of Highways 317 and 90. “Take the next right,” she ordered. Then Mac turned to Green. “Warn the other drivers.”

Brown made the turn, and it wasn’t long before a school appeared on the left. “Turn into the parking lot,” Mac ordered.

Brown did as he was told, and the rest of the vehicles followed. The parking lot was large enough to accommodate two convoys. As soon as all of the trucks were in off the highway, Mac put Road-Runner-Three on standby while she got out to look around.

Normally, with a company of Strykers, Mac would have put some space in between them. A measure calculated to reduce the amount of damage that an exploding truck could cause to neighboring vehicles. But with no enemy aircraft to worry about, and only twenty soldiers available to guard the perimeter, Mac decided to keep the convoy’s footprint as small as possible. So she ordered the drivers to park their vehicles side by side in two columns of three.

Because the school buildings were located on the north side of the lot, Mac used the Cougar to protect the convoy’s east flank and placed the Stryker to the west. That left the Humvee to guard the driveway. Then it was time to set the watch schedules, listen to the drivers bitch about it, and let the Operation Pushback staff know where the convoy was.

The night passed uneventfully—for which Mac was grateful. As for the weather, that was a little worse but still better than it had been twenty-four hours earlier.

The convoy was ready to pull out when Lieutenant Carey’s voice was heard on the TAC frequency. “Hold on… All vehicles will remain where they are. Major? Please join me at the Humvee.”

Mac was struck by the junior officer’s tone. Carey sounded much more confident than she had back in New Orleans, and that was a good thing. “What’s up?” Mac inquired as she arrived at the Humvee.

“Follow me,” Carey said, and led Mac out to the point where the driveway met the road. Some traffic cones were located there… And, judging from the presence of a backhoe, a drainage project was under way. But what immediately caught Mac’s attention were the footprints in the mud—and the flat spot located at the center of them. A flat spot with gravel sprinkled on top. That suggested the presence of a mine! Or an IED. Mac produced a low whistle. “Wow. Nice work, Lieutenant.”

“The credit goes to Corporal Ito,” Carey replied. “He brought it to my attention.”

Mac was impressed. Ito wasn’t present, and it would have been easy for Carey to take credit for the discovery. “I’ll thank him,” Mac said. “But you took his input seriously. Keep it up, Lieutenant. I’m impressed.” Carey beamed.

Mac took a look around. She didn’t want to deal with the explosives; nor did she need to. There was plenty of room to drive around the spot. We’ll swing wide, Mac concluded. In case the actual charges are to the right or left of the suspicious area.

Problem solved. But the episode raised a question: Had local resistance fighters spotted the convoy? And planted the explosives? Or had they been invited to do so? Mac remembered what Colonel Prevus had told her regarding the civilian drivers. “Any one of those bastards could be a rebel agent or a resistance fighter! So keep a close eye on them.”

“Make a warning sign,” Mac ordered. “And place it in front of the mine.”

The convoy departed fifteen minutes later by driving across a section of lawn onto the road that led to Highway 90. Franklin was only a fifteen-minute drive to the west. Mac wasn’t surprised to see that a major battle had taken place on and around the highway. Shell craters and wrecks forced the MRAP to snake in and out. Had mines been planted there, too? If so, the Cougar would set them off and clear a path for the big rigs. Or so Mac hoped.

As Brown guided the Cougar through the maze, Mac saw lots of burned-out vehicles, most of which were Mexican. And that made sense. Because without air assets to protect them, the Mexican tanks and armored cars had been severely outgunned.

It hadn’t been a completely one-sided affair, however, since one Abrams continued to burn as they passed by it, and the enemy had been able to take out some Bradleys and Strykers as well. So where were the combatants? There was nobody to be seen as the convoy passed Franklin. Perhaps the Mexicans had been forced to fall back during the night.

Mac liked that from a strategic point of view. But her job was to link up with the 32nd. And to do so before the outfit ran out of supplies. That was going to be difficult so long as the unit continued to push west.

Half an hour later, the convoy arrived at the cutoff for Jeanerette and the checkpoint that had been established there. It consisted of a Bradley and a squad of infantry. A sergeant was in charge. He claimed that the new front was located approximately twenty-five miles ahead, just short of New Iberia. “That’s where the tacos are making their stand,” the noncom said with a grin and waited for Mac to laugh. She didn’t. There was nothing funny about what the Mexicans had been able to accomplish.

A trail of carnage led to New Iberia. The highway was littered with shot-up vehicles, the countryside was pockmarked with shell craters, and it was deeply scarred wherever the main battle tanks had been.

The convoy was about ten miles from New Iberia when it came upon an increasing amount of traffic and the rear-echelon support units that were camped along both sides of the highway. Mac saw a variety of spray-painted signs, including one that pointed north to Chicago.

It wasn’t long before the convoy had to stop so that a couple of heavily laden tank carriers could enter the highway. Mac took advantage of the opportunity to jump down and chat with an MP. The rain had stopped, the distant thump of artillery could be heard, and rotors clattered as a Black Hawk helicopter passed overhead. “I’m looking for the 32nd Infantry Brigade,” Mac said. “Do you know where it is?”

“I don’t,” the MP replied. “But the folks at HQ would. Take the Damall Road exit and turn right. You’ll see the HQ compound right away.”

Mac thanked the soldier, climbed up into the MRAP, and passed the directions to Brown. And sure enough, the collection of vehicles, tents, and antiaircraft-missile launchers was right where the MP said it would be.

Rather than take the convoy into the already crowded encampment, Mac ordered her drivers to park along the edge of Damall Road. Then, with Green at her side, Mac made her way back to the compound. Both women were required to show ID before being allowed to enter the area.

A captain stood in front of a large tent performing organizational triage. As Mac joined the queue she noticed that very few people were getting through. It took fifteen minutes to reach the head of the line. “TGIF,” the captain said cheerfully. “And what, pray tell, can I do for you?”

The captain took notes as Mac explained her situation. “Got it,” he said, once she was finished. “I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news is that you came to the right place. The bad news is that the general and his staff are busy fighting the Mexicans. That means it might be tomorrow before we get this sorted out.

“But we need all the supplies we can get, so if you’d like to sign everything over to the Division’s supply officer, I can make that happen. And why not? The 32nd is part of the division.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Mac replied. “I don’t think my CO would appreciate that.”

The captain smiled. “You may be correct. Feel free to pick a spot down the road and laager up. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Otherwise, please check with me in the morning.”

It was an anticlimactic ending to a difficult trip, and Mac was disappointed. But there was nothing she could do other than thank the officer, return to the convoy, and give the necessary orders.

After days of torrential rain, the surrounding fields were far too soft for the semis to negotiate. As a result, Mac had to settle for a side road bordered by rows of badly shot-up manufactured houses. There was no parking lot. So Mac ordered the vehicles to park in a line, with lots of space between them. Then, after blocking both ends of the street, Mac felt reasonably secure. The problem was that she didn’t have enough troops to clear the houses and push a perimeter out beyond them.

That was one of the issues Mac discussed with her soldiers when she pulled them together. The other was the mine that had been planted the night before. “How about it?” Mac inquired. “Do any of you have a reason to believe that one of our drivers was involved?”

None of them did. So all Mac could do was to urge caution, set up shifts, and stress the need to perform routine maintenance on the military vehicles. The rumble of cannon fire could be heard in the distance—and an A-10 passed over at around 1500. But everything was peaceful other than that.

As afternoon gave way to night, Mac and Carey flipped a Confederate coin to see which one of them would take the first watch. Mac won, and that meant she got to sleep first. And rather than crash in a semi, Mac chose to stretch out in the back of the Stryker. And that’s where she was when the attack began. A rocket hit one of the big rigs, machine-gun fire raked another, and a flare went off high above. Road-Runner-Three was under attack.