Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 14

“Crank her up!” Mac yelled as she rolled off the seat and came to her feet. Corporal Larry Washington started the engine, while gunner Trish Vesey hurried to claim her seat and bring the truck’s weapons systems online.

Mac pulled the TAC vest over her head, put her brain bucket on, and stuck her head up through the forward air-guard hatch. A tractor-trailer rig was on fire, and the flames lit the area. Shadows flickered as soldiers fought the blaze with fire extinguishers. One of the firefighters staggered and fell as a Confederate resistance fighter shot him from a house on the north side of the street. “Use the fifties!” Mac ordered. “Suppress their fire.”

The volume of incoming fire lessened as the big machine guns began to chug. Mac opened the intercom. “Take us around the west end of the housing complex,” she ordered. “We’ll attack those bastards from behind.”

Then, on the tactical frequency, “Heads up in the MRAP… We’re going to cross in front of you.”

The Stryker produced a sound reminiscent of a city bus pulling away from a stop as it came up to speed. It took less than a minute to reach the end of the street and take a hard right. The vic crashed through a fence, sideswiped a storage shed, and demolished a playset before rolling into the field beyond. And that was when the insurgents were forced to back out of the shot-up houses and run. But Vesey could see them thanks to her thermal-imaging gear, and she fired a round.

The Stryker lurched, and Mac wished that she was wearing ear protection, as the 105mm cannon went off. Where the shell struck, Mac saw three bodies cartwheel through the air before landing hard. Vesey fired again—and with similar results.

“Give the fifties a rest,” Carey ordered, “and clear those houses. But be careful… Dead bodies could be booby-trapped.”

Good girl, Mac thought, before ducking below. Both crew members turned to look at her. “Watch the field,” she told them. “A follow-up seems unlikely, but you never know. Holler if you need me.”

Washington lowered the ramp as Mac paused to grab her HK submachine gun. “Don’t shoot me,” Mac said over the tactical frequency. “I’m about to appear at the west end of the street.”

She kept the HK ready as she passed between a couple of houses and made her way down a driveway. The truck fire had been extinguished, and a good thing, too, since all of the tractor-trailer rigs were carrying some of the ammunition. Sergeant Percy was speaking. “House two is clear, one body. Over.”

And so it went as Mac headed east. “Major?” Carey said. “I’m near the Humvee. There’s something I want you to see.”

A cluster of headlamps marked the spot where Carey was standing. A small crowd was gathered by the body of a driver named Jessie Jameson when Mac arrived. “The bastard had a radio,” the driver named Eason said bitterly as he toed the device with a boot. “He called them in.”

Mac looked at Carey. “How ’bout that, Lieutenant? Is Mr. Eason correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carey replied. “I saw Jameson shoot Private Potter in the back. His body is over there.” Carey pointed.

“God damn him,” Mac said bitterly. “What happened then?”

“I shot him,” Carey said. Her voice was strained, and her face was pale.

“Well done,” Mac said. “How much you wanna bet that Jameson called the rebs in last night, too. Check on Sergeant Percy’s progress, Lieutenant. I’ll handle things here.”

Percy didn’t need checking on. But Mac figured Carey could use a couple of minutes in which to regroup emotionally. As she left, two Humvees arrived. The lead vehicle screeched to a halt and a sergeant jumped out. His maroon beret was worn at a rakish angle, and he was cradling an LMG. “Sergeant Colby, ma’am… We’re part of the division’s quick-response platoon. What’s the situation?”

Mac gave Colby a briefing and assured him that everything was under control. “The 32nd?” he said. “I know where it is. Or where it was as of yesterday.”

Mac pulled the map out of a cargo pocket. “Can you show me?”

He could and did. The 32nd was west of the convoy’s present position and south of Highway 90. “Take a left on Week’s Island Road,” Colby told her. “But you’d better coordinate your movements through HQ, or you could come under fire.”

Mac thanked Colby and cut him loose. Then she said, “Where’s Green?” only to discover that the RTO was standing right next to her. “See if you can find an MA (Mortuary Affairs) team.”

“I did,” Green replied. “They’ll be here as soon as they can. But it’ll be a while.”

“You’re amazing,” Mac said. “So tell me… What do I want now?”

“A mug of Starbucks. But you can’t have it.”

Mac laughed. “No, I can’t. Come on. We have a damage assessment to do.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

Sloan had spent four hours touring the city of New Orleans with the mayor, who, like most of his subordinates, had been installed by the New Confederacy. But rather than throw him out, Sloan was mindful of President Lyndon B. Johnson’s comment regarding FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover: “It’s probably better to have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.” And as far as Sloan could tell, the strategy was working. The mayor was happy to take credit for the supplies pouring in from the North and had moderated his public stance accordingly.

Now, as Sloan got off the freight elevator, a group of citizens was waiting to get on. The storm was over, and they were eager to assess the damage to their homes. At least some members of the group recognized Sloan, and one woman shouted, “We love you, Mr. President! Thank you!” Sloan paused to shake hands and wish the refugees well.

“You were right,” Secretary of Defense Garrison said, once the group was on the elevator. “Inviting people to stay down here was good PR.”

“It was also the right thing to do,” Sloan added. He knew the comment made him sound like a self-righteous jerk, but he didn’t want to run a government that was based on appearances. And if that meant coming across as a sanctimonious jerk, then that was a price he’d have to pay. “So what gives?” Sloan inquired. “I got your message and came back early. This isn’t bad news I hope.”

“No,” Garrison assured him. “It isn’t bad news. Come on… I want you to see this firsthand.”

Sloan followed Garrison into the Situation Room. At least a dozen people were assembled there, and most were smiling. “We have something for you, Mr. President,” Intelligence Director Kip told him.

Sloan’s eyebrows rose. “Which is?”

“General Ramos cut a deal… And we got a lot more than we expected to.”

“All right,” Sloan replied as he sat down. “Lay it on me.”

The lights dimmed, and video appeared on the main screen. It began with a picture of Ramos. His name and rank were visible below the photo. The time, date, and location of the interview could be seen as well.

Then Ramos appeared. His hair was nicely cut, his clothes were clean, and a bottle of water sat inches from his right hand. “Please state your name and rank,” a disembodied voice said.

“I am Major General Matias Ramos, Mexican Army,” Ramos said.

“Now,” the voice said. “Please tell us how the alliance between Mexico and the New Confederacy came into existence.”

Ramos shrugged. “I wasn’t present during the initial negotiations. But, according to what President Salazar told me, a deal was done.”

“What kind of a deal?” the voice wanted to know.

“The essence of the agreement was that the New Confederacy would provide Mexico with two tons of gold, plus the states of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona in return for our assistance in winning the war. And that’s what I call one helluva good deal.”

Kip pointed a remote at the screen and the video froze. “So?” she demanded. “What do you think?”

Sloan was stunned. Suddenly, the whole thing made sense. They’d been aware of the gold. One ton of it anyway… Which never seemed like enough money to buy four divisions of troops. Especially troops that had no aircraft to speak of and were underequipped.

But a huge chunk of land? Land that once belonged to Mexico? Yes. That kind of payment would make political sense. Salazar would be elected president for life. “It’s amazing,” Sloan said. “And a measure of just how desperate the Confederacy is.”

“That’s true,” Besom agreed. “Which is why we should make the video public.”

“I don’t know,” Sloan temporized. “Will people believe it?”

“Some won’t,” Besom admitted. “But lots of people will because it makes sense. Some of the rebs will accept the deal as a necessary evil, but others will be appalled, and the blowback could cost Stickley her job. A sudden change in leadership would be helpful right now. The timing is perfect.”

“Skeptics will claim that we made the whole thing up and forced Ramos to say it,” Sloan countered.

“Sure,” Kip agreed. “But what if we give Ramos some money and the freedom to move freely? He’s a playboy… And his activities will generate a lot of press coverage. That could go a long way toward countering the torture theory.”

“True,” Sloan conceded. “But the Mexicans would send assassins to kill him.”

“So?” Kip inquired. “Why do I care?”

There was a pause while Sloan gave the matter some thought. “Okay,” he said finally. “Release the video and Ramos. But keep him alive.”

Kip made a face. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Sloan said. “Because we’re different from the people we’re fighting.”

NEAR NEW IBERIA, LOUISIANA

The Mexicans were holding their positions in New Iberia, as were the Confederate troops, who had been rushed in to help block the Union advance. The result was something akin to a living hell. Dark clouds hung low. Flashes strobed them from below—and man-made thunder rolled across the land.

In trenches reminiscent of WWI, men and women from both sides sallied forth in often futile attempts to claim a few additional yards of mud, their progress marked by the waves of bodies left behind. Engines roared as tanks rolled in to support the infantry.

But the mechanical monsters were met with a hail of AT4 rockets, or targeted by the 155mm howitzers located twenty miles behind enemy lines, and reduced to piles of burning scrap. Soon thereafter, Predator drones would prey on the 155s, or ground-to-ground missiles would seek the batteries out, leaving another crater to mark where they had been. That’s when more weapons would be brought forward, and the cycle would begin again.

That was the horror to which Mac and the convoy called Road-Runner-Three had to go in order to deliver the supplies they’d fought so hard to bring from New Orleans. The location Mac had been given was in the nonexistent town of Duboin. “Nonexistent” because she couldn’t see any sign that a town had ever existed there as the MRAP passed the wasteland of overlapping shell craters, muddy trenches, and sandbagged bunkers that Union soldiers called “Camp Fuckme.”

And Mac could tell that at least some of the complex was within range of the enemy’s artillery because 155mm rounds were falling a quarter mile to the north. Each shell produced an audible thump followed by a geyser of mud. Was the attack producing a meaningful impact? It was impossible to tell. But there was reason to worry because once the enemy drones spotted the convoy, the rebel field artillery would almost certainly shift its fire to them.

But the way was clear, and the ground equivalent of a JTAC was riding Green hard. “Hurry up, Road-Runner-Three… Let’s get those rigs down and out of sight. Over.”

MPs waved them toward a well-graveled ramp that led down into a hastily excavated subsurface supply depot. All sorts of directional signs could be seen, some of which were in Spanish.

The MRAP came to a stop, and as Mac jumped down onto the ground, a lieutenant colonel came forward to meet her. He had blue eyes, thinning hair, and the manner of the college professor that he normally was. “Hello, I’m Colonel Breeson. I believe you already know my number two, Captain Wu.”

“I do,” Mac said as she gave Wu a hug. “She’s the best supply officer I ever had.”

“I concur,” Breeson said. “She is quite competent. Especially where midnight requisitions are concerned. What happened to your convoy? It looks like someone used it for target practice.”

“Partisans attacked us last night,” Mac replied. “Truck three caught fire, but we put it out. Most of the cargo is undamaged.”

“Did you bring us some ammo?” Breeson asked hopefully.

“Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “About a third of each load consists of ammo.”

“Thank God,” Breeson said. “We’re running low. Captain Wu… you know what to do.”

Wu left to get the unloading process under way, and Mac took the opportunity to ask a question. “What about my battalion, Colonel? Does Mac’s Marauders still exist?”

“It does,” Breeson assured her. “Although I haven’t been able to find any Strykers for you. I suggest that you report to Colonel Tompkins. He’s the XO.” Breeson turned. “Sergeant Omar! Take the major over to HQ.”

Breeson turned back. “You’d never find it without a guide,” he explained. “This place is like a maze.”

Mac thanked Breeson and keyed her mike. “All military personnel will report to me. And bring your gear. You won’t be back. Over.”

Rather than ask Breeson what to do with the soldiers under her command and run the risk that he’d take control of them, Mac had decided to assume they were hers. Would the strategy work? Time would tell.

Omar led them up a ramp to the surface, through a muddy trench, and past a busy mortar pit. Mac was struck by the amount of litter on the ground. There were ration boxes, some in Spanish, and bloody bandages, and items of clothing lay everywhere.

Eventually, they entered a bunker that led to another bunker, and that’s where Omar left them. Mac turned to Carey. “Wait here. If anyone asks, tell them that you report to me.”

Carey’s eyes widened. “So you aren’t sending us back to New Orleans?”

Mac chuckled. “Fat chance. No, someone will grab the detachment, and it might as well be me.”

“I’d like that,” Carey said. “‘The best of the worst.’ That’s what they say.”

Mac smiled. “That’s because it’s true. Keep everyone together. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The bunker beyond the outer bunker was guarded by two Rangers and a dour-looking master sergeant. “Good morning, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Mac replied. “I just arrived. I’m Major Macintyre. Is the XO available?”

The noncom had bushy eyebrows. Both of them rose. “The Major Macintyre? Sergeant Major Price was a friend of mine. He told me that you are the best fucking officer in the army. No offense, ma’am… That’s how he put it.”

Price had been killed in action, and Mac missed him. She felt a lump form in her throat. “No apology is necessary, Master Sergeant. That’s how he would say it all right. He was an outstanding soldier.”

“Hold on for a second,” the noncom said. “I’ll see if the colonel can fit you in.”

He was back a minute later and offered a big paw. “Master Sergeant Oliver, ma’am. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Done,” Mac said, as they shook. “Thank you.”

The command bunker was equipped with lawn furniture that looked as if it had been “liberated” from a Home Depot store. A skeletal rack supported six flat screens, each of which featured a different scene. And there, standing on two shipping pallets, was Colonel Tompkins. For reasons known only to him, Tompkins was wearing an army blue uniform rather than camos.

When Tompkins spoke, it was into a headset as his eyes scanned the screens in front of him. “Pay attention, Roach-Four… Kill that battery, and kill it now. Baker-One-Eight… watch your left flank. They’re trying to do an end run on you. Nice move, Alpha-Six. They won’t forget that.”

Then, after a quick glance at Mac, his eyes returned to the screens. “Welcome to the 32nd, Major… A brigade of jarheads is going to travel up the ship channel and land here in about six hours. Our job, your job, is to clear a spot for them to land and hold it. Then we’re going to push the enemy back and win this fucking war. Do you have any questions?”

Mac had to admire the precision with which Tompkins delivered the briefing. “No, sir. No questions, sir.”

“Good,” Tompkins said, as his eyes continued to scan the screens. “Then why are you still here?”

NEAR PECAN WELLS, TEXAS

After parking his rental car in a grove of trees two miles away, and hiking cross-country on foot, ex-general Bo Macintyre had climbed to the top of the promontory that locals called “Goat Rock.” Bo had chosen the spot because he’d been hunting in the area and was familiar with it. The vantage point also allowed Bo to look out over the surrounding countryside and see everything that moved. He could see a hawk riding a thermal, a yellow school bus driving up the highway, and a pickup truck headed in the opposite direction. All of which was wonderfully normal.

Bo settled into the shadow thrown by a pinnacle of rock, put the rifle aside, and shrugged his way out of the day pack. Then he looked at his watch. It was 0732. Assuming they followed his instructions, Bo’s guests would arrive at 0800.

He glassed the cabin below. It belonged to a friend. A general who, if he was lucky, would survive the war. In the meantime, Bo was going to use the structure for a few hours before putting the key back above the door. There was nothing to see around the structure except the hop, hop, hop of a rabbit.

Was the government searching for him? Maybe, but maybe not, since Stickley was up to her ass in trouble. Ramos had spilled his guts, just like Bo figured he would, and the Union was riding the bastard like a horse. They had released a video of Ramos shooting his mouth off about the true nature of the Mexican-Confederate alliance, and it was getting lots of play.

Bo was staying at a motel in nearby Gatesville. And he’d seen hours of the blah-blah. Was Ramos lying? Had he been tortured? Did that kind of deal make sense? How could the Confederate government countenance such a thing? On and on it went as people who didn’t know jack shit pretended that they did.

The real truth was that the “territorial concession,” as some commentators called it, had been part of a larger strategy. A daring plan to double-cross the Mexicans, and take their miserable country over, along with all of the land down to the Panama Canal.

And had it not been for a strange confluence of events, it would have worked. But no one, Bo included—had been able to anticipate the abduction, the storm, and Sloan’s decision to attack.

I should have thought of it, Bo thought. I underestimated Sloan. And he made me pay. The failure weighed heavily on Bo’s mind. Focus on the future, he told himself. Do what you can do.

Bo opened the pack, removed a thermos, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Paper rattled as he stuck a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered doughnuts and selected one. “You’ll get fat.” That’s what Kathy would have said. Her absence was a hole that couldn’t be filled.

The doughnut tasted good. A gulp of coffee washed it down. Bo was about to take a second bite when he noticed a flicker of movement south of the cabin. A deer perhaps? He brought the glasses up. No, it wasn’t a deer. A man or a woman, he couldn’t tell which, was kneeling in some scrub glassing the cabin!

Had the government located him? No. They would have arrived in force, thrown a cordon around the area, and locked it down. This person was one of his guests. And a cautious one at that.

Bo finished his doughnut as the person circled the cabin, climbed the stairs that led to the porch, and read the note on the door. Then, after looking around, he or she went inside.

The second guest arrived in a pickup truck with a government logo and a light bar on top. Was it stolen? Probably. And Bo approved. He wanted to hire people who were imaginative and willing to take risks. Like pretending to be a game warden.

The first guest came out to greet the newcomer. They shook hands and went inside. Bo gave an involuntary jerk as something cold nudged the back of his neck. “Good morning, General… Chocolate-covered doughnuts! May I?” The pressure disappeared.

Bo managed to maintain his composure, but just barely. Somehow, the operative had been able to spot him, climb the back slope without making a sound, and get close. Very close. Was he getting old? Or was the op that good? Bo had to admit that both things were true. “Of course,” Bo said as he turned. “Help yourself.”

Bo had never met Corporal Jimmy Gatlin before, but Victoria had been high on him and liked to tell stories about the operative’s exploits. Gatlin was thirtysomething, and not much to look at. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a perpetual grin. As if life were a joke, and he was in on it. “Don’t mind if I do,” Gatlin said as he sat on a rock. Paper rattled as he took a doughnut. “I like the view… Is everyone here? My guess is ‘yes.’”

“What makes you think there are others?”

Gatlin’s eyes narrowed. “Your daughter is dead, your wife is dead, and the Confederacy is dead. Or it will be soon. And you are a survivor. A man with a plan. But you need help. So who you gonna call? The people that Victoria trusted. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Bo allowed. “You’re right. I have a plan, and I need help.”

Gatlin sipped coffee straight from the thermos, wiped a dribble off his chin, and grinned. “I don’t want to die with a bunch of Mexicans. There’s a place in Brazil. A town called Santa Bárbara d’Oeste. After the first Confederacy fell, hundreds of Southerners went there rather than live as Union slaves. And their descendants still control the area. That’s where I plan to go. But I’d like to live in comfort if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Bo assured him. “Come on… Let’s go down and talk to the others. Maybe they’d like to live in Brazil, too.”

NEW IBERIA, LOUISIANA

The industrial complex located south of New Iberia was home to drilling companies, a shipyard, and a host of related businesses, many of which bordered the shipping channel. It was the same channel the Marines were going to use.

The Marauders were situated in the shipyard across the waterway from a Mexican Army unit. And in order to join them, Mac and her soldiers had to jog west along Earl B. Wilson Road. It was defended by a mobile C-RAM unit that included both a tracking system and a 20mm Gatling gun.

The weapon swiveled, appeared to sniff the air, and fired. There was an ominous buzzing sound as the cannon threw a curtain of shells into the air. Flashes signaled a series of hits as incoming mortar rounds were destroyed. That was comforting, but what lay beyond the C-RAM wasn’t.

Side channels led away from the waterway to serve specific businesses. And once the soldiers reached the end of the road, they were confronted with a badly damaged ribbon bridge. The span had taken a lot of hits during the fighting and was listing to the right. But it led to the peninsula where the Marauders were dug in. That meant Mac and her soldiers had to cross it or swim.

As Mac led her troops across the high side of the bridge, she was conscious of the fact that the enemy drones could be, and probably were, watching from above. And the truth of that assumption became evident as artillery shells began to arc overhead. The C-RAM was able to intercept most of them, but one round got through. It landed twenty yards south of the span and sent a column of muddy water soaring high into the air.

Mac felt a sense of relief as she left the bridge for solid ground. The feeling was short-lived, however, because she could hear the battle raging nearby. The chug, chug, chug of a .50 caliber machine gun could be heard in the distance and served as a counterpoint to the sharp crack of exploding rockets and the persistent bang, bang, bang of rifle fire.

“Hello, Major,” a voice said, as a ragged-looking soldier rose from the protection of a shell crater. “Welcome back.”

Mac stared. “It’s me,” the soldier said. “Private Temo. The captain sent me over to bring you in.”

Mac didn’t remember Temo but pretended that she did. “It’s good to see you, Private… Even if you look like hell.”

Temo laughed. The sound had a slightly hysterical quality. “We all do, ma’am… Please follow me.”

Temo led the column along a pathway, through a badly holed warehouse, and into the shipyard. A large ship had been removed from the channel and was perched at the top of a ramp-like spillway. Its superstructure was riddled with holes.

A brisk firefight was under way as the Marauders fired across the waterway, and the enemy responded in kind. “This is it,” Temo said, as they arrived at an open hatch. “Our HQ is located in the space down below.”

Temo disappeared down an aluminum ladder, and Mac followed. Lights dangled here and there, shadows played across the walls, and screams could be heard. “Sorry about that,” Temo said apologetically, as if Mac might find the sound to be offensive. “The aid station is over there… It gets noisy sometimes. Come on… I’ll take you to the captain.”

The headquarters group was working out of what had been a storage room. Munson stood as Mac entered, and a sergeant yelled, “Atten-hut!”

“As you were,” Mac said as she looked around. “What a shithole… Where’s the bar?”

Munson smiled weakly. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face was smeared with dirt, and he smelled like a goat. “I’m sorry, Major… I’ll submit a requisition for one.”

Mac felt a surge of concern. It didn’t take a degree in medicine to know that Munson was teetering on the edge of exhaustion. And that meant the troops were hurting, too. “Apology accepted,” she said with a grin. “Thanks for keeping the outfit together. Colonel Tompkins said a lot of nice things about you.”

That was a lie, but, judging from Munson’s expression, it was the right lie for the occasion. “That’s good to hear,” Munson said. “But our soldiers deserve all of the credit.”

Mac nodded. “So what’s the situation?”

“The enemy controls the west side of the waterway,” Munson replied. “And we haven’t been able to push them back. That means the Marines will land under fire.”

Mac had no difficulty understanding the nature of the problem. It wasn’t enough to shoot at the enemy. The Marauders needed to cross the channel, push the Mexicans back, and hold the newly captured ground in order to create an LZ. “So you tried to cross?”

Munson nodded. “Hell yes, we tried to cross. Three times. We never made it out of the boats. Some of us had to swim back. A lot of people died. Now we’re out of time,” Munson added.

“We’re almost out of time,” Mac said. “But it ain’t over till it’s over. Have we still got our wrench turners?”

“Most of them,” Munson answered.

“Call them in,” Mac ordered. “In fact I want you to call everyone in. Tell them to pee, eat an MRE, and take a half-hour nap. All except for one platoon that is… Their job is to convince the Mexicans that the battalion is still engaged. And when we cross, we’ll leave them behind. Got it?”

Mac could imagine what her XO was thinking. Maybe the CO had an idea. A good idea. Or maybe she didn’t. But he was off the hook… And that felt good. There was newfound hope in his eyes. “I’m on it, Major… It’s good to have you back.”

It took an hour for the battalion to prepare. And Mac was issuing final instructions to her company commanders when Green appeared at her side. “Colonel Tompkins is on the horn, ma’am. He wants to know what’s taking so long.”

It wasn’t the first such message from Tompkins, and Mac felt a rising sense of anger. “Tell him I’m doing my nails, but not to worry because I’ll be done soon.”

Green’s eyes grew larger. “Seriously? You want me to say that?”

“Yes, I do… And you can leave the radio here. I don’t have time for his bullshit.”

Mac opened her mike and spoke over the TAC frequency. “This is Marauder-Six… The Marines are counting on us to do the heavy lifting for them. Let’s get the job done. Over.”

Shouts of “Hooah” could be heard from all around as Mac led Alpha Company up the stairs that led to the 146-foot-long seagoing tug. The metal scaffolding shook as dozens of boots pounded up through three flights of switchbacking stairs, and smoke poured out of the ship’s badly damaged superstructure. What would the enemy make of that? Would they conclude that the tug was on fire?

Mac didn’t know and didn’t care. The purpose of the smoke was to hide her troops and their movements. The soldiers responsible for detonating the smoke grenades soon joined the troops who were moving toward the stern. Bravo Company had climbed the stairs by then and was following along behind. A sergeant had been assigned to board last and give the word. “This is Bravo Two-One. Phase one is complete. Over.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “Six to the hammer crew. Turn her loose. Over.”

By that time, the battalion’s mechanics had removed all of the tie-downs except for the cables that connected the ship to four massive shackles, each of which was secured with a large metal pin. To free the vessel, the soldiers had to remove the pins using sledgehammers. Metal clanged on metal as wrench turners went to work. The reports came in quick succession. “One, clear.” “Two, clear.” “Four clear.” “Three clear.”

“Hang on!” Mac said, and hurried to obey her own command.

Nothing happened. Mac couldn’t believe it. The ship weighed thousands of tons, and it was sitting on a steep incline. What the hell was wrong? Then a loud groan was heard. The tug shuddered and began to move. Slowly at first, then faster. Metal screeched on metal as the vessel slid down the ramp, hit the water, and threw a curtain of spray to the west.

And that was just the beginning. With plenty of inertia to power it, the smoke-wreathed vessel slid across the waterway and ran aground. Soldiers armed with light machine guns opened fire on the Mexicans from the stern.

Meanwhile, Mac and lead elements from Alpha Company were jumping down onto the embankment. “Push them back!” Mac shouted as she ran forward. “Kill the bastards!”

The unexpected arrival of two hundred Yankee soldiers, plus the ferocity with which they fought, threw the enemy soldiers back. “This is Six… Don’t let them get comfy! Keep pushing!”

Counterfire sparkled all along the expanse that fronted the Marauders. And that might have been enough to stop the attackers if it hadn’t been for phase two of Mac’s plan. She turned to find Green crouched to her right. “I told you to leave the radio behind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you brought it.”

“Yes, ma’am. You need it.”

“And the colonel? Did you pass my message?”

Green shook her head. “No, ma’am. I didn’t think that would be wise.”

Mac laughed. “I’m going to put you in for a medal when this is over. Get Steelrain on the horn… Tell them to fire.”

Mac opened her mike. “This is Marauder-Six. All troops cease firing and take cover. Some serious shit is about to fall out of the sky.”

The coordinates had been fed to the missile battery half an hour earlier, and it was on standby. The unit was located seventy-five miles to the east, so there was some travel time, but not much. Two MGM-140B guided missiles plunged out of the overcast, struck the ground two hundred yards forward of Mac’s position, and exploded.

As each missile disintegrated, it sprayed 275 M74 submunitions in a 360-degree radius. The subs were similar to hand grenades. And each one of them was packed with incendiary pellets that were equally effective against equipment and personnel. The results were devastating. The combined payload of 550 submunitions slaughtered the enemy troops.

That left the Marauders free to take more ground, dig in, and hold it. They did.

The Marines arrived one hour and forty-two minutes later. They came ashore without firing a shot. Some waved to the scarecrow-like figures as they passed through the battalion’s lines. Others shouted friendly insults. The Marauders were too tired to respond.

That was the beginning of what the media called “The Big Push.” But it was more like the big rout. Entire divisions of disillusioned Mexicans turned toward the border. The war-weary columns clogged the freeways and the secondary roads for days while they made their way home. And they would have been easy meat for the Union A-10s, Apache gunships, and fighter planes.

But Sloan ordered all military units to let the Mexicans go so long as they didn’t fight or loot. The outfits that did were obliterated. Most people agreed that the policy made sense. Killing thousands of troops just to kill them would be stupid… And capturing them would create a huge burden.

The rebels were different, however. Many Confederate units refused to surrender and were determined to fight to the death. Where they could, Union officers put a cordon of troops around the Southerners and settled in to wait them out. That saved the lives of soldiers from both sides and served to prevent the sort of Alamo-like massacres that would make postwar reunification more difficult, if not impossible. Mac understood those strategies better than most and agreed with them.

Subsequent to the battle in New Iberia, the Marauders were sent west, but not in the lead. They spent most of their time showing the flag in small towns. Not the Union flag, which Sloan had retired, but the American flag—more and more of which were being taken out of storage and flown by Southern patriots.

So the city of Houston had already been secured by the time Mac arrived. In an effort to find out what fate had befallen her father, Mac made her way to his office in the southern command and control center. It had been trashed. The Intel people had been there… And once they left, sticky-fingered soldiers had gone through the stuff that remained.

But there were some items that neither group cared about, including two photographs. One was a picture of a woman who Mac believed to be Bo’s second wife. As for the other, that was a photo of Victoria. And she was smiling.