Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 15

NEAR BAR HARBOR, MAINE

It was dark. The boat’s twin engines produced a throaty rumble as the thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser left the calm waters of Southwest Harbor, passed Sutton Island, and began the run up to Bar Harbor. The bow rose and fell gently as it cut through the long rollers that chased each other in from the Atlantic. As Bo stood in the stern, he could see the multicolored lights that followed the coastline. The blackouts that had once been common were over as was the war itself.

More than a month had passed since Houston had fallen, and President Stickley had fled. Some said she was living in the Caymans. Others claimed that the politician and her loyalists were somewhere in Africa. Bo didn’t give a damn. He was on a mission, his last mission, and the one that would put him in the history books. Not that historical notoriety was Bo’s goal. He wanted to kill Samuel T. Sloan for personal reasons.

After assembling the hit team and sending them north one at a time, Bo had been forced to wait. Sloan had so many bodyguards that it was impossible to get anywhere near the bastard under normal circumstances. But people, presidents included, can and do make mistakes. Sloan was no exception.

Samuel T. Sloan and Major Robin Macintyre announced their engagement only weeks after the New Confederacy surrendered. Very few people were surprised.

But the press release caused a stir nevertheless, especially when it became known that the couple were going to share a prenuptial holiday on a private island located near Bar Harbor, Maine. And that was going to give Bo the opportunity he needed.

The boat began to roll uncomfortably as it turned north. One of the new team members, an actor named Posey, was seasick. Rather than stick around and watch Posey barf over the rail, Bo entered the spacious cabin. An ex–navy bosun named Trey Sims was at the wheel. The African-American was built like a linebacker—and stood with his feet spread.

Gatlin, along with an ex-op named Misty Estrada, and a onetime Confederate Intel agent named Ricky Costas were seated at the table.

Bo reached out to steady himself as the boat rolled. Gatlin grinned. “It’s hard to believe that some people do this for fun. We’re going to play a few hands of poker. Would you care to join us?”

Bo had nothing better to do and figured it would be good for morale. But rather than the penny-ante game that Bo was expecting to take part in, the others began to place stacks of gold coins on the table. The same coins they’d been paid with.

Did it make sense to play poker with the money they hoped to retire on? No. But all three of them were risk takers and egomaniacs. Each believed himself or herself to be smarter and more capable than the rest of the people on the boat.

But there were things they didn’t know… One of which was that Bo was broke. All of Victoria’s stash had gone into giving the team half their pay up front, equipping them, and renting the yacht. Bo smiled. “I’d love to sit in. Are IOUs okay? My money is waiting for us in Canada.”

The relationship between the United States and Canada was still quite rocky. So the claim was credible, especially since the team had been led to believe that a helicopter was going to pick them up after the assassination and take them north. “Sure,” Costas replied. “We know you’re good for it.”

The next hour passed enjoyably, and by the time the boat crossed the Mt. Desert Narrows, Estrada had amassed a substantial pile of coins and IOUs. She had a narrow face, hungry eyes, and hollow cheeks. “Thanks, suckers… I’m going to think of you while I spend your money.”

“We’re twenty minutes out,” Sims announced from his position at the helm.

“Okay,” Bo said. “Let’s get ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Gatlin said as he slid off the seat. “I’ll check on Posey.”

One by one, the team members brought their duffel bags to the cockpit and stacked them on the starboard side. Bo was on the flying bridge by then, standing next to Sims, who preferred the topside controls for docking. The cruiser’s running lights were off, and the cabin was dark.

Bo brought the night-vision binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the island ahead. Having viewed the area on Google Earth, Bo knew that Bowtie Island was actually two oblong islets linked by a sandbar. The main house was located on the south end of what Bo thought of as island two. There was a separate cottage as well. That was where the island’s only permanent resident lived.

But what if Secret Service agents were on Bowtie? That would be a disaster. The presidential visit was days away, however… And, having been privy to such things in his role as a general, Bo figured the Secret Service wouldn’t move in for another day or two.

Everything Bo could see confirmed that hypothesis. Had security been in place, armed Coast Guard boats would have come out to warn the yacht off.

“The target looks the way it should,” Bo announced. “Take us in.” Sims nodded and nudged the throttles forward.

Each member of the team was equipped with a headset, radio, and night-vision gear. Bo keyed his mike. “Heads up… We’re going in. Sims and Estrada will remain with the boat. Everyone else will follow me. Posey will be last. Over.”

The team responded with a flurry of clicks as the yacht nudged the floating dock and Estrada jumped onto it. She secured the stern line as the others made their way up a ramp to shore. They were dressed in TAC gear and armed with suppressed pistols.

Bo was on point and pleased to discover that the old habits were still there. He knew that the trail led to the cottage, the heliport, and the house at the far end of the island. The caretaker’s residence became visible two minutes later.

Bo checked his watch. It was 2022. With any luck at all, George Owen was asleep. Bo knew the caretaker’s name thanks to reviews posted online. “Mr. Owen was wonderful!” “Thank you, George!” And crap like that.

Bo waved the team forward. A light was visible within the cottage. Because Owen was still up? Or was it a night-light? They were about to find out. Bo pointed to Gatlin, then to the door.

Gatlin nodded and, like the pro he was, tried the knob before resorting to force. The door opened smoothly. Owen felt safe on Bowtie Island. That was about to change. Gatlin entered first, with Bo behind him. Costas and Posey were on sentry duty outside. A visitor was unlikely. But if one appeared, they would deal with it.

The front door opened onto a small foyer. The living room was on the left—and a soft murmur was coming from the TV. A recliner was positioned in front of the set, and Bo could see that the back of a man’s head was visible. Was Owen awake? Or was he asleep? Gatlin circled around the chair, stopped, and pushed the barrel of his pistol up against the caretaker’s forehead. “Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Owen jerked awake and attempted to get up, but the gun barrel kept him from doing so. “Who? What?”

“There’s no reason to be frightened,” Bo lied. “Just stay where you are for the moment. Posey? You can come in now.”

Posey arrived moments later. He’d been chosen for his ability to play a part, but more than that, because he was about Owen’s age and had a similar build. Posey removed a digital camera from a cargo pocket and began to snap pictures. Owen blinked as the flash went off. Later on, when the time came, the photos would help Posey to apply his makeup. “There,” the actor said as he took a final shot. “That should do it.”

“Good,” Bo said. “Okay, Mr. Owen, stand up. You’re about to take us on a tour. During the tour, you will tell Mr. Posey everything he needs to know about how to do your job. That includes the routine maintenance chores that you perform each day, the kind of problems that might crop up, and everything you know about the island’s history. If you do that, and do it well, I will allow you to live. Agreed?” Owen was terrified. His head bobbed up and down.

The tour lasted for more than three hours. Posey recorded everything Owen said so he could review it later. The sky had just begun to lighten in the east as Gatlin escorted Owen down the ramp and onto the yacht. The duffel bags had been transferred onto the dock by then, and the boat’s engines were running.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gatlin said, and pointed. “Look at that!”

Owen turned to look, and Sims shot him in the back of the head. There was a thump as the body landed on the deck. “Okay,” Gatlin said, “let’s haul him below. You know what to do after that.”

Sims nodded. “Take the boat out, drill lots of holes in the hull, and row the dinghy back.”

“Exactamundo,” Gatlin said cheerfully. “We’ll hump the duffel bags up the ramp while you’re away.”

Sims took the yacht out and returned forty-five minutes later. The rest of the team was waiting at the top of the ramp. “Okay,” Bo said. “Stage one is complete. Stage two begins now. Mr. Posey, or should I say Mr. Owen, will start to play his part now. That includes showing the members of the Secret Service advance team around the island when they arrive.

“The rest of us will spend the next couple of days camping in the ruins on island one. There’s a basement under what’s left of the lighthouse, and that’s where we’ll stay. Are there any questions? No? All right then… The hard part is over. The rest will be easy. We’d better get going before the tide comes in over the sandbar.”

ABOARD MARINE ONE

Even though Mac had been on Marine One before, it felt strange to ride on a helicopter that didn’t have door gunners. That was another reminder that the war was over, and the killing had ended. But the country faced a different kind of challenge now. After suffering multiple meteor hits, and the extensive damage resulting from a civil war, the reconstituted United States of America faced a rebuilding project so immense that it boggled Mac’s mind. And that was why President Samuel T. Sloan continued to work twelve-hour days. He was on a phone call and winked as their eyes met.

That was emblematic of the way in which things had changed. As the war came to an end, their relationship blossomed. Sloan wanted to get married. And, after giving the matter an hour’s worth of thought, Mac realized that she did, too. So they were engaged. Even if it seemed to confirm past rumors and gave the president’s critics something to carp about.

But for the most part, Sloan was quite popular, in the North at least, and why not? He was the Fighting President. The man who had won the war. But could he win the peace? That remained to be seen since millions of Southerners hated him and resented the troops who patrolled their streets.

Sloan was determined to ignore that, however… And to earn the Southerners’ trust, if not their affection, by convincing Congress to enact the sort of even-handed initiatives that would help the entire country to recover. Sloan’s decision to reintegrate the military was a good example. Mac thought the measure was risky, but brilliant, too, since the only thing worse than having a quarter million ex–Confederate soldiers in the military—was to have them sitting around with nothing to do.

As for Mac, she couldn’t remain in the army while engaged to the commander in chief. So she had requested a transfer to the inactive reserves. And that was likely to be helpful in another way as well… In spite of her impressive war record, there were those who sought to link Mac, and therefore Sloan, with her fugitive father. Where was he? Mac wondered. In Africa? Like some people said? Or down in South America? Not that it made much difference. The authorities would find Bo Macintyre and put him on trial for war crimes. And, once that day came, it would be best if Mac was back in civilian life.

Mac looked out the window as a layer of wispy clouds dissipated, and an island was revealed. Two islands, really, which when taken together and viewed from above, looked like a bowtie. Three days. That’s what Sloan had promised her. With very few phone calls to interrupt their time together. “A penny for your thoughts,” Sloan said.

Mac turned to discover that the phone call was over. “Only a penny?”

He laughed. “All that I have then.”

Mac smiled. “I guess that will have to do.”

Marine One swooped in for a perfect landing. Secret Service agents were present, but only one person came forward to meet the helicopter. He was the island’s sixtysomething caretaker. “Mr. President… Major Macintyre… This is an honor. My name is George Owen. Welcome to Bowtie Island! My job is to make sure that you enjoy your stay. Did you bring any staff?”

“No,” Sloan replied, as the two men shook hands. “We’re going to do our own cooking.”

“Which means he’s going to cook,” Mac interjected. “I don’t know how.”

Owen chuckled. “Let me know if you change your minds. I can bring a cook and a maid in from Bar Harbor if you want me to. Please follow me. I’ll give you the tour.”

Mac had seen the four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and chef’s kitchen online. So she knew what to expect. Fortunately, they didn’t have to share the house with the Secret Service. Three shifts consisting of eight agents each were going to commute in from Bar Harbor.

Once the tour was over, Owen left them alone. Groceries had been brought in the previous day, and Sloan made good on his promise to prepare what he called, “A great American lunch.” It consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches, Campbell’s tomato soup, and a veggie plate—all of which was delicious. “You’re a master chef,” Mac assured him. “What can I expect for dinner? A Totino’s pizza?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Sloan said as he swept Mac off her feet and carried her away. The master bedroom was large, and beautifully furnished. Mac landed on the white bedspread first—immediately followed by Sloan. They kissed.

“You have soup breath,” Mac noted.

“And you are delicious,” Sloan countered.

What followed wasn’t the first, but it was the best, and deeply satisfying. A nap came next. Mac awoke first and was drinking a cup of coffee in the living room when Sloan appeared. He made the white tee and jeans look good as he padded over to give her a kiss. “You let me sleep.”

“You needed it.”

“I guess I did. Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Absolutely.”

A narrow path circled the island, and they followed it. The sky was gray, gulls rode the incoming wind, and waves crashed below. Sloan’s hand felt warm. Here, Mac thought, with him. This is where I want to be. And for the first time in her life, Mac knew what it was to feel complete.

After the walk, some drinks, and a long conversation about their future plans—it was time to eat dinner. Sloan rose to the occasion. Much to Mac’s amazement, he served Parmesan-crusted halibut, along with broccoli and wild rice. Dessert consisted of a scoop of coconut ice cream accompanied by a vanilla wafer. Coffee followed. “That was amazing,” Mac told him. “You’re hired.”

Sloan laughed. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call. Then I’ll be back.” And he was. They snuggled, watched a comedian do his best Sam Sloan imitation, and went to bed.

Sloan fell asleep within minutes, but Mac didn’t. She lay there for a while before getting up and making her way into the living room. Maybe it was the coffee. Or maybe she was keyed up. Her life was so completely different from what it had been.

The house wasn’t entirely dark thanks to the strategically placed night-lights the owners had put in place. And Mac saw no need to turn on more lights as she passed the kitchen and entered the living room. Huge windows provided sweeping views of the Atlantic. The moon was up and only partially obscured by a thin layer of clouds.

The vista had a ghostly feel—like something in a storybook. And as Mac looked out across the front deck, she saw a figure appear and pause to look around. A uniformed Secret Service agent? Yes, judging from the assault weapon he was carrying.

Was the agent enjoying the view, too? Or focused on the job? That’s what Mac was thinking when another figure appeared behind the first. A second agent? No, this one had a long-barreled pistol… And it was pointed at the first man’s head! Mac was about to shout a warning when the assailant fired, and the agent collapsed.

Mac didn’t wait to see what would happen next. She whirled and ran to the bedroom. “Sam! Get up! Put some clothes on… The house is under attack.”

Sloan sat up and yawned. “What did you say?”

“I said get your butt out of bed… Put your clothes on. The house is under attack.”

Mac’s suitcase was sitting on a stand. Old habits die hard, and the Glock was there. After grabbing it, Mac cursed herself for not bringing a spare magazine.

Sloan was holding a remote. He pressed a button. “Don’t worry, hon… Help is on the way.”

Mac glanced his way as both of them got dressed. “From where? From here? They killed the agent who was on the front deck. I watched it go down.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. Get some shoes on… We’re going outside.”

Sloan hurried to obey and was right behind Mac as she led him into the hall, and from there to a guest room. Not just any guest room, but the one with the French door that opened out onto a walkway and the trees beyond. Maybe they could clear the house and hide while they waited for help to come.

But no sooner had they entered the room than Mac heard a key turn in the lock, and the door swung open. A man was silhouetted against the porch light. He was dressed in TAC gear. The Glock was up. Mac fired the moment the red dot settled on its target. The man jerked as a 9mm round smashed through his skull and blew some of his brains out the other side. A pistol clattered on wood as he collapsed.

“That will bring the rest of them,” Mac predicted. “Quick! Grab the gun… I’ll take his night-vision gear.”

Mac was disappointed to discover that the dead intruder was female. She’d been hoping to score a TAC vest for Sloan. She ripped the woman’s night-vision gear off, and was about to take her radio, when a bullet slapped the side of the house. “Get back!” Mac ordered. And she followed Sloan in.

But as they entered the kitchen–living room, a man threw himself against the French doors that opened out onto the deck. They parted, and the intruder stumbled as he burst into the room. Sloan shot him, realized that the black man was wearing body armor, and fired again. The second bullet did the job. The third was by way of insurance. The would-be assassin lay facedown on the floor.

Someone hammered on the kitchen door. “It’s me! George Owen! They shot me!”

Mac went to look through the peephole, saw the caretaker, and jerked the door open. Owen stepped to one side so that another man could shoot her. He was no more than four feet away. Mac felt the small-caliber bullet hit her left arm, and brought the Glock up, knowing it wouldn’t arrive in time. So she fired early, and saw the 9mm slug smash her assailant’s left knee into a bloody pulp. He screamed as he fell and dropped his pistol to grab what hurt. Mac shot the bastard again. In the head this time.

Glass shattered as a flashbang grenade sailed in from the front deck and went off. Mac’s ears were ringing, and she couldn’t see a damned thing, as she brought the Glock around. “Hit the floor!” she yelled, and hoped that Sloan would react quickly enough as she began to fire.

“I think you hit him!” Sloan yelled, as Mac sensed that someone was behind her. She was just beginning to turn when something hard hit her head. Mac fell, and was staring upwards, as her eyesight returned. “Daddy? Is that you?”

“Damned right it’s me,” Bo replied. “But I ain’t your daddy. My daughter is dead.”

Sloan could see again. He raised his pistol only to feel something hard jab the back of his neck. “Drop it,” Owen growled, and Sloan was forced to comply. There was a clatter as the .22 hit the floor.

“Good work, Posey,” Bo said as he turned back toward Mac. “Now comes the fun part,” he said. “This is for Victoria.” Bo fired. Mac felt the bullet punch a hole in her right thigh. It hurt like hell. Had he missed her head? No. Bo Macintyre wanted to see his daughter suffer.

Sloan was at least a head taller than the man named Posey, and a lot younger. He threw himself backward and heard a pop as the other man’s gun went off. Posey was struggling to breathe as Sloan rolled off him. Could he dispose of Posey and deal with Bo? That seemed unlikely. But all Sloan could do was try. He wrapped his fingers around the other man’s neck and proceeded to bang his head against the wood floor.

Mac saw Bo point his pistol at Sloan’s back and managed to roll into him. Bo kept his feet, but his shot went wild. The .22 came around to point at her. Mac had seen the angry face before. When she was a little girl. When she was bad.

“This one is for Kathy,” Bo said, as his finger tightened on the trigger. Bo seemed to flinch as a .22 caliber bullet struck his temple. A look of surprise appeared on his face. Then his knees gave way, and he crumpled to the floor.

Sloan was on his feet and marching across the room as he fired Posey’s weapon. “This is for Mac, you asshole… And this one is for the POWs in Mexico… And this one is for me!”

When the Ruger wouldn’t fire anymore, Sloan replaced it with Bo’s. And that’s where they found him, crouched in a pool of Mac’s blood, his aim shifting from door to door as the first member of the quick-response team entered the room and froze. “Give me the code,” Sloan grated.

“America Rising.”

Sloan placed the pistol on the floor. “Get a medic… And I mean now!”

Mac tried to protest, tried to say that she could walk, but the blackness took her down.

THE FARM, NEAR OMAHA, NEBRASKA

Thunder rolled across the land. Not the sound of artillery, though; this was different, and a harbinger of rain. It started gently. Then it fell more insistently. Tapping at first, as if checking to see what the roof was made of, before morphing into a downpour.

Mac savored the sound of it and the warmth of the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders. She was sitting on the spacious porch of the home where Sloan had grown up. The place the press often referred to as “the farm.” It had become their retreat. The place they could go to get away from Fort Knox and all of the complexities there, many of which stemmed from the coming election and Sloan’s first run for office.

Three painful weeks had passed since the assassination attempt on Bowtie Island. Small though it was, the .22 caliber bullet fired from Bo’s pistol had severed Mac’s femoral artery and almost killed her. Two surgeries later, she was still recovering and grateful to be alive. Grateful, and a bit guilty, because she had survived when so many had died. Some at her hand, some in her arms, and thousands upon thousands in battles she had no knowledge of.

Most of them were good people. Better people. All because of what? Destiny? Or just plain luck? Yes, Mac thought. Luck. Nothing else can account for it.

The screen door slammed. Sloan appeared. He held a steaming mug in each hand. “Here it is,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered. Instant Starbucks.”

“Oh my God,” Mac said. “Is it my birthday?”

“No, but you’ve been a good girl and deserve a reward.” Sloan put his coffee down before leaning in to kiss her. The usual spark jumped the gap. Many things were wrong with the world… But one thing felt right. And, for that, Mac was grateful.