Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 2

PINE KNOT, KENTUCKY

It took Marine One less than an hour to make the 150-mile trip from Fort Knox to the Union penitentiary near Pine Knot, Kentucky. Or more specifically, the recent addition to the McCleary Prison, which was often referred to as “Supermax South,” because of the large number of high-ranking Confederates being held there. They were officials and military officers for the most part. Meaning people who had intelligence value or could be swapped for Union prisoners.

Sloan stared out the window as the VH-60N “White Hawk” circled the low-lying complex and settled onto the pad that bore the big letter “H.” It wasn’t every day that the president dropped in to visit a supermax inmate—and shotgun-toting guards were visible everywhere.

Sloan released his seat belt as the helo touched down. Secretary of Treasury Martin Tyler was seated beside him. Tyler had light brown hair, a cheerful demeanor, and an eidetic memory. As Tyler followed Sloan off Marine One, he was absorbing everything he saw. Two Secret Service agents followed along behind.

Warden James Gladfelter was there to greet the incoming dignitaries. He was balding, a bit pudgy, and much given to dry washing his hands. “President Sloan! And Secretary Tyler! I’m James Gladfelter. I hope you had a good flight.”

Sloan endured a damp handshake and forced a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Warden. The trip down was pleasant. Thank you. Is the prisoner ready?”

“Yes, of course,” Gladfelter responded. “Please follow me.”

A concrete path led away from the pad, took a number of sharp turns, and delivered them to what looked like a one-story bunker but was actually more. A guard opened the door, and more security people waited within. The first floor was devoted to office space, meeting rooms, and a lounge for staff. But most of the supermax was underground.

An elevator took the party down to level 3B, where the doors opened onto a sterile lobby. Sloan noticed that the lights were unusually bright, and everything was made of concrete. That included a bench, the walls, and the highly polished floor. The air was so chilly that Sloan chose to keep his overcoat on.

“We’re standing in the core,” Gladfelter explained. “The facility has three levels, each of which is ringed by twenty-four cells, for a total of seventy-two. Each floor has two interview rooms—and one of them is set up for you. Once you’re ready, I’ll send for the prisoner. Would you like coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks,” Sloan replied. “Go ahead and send for him. We’ll settle in.”

After showing Sloan and Tyler into a small, sparsely furnished room, Gladfelter disappeared. “Check this out,” Tyler said as he sat down. “My chair is bolted to the floor.”

“The ceiling feels low,” Sloan observed. “And there aren’t any windows. Plus, based on what I’ve heard, the food sucks. I feel sorry for Sanders. But not sorry enough to send him home.”

Confederate Secretary of Energy Oliver Sanders had been captured during a daring raid deep into the heart of Texas and subsequently brought north. He’d been “ripening” in the supermax ever since. The prisoner had been less than cooperative during the days immediately following his capture. Had his attitude changed? Sloan and Tyler were going to find out.

Secretary of Energy Sanders was shown into the room the way any prisoner would be. He was dressed in a baggy prison uniform, had cuffs on his wrists, and wore shackles on his ankles. They rattled as he walked.

Sanders was well under six feet tall, had a medium build and a sallow face. It registered surprise as a guard ordered him to sit down. “President Sloan? I guess I’m more important than I thought I was. Are you going to trade me for a Union prisoner?”

“Nope,” Sloan replied. “What I am going to do is give you a chance to do the right thing. And that could be helpful when you go on trial after the war.”

Sanders made a face. “Fuck you.”

“My, my,” Sloan responded, as he withdrew a packet of photographs from an inside pocket. “Such a potty mouth. I brought you a present. Here, have a look.” Sloan pushed the photos across the table that separated them.

Sanders looked down at them, up at Sloan, and down again. He didn’t touch them. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Sloan assured him. “They’re pictures of your wife and children. They were taken two weeks ago.”

That brought Sanders’s head up. Sloan could see the wheels turning. The implications were clear. A Union spy knew where the Sanders family lived! And, if the agent could take pictures of them, he or she could do other things as well. Like shoot them. Would Sloan order such a thing? No, of course not. But Sanders didn’t know that. He’d been part of a government that did use such tactics.

Gingerly, as if handling something very fragile, Sanders examined each photo with care. Then he put them down. A look of resignation appeared on his face. “If we win, I will request permission to shoot you in the face.”

“And, if you win, flying pigs will fill the sky,” Sloan replied. “Now, let’s get down to business. The gentleman to my right is Secretary of the Treasury Tyler. We’re going to ask you some questions about the Strategic Petroleum Reserves that you and your henchmen stole from the United States government. Specifically, we want detailed information regarding how much oil has been sold to other countries, who represented them, and how much money changed hands.

“And, before we begin, please make a note. Both Secretary Tyler and I have an intimate knowledge of this subject. And we have the means to verify most, if not all, of what you tell us. So don’t waste our time with lies. You’ll regret it if you do. However, if you cooperate, that will factor into the way you’re treated after the war.”

Sanders nodded. “Understood.” And while Sanders didn’t volunteer any information, his answers were consistent with what the two men knew or believed that they knew.

Finally, as the interview came to a close, Sloan shuffled the photos like a deck of cards. Then he pushed them across the table. “You can keep them.”

A look of gratitude appeared on Sanders’s face. “You won’t hurt my family?”

Sloan wanted to say, “No, of course not.” But that would be stupid. So Sloan was careful to hedge. “That depends, Oliver… It depends on you.”

Sloan turned to the guard standing next to the door. “We’re done. Take Mr. Sanders back to his cell.”

“So,” Tyler said once Sanders was gone. “What do you think?”

“It’s pretty obvious that Lemaire and his friends are using the oil reserves to pay for the war, and they’re skimming money off the top as well. But that isn’t the worst of it. We will need that oil to rebuild the country.”

“What are you going to do?” Tyler inquired.

“I’m going to take the oil reserves back,” Sloan replied. “And recover as much of the money as I can. Come on, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

The Bayou Choctaw Strategic Petroleum Reserve wasn’t much to look at. Not from twenty-two miles above the surface of the planet. But seventy-two million barrels of crude oil were stored in the former salt mine, and that was a big deal.

Such were Mac’s thoughts as she eyed the satellite photo from the back of a crowded meeting room at the Holiday Inn hotel. What she saw was a large section of light-colored soil surround by lush greenery. The site included two storage tanks, some widely separated sheds, and a maze of pipes. None of it meant anything to her. But that’s why Captain Hines had been brought in. It was his job to brief Marine Colonel Natasha Walters and her officers on the reserve. Hines was a tall man with reddish hair, a ruddy complexion, and a tendency to wave his laser pointer like a wand. He’d been teaching geology before the government called him back to active duty.

“The Bayou Choctaw site contains about seventy-two million barrels of crude oil,” the engineer said for the second time. “And it’s connected to the St. James Terminal on the Mississippi River by a thirty-seven-mile-long, thirty-six-inch pipeline.” Mac watched the red dot trace a path from the reserve, through some green fields, and over to a tank farm that was located adjacent to the river.

“That’s how the reserve looked before the war,” Hines continued. “This is the way it looks now.” A new photo appeared. It was similar to the first one except that new features had been added. A defensive berm surrounded the site now, watchtowers had been added at each corner of the complex, and all sorts of defensive weaponry were visible.

But, being a cavalry officer, what grabbed Mac’s attention were the Strykers parked in separate revetments. The presence of such vehicles suggested that the rebs weren’t going to be shy. They planned to go out and do battle with Union forces when the time came. “So,” Hines concluded. “The site is very well defended. And before you attack it, you’ll have to fight your way through ninety miles of Confederate-held territory. We will try to provide air cover, but aircraft are in short supply, and there are likely to be times when you’ll be vulnerable. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” a Marine captain said from the first row. “Is it too late to join the Coast Guard?”

That produced some laughs, and Colonel Walters had a smile on her face as she replaced Hines at the podium. “Request denied, Captain… The Coasties will have to get along without your services. How about it? Are there more questions?”

There was. A platoon leader stood. “Yes, ma’am… The rebs at this site are cut off. Is that correct?”

Walters nodded. “It is.”

“So,” the lieutenant continued. “Why attack? We could starve them out.”

It was a good question. Walters turned to Hines. “Captain Hines?”

Hines stood. “The people up the chain of command were concerned that it would take too long. Our citizens need the oil stored in those caverns.”

Mac considered that. How high had the decision gone? All the way to Sloan? And, if so, had it been difficult for him? Did Sloan realize that he was going to trade lives for oil? But what choice did he have? The North had some oil wells but not enough… And what did her Strykers run on? Oil by-products, that’s what… Not to mention heating oil for homes and all the rest of it.

There were more questions. And once they’d been answered, Walters thanked Hines before turning back to the audience. “Okay, let’s talk about how to get this job done. The brigade’s table of organization looks like a pig’s breakfast. It includes a battalion of Marines, a battalion of soldiers, a medical unit on loan from the navy, drone operators supplied by the air force, and the civilians who are supposed to operate the reserve once we capture it. And that is the plan… We are supposed to capture the facility, not destroy it. Please keep that in mind during the days ahead.”

Walters was almost six feet tall, lean, and had chosen the Marine Corps over the navy after graduating from Annapolis. Her eyes scanned the room. “Now hear this… Even though we represent different branches of the military, we have a common objective, and we’ve got to function as a team. I will have zero tolerance for interservice-rivalry bullshit. If I see it, hear it, or smell it, you will be sorry. Don’t disappoint me.

“Here’s how it will go down… At 0600, drone operators are going to eyeball both sides of Interstate 10. Major Macintyre’s Strykers will take the point at 0630. The rest of the brigade will follow at 0645. We’ll spend the night near the town of Sorrento, which is about halfway to our goal. So brief your troops, check everything twice, and check it again. That will be all. Battalion commanders will remain. The rest of you can rejoin your units.”

As most of the officers left, Mac made her way to the front of the room, where she joined Walters, Marine Major Joe Corvo, and Marine Captain Misty Giovani. “I’m going to tweak the table of organization,” Walters told them, “so we’ll have as much clarity as possible. Let’s start with you, Joe. You have some LAV-25s. True?”

“Four of them,” Corvo replied.

“Right. Assuming you have no objection, I would like to transfer them to Mac’s Marauders on a temporary basis. I think you’ll agree that it makes sense to put all of our armor under a single officer.”

Mac could tell that Corvo didn’t like it. But what could he say? There was only one possible answer. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac knew that while the Marine Corps LAV (Light Armored Vehicles) looked like eight-wheeled Strykers, there were some differences, including the fact that the LAVs could “swim” rivers and lakes.

But Mac had been around long enough to know that everything comes at a price. So it was too early to celebrate her good fortune. And sure enough, Walters was turning her way by then. “You have two companies of infantry,” Walters said. “For the purposes of this mission, I’d like to place them under Major Corvo’s command.”

Mac didn’t like it any more than Corvo did. And, like Corvo, she had no choice but to acquiesce. “Yes, ma’am. One thing, though… I need to keep my Stryker crews, techs, and mechanics.”

“Of course,” Walters said as she made a note. “That brings us to you, Captain Giovani. I’m putting all of the support functions under you, and that includes responsibility for the civilians.”

Giovani looked worried, and for good reason. Walters was asking her to integrate the supply and transportation functions of two dissimilar battalions and to accomplish it overnight. She swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”

Walters grinned. “The three of you look like mourners at a funeral! Buck up, it will work. I promise.”

Mac’s Marauders were parked on the first two floors of the five-story parking garage located next to the hotel. That was less than perfect since the rebs could bomb the shit out of the structure, but the garage did keep them out of sight and offered some protection from strafing attacks. Shortly after Mac arrived, she sent for her senior noncoms and officers.

There was a chorus of groans as Mac delivered the news. None of her people wanted to be seconded to the Marines—no matter how temporary the assignment might be. Or, as one sergeant put it, “If I wanted to be a jarhead, I would have joined the fucking Marine Corps.”

Mac felt some sympathy but had to push back. “I understand how you feel, but Colonel Walters is correct. In order to take our objective and minimize casualties, we need a clear chain of command. One in which everyone knows who’s in charge of what.

“Captain Overman, please make sure that our troops are briefed. Once you accomplish that, report to Major Corvo for further instructions. The techs, mechanics, and Stryker crews will remain with me. Are there any questions?

There were lots of questions. Process stuff mainly, most of which had yet to be addressed. And since Mac didn’t have a lot of answers, the best she could do was to take notes and promise to follow up. She could answer one question, however. It was posed by a platoon leader. “Since we won’t be riding in the Strykers, what sort of transportation will we have?”

Mac understood the officer’s concern. If she and her soldiers had to ride in soft-sided trucks, they’d be extremely vulnerable. “That’s a good question,” Mac responded. “You and your troops will ride in Marine Corps AAVs (Assault Amphibious Vehicles). You can expect leather seats, stereo, and a wet bar.”

Most of them laughed because they knew that while the so-called amtracks could hold more troops than a Stryker, they were anything but luxurious. Not only that, but the tracked vehicles were slow compared to the eight-wheeled Strykers, and that could be a problem depending on the situation. Still, the AAVs had good armor and mounted heavy weapons.

“All right,” Mac said. “Make me proud. Let’s get to work. Captain Wu, a moment of your time please.”

Wu was Mac’s supply officer and, more than that, one of the people who had been freed from prison as part of President Sloan’s Military Reintegration Program. And, like all good supply officers, Wu could be very resourceful when she needed to be. Which was most of the time. She was small and intense. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

“Go for it.”

“Reporting to a Marine sucks.”

“Do you feel better now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. There’s something I want you to do for me before you report to Captain Giovani.”

“Which is?”

“Find two dozen multispectral combat beacons for me. The special ops people might have some.”

Wu was clearly curious, but since Mac hadn’t chosen to say why she needed the beacons, the supply officer let it slide. “Yes, ma’am… I’ll see what I can do.”

Mac thought about the coming day. Her Strykers would be on point—the tip of the spear, the first to fall. But damned few of them would if Mac had anything to say about it. She went to work.

SOUTH OF WINSTON-SALEM, NORTH CAROLINA

Confederate Defense Tower 26 was surrounded and under attack. Meanwhile, high above, the cowardly sun was half-hidden behind a screen of striated clouds. The nonstop boom of artillery, the thump of mostly futile mortar rounds, and the occasional crack of a long-range rocket blended together to create a symphony of war sounds.

But most of the incoming shells and rockets ran into the wall of metal that the tower’s twin C-RAMs threw out and were instantly neutralized. Most, but not all. Some managed to get through, and there were casualties as a result. And that’s why Major General Suzanne “Bunny” Smith continued to fire them. After dropping paratroopers south of the tower, she was determined to wear the defenders down.

What Smith didn’t know, or General Bo Macintyre hoped she didn’t know, was that two battalions of Confederate cavalry were racing north to kick her ass. So his task was to hold and keep holding. And he was all in… Meaning that Bo was going to stay until the battle was over. Trenches ran out to the twelve-foot-high berm like spokes on a wheel. Most were one-way. Some ran in, so that the wounded could be taken belowground for treatment, and others ran out, enabling personnel and supplies to reach the wall.

And it was understood that everyone, regardless of rank, was to grab something and bring it with them if they were headed out to the berm. Bo grabbed a can of 7.62mm ammo and lugged it along as he followed a couple of privates toward the east side of the perimeter.

Craters could be seen where artillery and mortar rounds had managed to penetrate the C-RAMs’ defensive fire, and one of them partially overlapped the trench. Bo winced when he saw a dark stain on the dirt. It was surrounded by cast-off bandages. Someone had been hit and taken away.

Stairs led up to a circular platform that wasn’t much different from similar structures that Bo had seen in the ancient fortresses of Europe. And that made sense since the functions were similar. Soldiers had to stand on something if they were going to fight, regardless of whether they were armed with a machine gun or a crossbow.

Bo paused to place the ammo can next to some others before beginning his tour. He was bareheaded, so everyone could see who he was, and armed with a golf club. The putter was part of his persona now. He had taken one into action in Afghanistan and become known for it. Now the club was a useful gimmick. The kind of thing that was sure to generate stories. “And there the general was,” a private might say. “Strolling around with a putter on his shoulder, cool as a cucumber, while the bullets flew over his head.”

That was bullshit, of course, since Bo was as frightened as anyone else. But, unlike some, he knew how to hide it. And the club was part of the act.

“How’s it going?” Bo demanded as he came upon a surprised mortar team. He knew that they, like most of the machine gunners, had yet to fire a shot. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “You’ll get your chance before long… And when you do, give ’em hell!”

And so it went as Bo made his way around the circuit with Major Arkov and his bodyguards in tow. Every now and then, Bo would climb up on top of the berm and make a production out of peering through his binoculars. Arkov didn’t like it, but the troops did, and that was the point.

A sniper fired at him, and a bullet kicked up a geyser of soil next to Bo’s right boot. The report followed a fraction of a second later. “The bastards can’t shoot,” Bo remarked as he forced himself to remain on the wall for an additional three seconds.

That got a laugh from the team assigned to a .50 caliber machine gun and gave Bo a chance to jump down. A lieutenant saluted him, and Bo made use of the putter to return the gesture of respect. That was close, Bo thought as he strolled away. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

The tour continued. And Bo was about halfway around the circumference of the berm, and shooting the shit with a master sergeant, when Arkov interrupted them. “Excuse me, sir… But I have a message from the CO. He wants you to know that Union tanks are approaching the tower from the west. Lots of them.”

Lieutenant Colonel Fields was down in the underground command center, where he was supposed to be. And there were lots of cameras and sensors mounted on top of the three-hundred-foot tower. So if tanks were coming, he could see them.

Maybe this was it. After doing what she could to wear the Confederates down, Bunny Smith had decided to launch a full-scale attack. Or had she? Something felt wrong. “Ask Colonel Fields to take a look all around,” Bo said. “A careful look.”

Arkov nodded and spoke into a handheld radio. What seemed like a long thirty seconds dragged by. Then Bo saw Arkov’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Holy shit. I’ll tell him.”

Arkov turned to Bo. “Colonel Fields says that motorcycles are coming in from the east! At least fifty of them.”

Bo’s mind was racing. Motorcycles… What the? Then he had it. The engineers who designed the towers had been in a hurry… And rather than build two vertical retaining walls, and fill the space between them with earth, they settled for a steep slope. A slope that could be used as a ramp! One the bikers could use to jump the defensive berm.

The weapons on the parapet would cut down most of the motorcycle riders before they could do that, of course… But if Smith sent enough bikers, some would get inside. To capture the tower? No. To kill people and cause confusion while the tanks rolled in. All of that flowed through his mind in an instant. “Tell Fields to put out the word: Kill the bikers before they can jump the berm and land in the compound. Come on!”

Bo began to run along the top of the wall. The rest of them had no choice but to follow. The noise generated by the motorcycle engines blended with the sound of outgoing gunfire to create an asynchronous roar. The four soldiers were halfway to the east side of the compound when a biker managed to pass through the hail of bullets unscathed and soar into the compound.

The bike landed hard, and the rider was thrown clear. He came up shooting and managed to kill a couple of unsuspecting soldiers before a third put him down.

Bo swore as he followed a flight of stairs down into the compound below. Bo’s bodyguards were firing their assault weapons by then, and one of them managed to smoke an incoming soldier before his motorcycle could touch down.

A Union solider was lying on his back clutching his leg when Bo shot him in the head. The situation was critical, the biker still had the capacity to fire his weapon, and Bo didn’t have the resources to guard prisoners. A different biker saw the execution and fired his machine pistol at Bo. The bullets cut Arkov down as one of Bo’s bodyguards shot the Yankee in the throat.

Bo knelt next to Arkov to check for a pulse. There was none. He took the major’s radio. It looked as though the motorcycle attack was over. “This is Macintyre… We’re making progress in the compound. What’s the situation outside the wall? Over.”

“Our armor arrived,” Fields responded. “They’re duking it out with the Union tanks. So far so good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bo replied as he fired at a Union soldier. “Keep your doors locked.”

“They’re sealed,” Fields assured him. “And our helicopters are on the way back.”

After being sent away, the command’s Apaches had been ordered to land and wait for orders. Now they were about to swoop in, and just in time, too, since surface-to-air missiles were flashing off the top of the tower, a sure sign that Smith’s aircraft had joined the fray.

The contest for control of the compound was over fifteen minutes later. The larger battle raged on for more than two hours. But when it was over, and Bo looked out over the battlefield from the top of the tower, he liked what he saw. General Smith’s forces had been forced to retreat northwards, leaving a hundred wrecked vehicles behind them. Some continued to burn. The threads of gray smoke came together to throw a pall over the ravaged farmland that surrounded the tower.

Bo heard intermittent bursts of gunfire as unspent rounds of ammunition cooked off in the burning vehicles. Tiny figures limped north. Some were carrying stretchers, and Bo wondered if he knew some of them. Probably. Not that it mattered. He turned his back on the scene and walked away. A battle had been won. Others waited to be fought.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

The Strykers left at precisely 0630. There was a hint of light in the east, and Mac could see her breath, as she stood in the DOOBY DO’s forward hatch. Strykers came in a variety of flavors, and the DOOBY was an ESV, which stood for Engineer Squad Vehicle. A tractor-style blade was mounted on the front of the truck. And, based on previous experience, Mac knew the specially equipped vic could be useful for pushing stalled cars out of the way, something that might come up. Ten Strykers were lined up behind the ESV. The rest were at the very tail end of the column, where, should it be necessary, they could turn and fight.

Meanwhile, an air force Predator drone was flying ahead, searching for any signs of a blockage or ambush. Thousands of feet higher, a pair of F-15 Eagles had been assigned to provide air cover. And that was important in case the AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) plane circling to the south detected enemy aircraft. All of which was good. So, Mac asked herself, why am I worried?

Because you’re always worried, her inner voice replied. No one can move a brigade without someone noticing. How will the rebs respond?

The question went unanswered as the ESV threaded its way through narrow streets and followed an on-ramp up onto I-10. It was a squeeze point, and Mac wouldn’t have been surprised to encounter trouble there. But the way was clear, and traffic was light. That made Mac feel optimistic as the DOOBY’s TC drove along the elevated section of I-10 that bordered Lake Pontchartrain on the right.

After ten minutes or so, the freeway veered to the northwest, and Mac turned to look back. The good news was that her Strykers were maintaining the correct intervals. The bad news was that they couldn’t exceed 30 mph without leaving the Marine amtracks behind.

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by a bright flash of light and a thunderous BOOM. The noise came as a shock. Mac felt a stab of fear and was glad that no one could see her face. Don’t feel, think, Mac told herself.

By some miracle, none of her vehicles were damaged by the blast. It blew a big chunk out of I-10, however, and more explosions followed. One of them was behind her. Mac turned to see that a huge crater was blocking the way. The DOOBY’s truck commander stomped on the brakes, and the ESV jerked to a stop.

There was all sorts of radio chatter by then, but Mac’s attention was elsewhere. Her responsibility was to think before giving a command but to do it quickly. What caused the explosions? IEDs? No, Mac didn’t think so. Because a bomb-disposal team had been sent out to check the highway an hour earlier.

What then? Not aircraft… The AWACS plane would have warned them about that. What remained? Cruise missiles, that’s what… Fired by a Confederate sub somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico!

Okay, but why? Cruise missiles cost more than a million each. So the Confederates had spent more than eight mil attacking the convoy so far. That was a very expensive way to destroy a column of vehicles. Unless there was another purpose. What if the rebs were attempting to chop the brigade up into smaller pieces? So they could defeat it in detail? A variation on the old divide-and-conquer strategy. Mac keyed her radio. “This is Marauder-Six. Prepare to receive infantry attacks from both the left and right flanks. Over.”

No sooner had Mac spoken than mortar rounds began to fall on the road. Each explosion produced a crumping sound, a geyser of asphalt, and a hail of shrapnel. The fire appeared to be coming from the Maurepas Swamp on her right. And as Mac looked back, she saw that the Marine amphibs were under attack as well.

Walters was calling for the Zoomies by then, and Mac hoped the planes were carrying full loads of rockets and bombs. If so, they would be able to suppress the mortar fire in short order.

But Mac had a more immediate problem to deal with as Confederate soldiers began to fire on the column from the tree line on her right. “Cross over to the other side of the freeway!” she ordered. “And turn toward the enemy. Keep your vics low, but make sure your weapons can fire on the woods. Over.”

Wheels spun as the ESV crossed the median and turned. Like most highways, I-10 was higher in the middle so that water would run off and into the ditches that bordered both sides. So once the Strykers had taken up their new positions, all the enemy soldiers could see was the top third of each vehicle. “Hit ’em hard,” Mac ordered. “Over.”

Mac wanted to check on the rest of her command at that point but couldn’t as dozens of rebel soldiers emerged from the tree line, ran forward, and took cover in the newly created craters. Bullets rattled against the DOOBY’s armor as the ESV’s 40mm grenade launcher began to chug. The vic’s gunner could see the enemy on her remote-weapons-system screen and fire without exposing herself. A line of explosions marched along the highway, and the volume of incoming fire began to drop off.

Mac continued to fire short bursts from the pintle-mounted machine gun. It wasn’t bravery so much as a single-minded determination to get the job done. Then something struck the back of Mac’s knees. That caused her legs to buckle, and she fell into the cargo compartment below.

Mac was pissed… And that must have been visible on her face because medic Larry Moody raised a hand. “Don’t give me any shit, Major… This ain’t no movie, and you sure as hell aren’t John Wayne.”

Moody had a tendency to be outspoken at times and occasionally insubordinate. But he was the best medic in Mac’s battalion, and at more than two hundred pounds, a hard man to ignore. “I’m going to court-martial your ass,” Mac told him, as bullets continued to ping the Stryker’s armor.

“It’s too late for that,” Moody replied. “They already did! And you got me out of prison. So I may be a fuckup, but I’m your fuckup. Live with it.”

Mac grinned. “Yeah… Thanks.”

Both of them looked up at the ceiling as the Stryker shook, and a dull boom was heard. It was the F-15s! Providing close ground support.

Mac stuck her head up through the hatch just in time to see black smoke billow up into the sky. A second run followed the first. Then a combined force of Marines and soldiers swept past. The ensuing firefight lasted for fifteen minutes, and by the time it was over, the surviving Confederates had been forced back into the swamp. The drone operators had failed to spot them. Why? Because shit happens, that’s why. Maybe it was negligence. Or maybe the rebs were good at concealment.

Sadly, two Strykers and two Stryker crews had been lost along with an amtrack carrying twenty-one people. Had the Confederates won? Or had they lost? Judging from the number of bodies that lay scattered about, Mac felt sure that the enemy had suffered most of the casualties. But the Union Army had been delayed. And maybe, in rebel minds, that was a victory.

Casualties were loaded onto helicopters for transportation to the navy hospital ship a few minutes away in New Orleans. Then the convoy got under way again. It was midmorning by then, and everyone felt jittery. Mac was no exception. What else did the rebs have up their sleeves?

The answer was snipers. It was impossible to tell if the sharpshooters were members of the military or civilian resistance fighters. Nor did it matter. A bullet is a bullet. And while most of the projectiles failed to find flesh and bone, they hit the Strykers with enough regularity to keep everyone on edge.

So Mac felt a sense of relief as the column pulled into Sorrento and took possession of an athletic field. The next hour and a half was spent setting up a defensive perimeter, which was reinforced by carefully positioned Strykers and amtracks.

Once that chore was completed, tents were erected to provide shelter for the brigade command post, the first-aid station, and the troops themselves. One of the shelters was assigned to Mac. It served as battalion HQ and a place where Mac could meet with what remained of her command structure.

And finally, after all of the outstanding issues had been discussed if not resolved, the tent was hers to sleep in. But first Mac went over to check in with Walters—and wound up eating an MRE with the CO. Then it was back to the tent for a sponge bath before hitting the rack. The cot wasn’t very comfortable. But Mac was so tired, she could have slept on a sheet of plywood. And that’s where she was, dreaming about a sandy beach, when an enormous weight straddled her.

Mac opened her mouth to scream only to have a wad of fabric shoved into it. A battery-powered night-light was sitting on the storage module near the entrance to the tent. But it was dim. And as Mac looked up, she couldn’t make out a face. A knife cut her tee shirt open. She could smell the man’s sweat as huge hands mauled her breasts. Mac tried to push him off. He chuckled. “No way, whore… We’re gonna have some fun… Then I’m going to cut you.”

Mac recognized the voice. Larry Moody! The same Moody who had forced her down out of the hatch earlier that day. All two hundred pounds of him. The Glock then… It was half-hidden by her pillow and close to her left hand. But that was pinned to the edge of the cot as Moody leaned forward to suck on an exposed nipple. Mac could wrap her fingers around the nine mil’s grip, however. She pulled the trigger three times as Moody bit her.

Moody hadn’t been hit but jerked as if he had and straightened up. Mac saw the glint of polished steel as Moody raised the knife, but that was when light flooded the tent, and a male voice yelled, “Freeze!”

Mac expected Moody to stab her. But, much to her surprise, the ex-convict kept his hands raised. Mac pulled the wad of cloth out of her mouth with her right hand as she brought the Glock up under the medic’s chin. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Get off me, or I will blow your fucking brains out.”

More soldiers had arrived by then, and they took Moody away. Mac pulled a shirt on, sat on the cot, and began to shake uncontrollably. Then the tears came. But they were silent tears because people could hear, and Mac was supposed to be strong.