Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 3

SORRENTO, LOUISIANA

It was raining, and Mac could hear the pitter-pat of raindrops hitting the tent over her head. More than five hours had passed since Moody’s attack. She was the only patient in the first-aid tent because Colonel Walters had ordered the medical personnel to “… take a break.” Why? Because the Marine wanted to speak with her privately. And, judging from the expression on her face, Walters was angry. “They tell me you’re going to be okay,” Walters said. “And that’s good because it means I’m free to chew you out.”

Mac was confused. “Chew me out? For what?”

“You held out on me,” Walters replied. “Explain this.”

Mac winced as Walters pushed a much-folded piece of paper across the table. It looked as if it had been kept in someone’s pocket. Moody’s pocket? Yes. Now Mac understood. The ex-con had been determined not only to rape and kill her but get paid for it. “I filed a report.”

Walters stared at her. The words were icy. “With whom?”

“With Colonel Russell. He’s the officer I report to.”

“He’s the officer you report to on paper,” Walters replied. “You could have copied me, and you didn’t. Why?”

Mac looked away and back again. “I was afraid that you would give my battalion to someone else and send me north.”

The expression on Colonel Walters’s face softened slightly. “I get that. So, are the accusations true? Did you kill your sister?”

“No, but I was present when she died. There were a lot of witnesses.”

“But your father thinks you pulled the trigger.”

“Yeah, I guess he does.”

Walters frowned. “This is a first so far as I know. And, since there isn’t any precedent to follow, I can handle the situation as I see fit.”

Mac searched the other woman’s face for some sign of what she intended to do. “And?”

“And I need you… But other people may know about the reward and come after you.”

“I know that,” Mac replied. “But they might come after me anywhere, and that includes cities north of the New Mason-Dixon Line. What are you going to do with Moody?”

“I’m going to send his ass up to Leavenworth, where his original sentence will go back into effect. Then they’ll court-martial him all over again,” Walters replied. “We’re leaving in an hour. Do you feel up to it?”

Mac stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

Walters smiled. “Good. So get the hell out of my first-aid tent. The swabbies want it back.”

GRAND CAYMAN ISLAND, THE CARIBBEAN SEA

The clouds had parted, the sun was out, and President Samuel T. Sloan still felt slightly seasick as the landing craft came alongside the tender pier. Grand Cayman had been a regular stop for cruise ships back before the May Day disaster. And untold thousands of tourists had been sent ashore in brightly colored tenders to stroll through Georgetown before going back to their respective ships for dinner.

But rather than the usual mélange of professional greeters, hopeful taxi drivers, and food vendors, a company of Marines was waiting to greet the president as he stepped off the boat and onto the platform. It felt good to stand on something solid and, as the rest of his team disembarked, Sloan paused to look around.

A visitor center was located directly in front of him, and Georgetown lay beyond. Sloan had never had a reason to visit the Cayman Islands but knew they were home to secretive offshore banks. And that was why he was there… To pry the banks open and recover the money that had been stolen from the American people. “Mr. Higgins is here,” a Secret Service agent announced. “He claims that you requested a meeting.”

Sloan was about to reply when a pair of navy F-35 fighters roared overhead. They were flying low, no more than five hundred feet, and going extremely fast. Overlapping booms were heard as the planes broke the sound barrier.

Sloan grinned. “Shock and awe.” That’s what the boys and girls at Fort Knox called it… And if the citizens of Georgetown had been unaware of the invasion before, they sure as hell knew about it now. Sloan turned to find that a portly man in a tropical-weight suit was waiting to speak with him. “Mr. President? I’m your consular agent. My name is Brian Higgins. Welcome to Grand Cayman.”

Sloan had never heard of consular agents until the previous week. That was when Secretary of State George Henderson explained that the Caymans were too small to rate a consulate, much less an embassy. So Higgins had been hired to handle whatever issues might arise. The businessman had a round face, two chins, and a tendency to sweat. After removing a document from an inside pocket, he offered it to Sloan. “My bill,” Higgins explained. “I haven’t been paid since the meteors fell.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sloan said as he tucked the document away. “I will ask the State Department to pay you immediately. Now… Call the premier, tell him that I’m here and that I want to meet with him.”

A look of horror appeared on Higgins’s face. “We need an appointment! He would never…”

“Call him,” Sloan said. “Tell the premier, or his gofer, that if the big Kahuna fails to arrive within the next hour, we’re going to drop a two-thousand-pound smart bomb into his swimming pool. And yes, we know where he lives. As for me, I understand there are some nice bars a block away, and I’m going over to have lunch. He can join me there.”

Higgins fumbled a cell phone out of his pocket and was dialing as Sloan and his bodyguards walked away. It didn’t take long to discover that Georgetown had fallen on hard times. Except for a dozing dog and two boys on bikes, the main drag was deserted. Most of the previously thriving businesses were closed.

One of the few exceptions was the garish-looking Margaritaville Restaurant. Sloan waved his entourage forward. “Come on, lunch is on me.” The interior was nearly empty, and the staff was eager to seat such a large group of customers.

Sloan was seated at a table, and halfway through an order of chicken quesadillas, when he heard a commotion out front. The premier? Yes. And his bodyguards, all of whom were immediately disarmed.

Finally, after being cleared by Sloan’s Secret Service detail, Higgins was allowed to escort Premier Alfred Campbell into the part of the restaurant where Sloan was seated. He stood and went forward to greet Campbell. The premier was a big man, with black hair and coffee-colored skin. Judging from the look on his face, Campbell was pissed. No surprise there, Sloan thought. He’s seen the steel… So it’s time for the velvet.

“Premier Campbell! What an honor… Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. Please, have a seat. Will you join me? The food here is excellent… But I’m sure you know that.”

Campbell, who was clearly prepared for a contentious meeting, looked confused. “Yes,” he said. “There are many fine restaurants in Georgetown. I’m glad you like it.”

“I certainly do,” Sloan assured him, as the premier sat down. “I’m sorry about the planes, the troops, and all that… Please rest assured that we have no intention of occupying your country, harming your citizens, or interfering with the running of your government. We could use some assistance where some illegal banking transactions are concerned, however. Once that’s been taken care of, we’ll be on our way. But let’s eat first. There will be plenty of time to talk business later.”

Sloan’s friendly manner, combined with his assurances, were enough to take the edge off. Campbell seemed to relax, and the ensuing conversation centered on the devastating loss of income from tourism and international banking the Caymans had suffered since the meteors fell. And, according to Campbell, the civil war was making a bad situation worse. He wanted to know when the war would end.

The opening was too good to ignore, and Sloan didn’t. “The war will end when the Confederacy surrenders,” he said. “Which I believe will happen within the next six months. In the meantime, there are certain financial arrangements that we need to put right. And, if you can find a way to help me, that will serve to strengthen our already positive relationship.”

Campbell was no fool… And he had no difficulty translating Sloan’s flowery bullshit into real-speak. What the Union president meant was that he could assist the Americans or they would take whatever they wanted. Yes, the UK was supposed to protect the islands, but it was on the other side of the Atlantic. So he was tempted to cave in. But what about his Confederate friends? They’d gone to considerable lengths to support his faltering economy. Because they had large quantities of money stashed in the Caymans? Yes, but some of their representatives seemed to have a genuine affection for the colony as well.

How would the Confederates react if he were to cooperate with Sloan? Not well, Campbell reasoned. And that put him in a bind. Should he remain loyal to his Confederate clients? Or place a risky bet on a Union victory? Perhaps there was a middle course. He could cooperate with Sloan, but drag his feet and hope to continue the positive relationship with the Confederate government. “So,” Campbell said. “Tell me more. What ‘arrangements’ were you referring to?”

Sloan smiled. He could read Campbell’s mind, or thought he could, and liked the way things were going. “I believe you know Oliver Sanders,” Sloan said.

“You kidnapped him,” Campbell said. “That’s what it said in the New York Times.”

Sloan chuckled. “That’s what the article said. But you know Oliver… And you know the man is no fool. And when Oliver saw how the war was going, which is to say poorly for the South, he chose to defect. What you read in the Times was a cover story and nothing more. But that’s just between us, right?”

Judging from the expression on the premier’s face, Sloan could see that he was hooked. He wanted proof, though… Something to hang his hat on. “Really? How do I know that’s true?”

“Oliver’s living in Kentucky now,” Sloan replied. “I went down to visit him a week ago. He told me about the fishing trip that you took him on. According to Oliver, he caught a two-hundred-pound yellowfin tuna, but that seems hard to believe.”

“It was every bit of two hundred pounds,” Campbell replied. “That was a very enjoyable day.”

The truth was that Sanders had shared the tuna story with another prisoner, who had been quick to share the anecdote with Warden Gladfelter in return for some extra phone calls. Sloan smiled agreeably. “I’m sure it was. Anyway, according to Oliver, he was ordered to pump oil out of my country’s petroleum reserves and dump it onto the open market. And each time one of those transactions took place, some money was taken off the top and deposited in bank accounts belonging to President Lemaire and other prominent officials. Guess where those bank accounts are located? That’s correct, they’re here. In your country. And I want that money back. Not for me, not for the Union, but for the United States of America.”

Campbell’s seafood salad had arrived by then but sat untouched. He took a sip of white wine. “I wasn’t aware of that,” the premier said. “Or involved in it,” he added. “And, now that I understand the issue more clearly, I realize that I can’t help you. In order to recover your funds, it will be necessary to sue the officials in our courts and win. At that point, you can approach the appropriate banks and request payment. I would be happy to provide you with a list of reputable lawyers.”

Sloan frowned. “Okay, Al… I was hoping to do this the nice way. But now I realize that you’re a cretin. Call your wife. Tell her that she has ten minutes to take the kids and get out of the house.”

Campbell’s eyes grew larger. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to drop a bomb on that motherfucker. Or, if you prefer, you can help pry our money loose. It’s your choice, option A or option B. Which one is it going to be?”

“If you drop a bomb on my house, England will view that as an act of war!”

“Where were the Brits when Canada tried to invade my country?” Sloan demanded. “I’ll worry about them later. Option A or option B. You choose.”

There was a long moment of silence. Campbell appeared to be ill. “I’ll take option B.”

“An excellent choice!” Sloan said as he raised his glass. “To a short and mutually beneficial relationship! Oh, and by the way, don’t try to communicate with your buddies in Houston. We seized control of your communications an hour ago. That includes the submarine cables that connect you with the Eastern Caribbean Fiber System and the UK. It sucks, doesn’t it? Finish your salad, Al. We have work to do.”

PLAQUEMINE, LOUISIANA

It was the beginning of what was likely to be a long, bloody day, and Mac wondered how it would end. Would she be alive when the dimly seen sun set? Or zipped in a body bag? It could go either way.

After leaving Interstate 10 near Gonzales and traveling west on Highway 30, the convoy entered Plaquemine on Highway 1. It had been a pleasant riverfront town of seven thousand people before the war. Now it was a ghost town filled with deserted buildings, empty streets, and the charred wreckage of a fire that no one had been present to fight.

And the reason for that was apparent. To protect the nearby Bayou Choctaw Strategic Petroleum Reserve, the Confederates had placed thousands of mines in the communities of Plaquemine, Morrisonville, and Crescent. And the strategy had been successful. Before Colonel Walters could proceed, she had to send for mine-clearing vehicles.

Two days passed while the M1 Panther IIs were brought forward. That gave the rebs a lot of time to prepare, but it couldn’t be helped. The brigade was forced to settle in, assume defensive positions, and wait.

Finally, on the third day, the Panthers rolled down off their flatbed trucks. It took most of that afternoon to prepare the machines. The results were anything but pretty. Each vehicle consisted of an M1 tank hull, minus the gun turret, which had been replaced by a low-profile lid.

Rollers were mounted on the arms that extended out in front of each tank. The rollers were designed to rise and fall with the terrain and trigger any mines they encountered. Working side by side, the Panthers could clear a two-lane swath of land at a speed of 15 mph. Assuming that the rebs weren’t able to stop them with artillery, tanks, or rockets.

Each Panther had a two-person crew. They could ride in the vehicle itself, or control it remotely, via a briefcase-sized CCTV system. And that was the way they chose to proceed.

But clearing a path into the mine-free zone that lay beyond the edge of town was only the first step in what promised to be a difficult process. Assuming the brigade managed to get through the minefield, it would still have to face whatever the Confederacy threw their way before they could attack the petroleum reserve. And that wouldn’t be easy.

As the Panthers rolled forward, two Strykers followed along behind them. Both were buttoned up for safety’s sake, and Mac was riding in the DOOBY DO. The Stryker’s other passengers included the tank’s two-person crew and Mac’s RTO, Private Yancy. Sergeant Lang was operating the Panther via the CCTV rig sitting on his lap. Perez was taking a nap.

Earlier, while preparing for the mission, Mac asked Lang to describe how reliable the demining vehicles were. Lang said, “One hundred percent.” But Perez, who had been standing slightly behind him, shook her head. So it could happen.

If the DOOBY ran over an antipersonnel mine, that wouldn’t matter too much because Strykers had good armor. But antitank mines? Like an M-15 or an M-19? Either one could blow a track off a Panther or destroy a Stryker. So if the Panthers failed to detonate a large mine, the workday was going to end early.

Mac didn’t like being cooped up in a steel box but knew it wouldn’t be safe to stand in the forward air-guard hatch, so all she could do was sit and stew while the Confederate mines began to blow. There was a hollow place at the pit of her stomach. “Here we go,” Lang said, as a dull thump was heard. “It’s showtime!” Lang’s remote-control rig consisted of a single joystick, which he pushed forward.

The explosions came in quick succession, and in some cases overlapped each other, as the tanks worked in concert. The STEEL BITCH was following the second Panther and hanging back as far as it could. The Stryker’s truck commander had to remain inside the remote-control system’s 250-foot range, however, or the tank commander would lose control. Metal clanged on metal as shrapnel fell from above.

Stop thinking about that, Mac told herself. Focus on what you’re going to do on the other side of the minefield. That would depend on what the enemy did, of course… But the colonel’s orders were clear. Mac had responsibility for seven Strykers and four Marine Corps LAV-25s. Eleven vehicles in all. And her job was to push the rebs back, and keep them back, so the amtracks could crawl forward. Would that be difficult? The answer was obvious.

Suddenly, a new sound was added to the now-rhythmic thud of exploding mines. “We have incoming artillery,” the truck commander said tightly. “The rebs are aiming for the Panthers—but we’re right behind them.”

For the first time in her military career, Mac found herself hoping that the enemy gunners were good shots. Because if a 155mm artillery shell landed on top of the DOOBY DO, the Stryker would pop like a balloon. Lang must have known that. But the hand on the joystick was rock steady—and Perez had started to snore. Ladylike snores, to be sure, but Mac resented them. She was scared and firmly believed that everyone else should be scared, too. And Yancy was. Mac could see it in his eyes. “Call the colonel,” she told him. “Tell her that we’re taking artillery fire.” Walters knew that, of course, but the message would give Yancy something to do and help steady his nerves.

“Well, that sucks,” Lang said. “Tank two lost a track… We’re on our own now.”

Lang was wearing a headset that allowed him to communicate with his peer in the other Stryker. And he was correct. The loss of tank two meant the amtracks would be forced to proceed single file rather than two abreast, effectively doubling the time required to squeeze the brigade through the minefield. And who was supposed to hold the rebels off while that took place? Her battalion, that’s who. Yancy’s eyes were huge. “Let the colonel know,” Mac ordered. “And tell the Steel Bitch to fall in behind us.”

Yancy made the call, listened to the response, and turned back to her. “The colonel says that the Confederate Strykers are coming out to play.”

Mac nodded and knew that her truck commanders were listening in. “Tell the colonel that we’re going to kick their asses.”

The brave words were meant to make Mac’s crews feel good. Unfortunately, victory was anything but certain. Not once during Mac’s training had any mention been made of how to conduct a Stryker-on-Stryker battle. And there was no reason for it to come up. American forces were the only ones who used Strykers, and since they weren’t going to fight each other, why prepare for a situation that wouldn’t occur?

It wasn’t the first time Mac had considered such a scenario, however. The possibility of such an engagement had occurred to her back in New Orleans during the briefing from Captain Hines. That didn’t mean that her outfit was ready, though… Not by a long shot. Especially since there had been no opportunity to train with the Marine LAV crews. So there was plenty to fear… Including the possibility of failure. Which would cost a lot of lives. Maybe her own. Mac knew her hands were shaking, so she was careful to fold her arms.

“All right,” Lang said as he looked up from the CCTV screen. “I think we’re through. Hey, Perez! Wake up, damn it… We need to inspect the tank. I’m going to be pissed if those bastards dinged my paint.”

That was when Mac realized that she hadn’t heard any explosions for what? A minute or so? And that included the incoming artillery rounds. Why? Because the enemy Strykers were entering the area, that’s why… And the Confederates couldn’t fire without running the risk of hitting their own vehicles. It was showtime.

After grabbing her brain bucket and fastening the strap, Mac stuck her head up through the forward air-guard hatch. The air felt cool after the warmth of the Stryker’s cargo bay, gunmetal-gray clouds hung low over the northern horizon, and green fields lay all around. It felt good to escape the steel box.

The DOOBY had paused so that the tank crew could exit through the back. The ramp came back up as the STEEL BITCH pulled alongside. The rest of her Strykers were passing through the minefield and spreading out to either side of her.

“This is Marauder-Six,” Mac said. “Kill your IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) systems and switch to the multispectral combat beacons. Friendly vehicles are blue. You can shoot at everything else. Watch your aim, though… We can’t afford to overshoot, undershoot, or miss. Keep it tight. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of clicks as she turned to scan the area ahead. Confederate Strykers were emerging from the distant tree line—and Mac was reminded of the roles that cavalry played during the first civil war. They’d been used for reconnaissance and for harassing the enemy as they tried to retreat. But above all else, the cavalry had been called upon to fight delaying actions. And that’s what the Confederates were doing now.

Based on the fact that the rebs were coming out in a line abreast, Mac figured their CO was planning on a largely static long-range duel in which each formation would try to pound the other into submission. That was stupid. A Stryker’s greatest asset was its mobility. And there was no way in hell that Mac was going to sit still while the enemy shot at her. “Lay smoke!” she ordered. “And get in there!” The words were brave enough… But her mind was filled with doubt. What if she was wrong about the enemy’s intentions? There were no do-overs in war.

Each vehicle was equipped with four M6 smoke dischargers. And since there were four tubes in each discharger, a vic could launch up to sixteen grenades. Mac figured that would be enough to do the job. She made a quick count. The rebs had fourteen vics to her eleven! Not the best odds, but what was, was.

A gray fog closed in around the battlefield as the Union Strykers raced toward the rebel line, passed through the gaps between the Confederate vehicles, and turned. That was the plan the TCs had agreed to follow if the battalion was faced with a line abreast. But it was the full extent of what Mac could do. The rest was up to the individual truck commanders, like the corporal in charge of the DOOBY DO.

His name was Roy Rogers. His parents thought it was funny. But Rogers had been taking shit for the moniker ever since he entered grade school, and eventually acquired the handle “Cowboy.” It suited him well. Part of that had to do with his Gary Cooper good looks. But the nickname referenced Rogers’s run-and-gun persona, too, and it matched the situation. Because there wasn’t going to be enough time for Mac or anyone else to give Cowboy orders.

Nor would it be possible for Cowboy to choose targets. His gunner’s name was Maggie, or “Mags.” And because of the thick smoke, Mags would have to use thermal imaging to “see” the vehicles around her, sort them out, and reserve her fire for the enemy.

Under normal conditions, Mags would have been able to use the standard IFF system for that. However, since the reb vics had the same IFF system, Mac wasn’t sure whether the enemy Strykers would appear as friends or foes. She hoped the “outlaw” multispec beacons would not only provide her people an important edge but prevent friendly-fire incidents, too.

The key to winning the battle would be individual initiative and judgment. Who would prove to be better at that? The rebs? Or her ex-cons and their Marine Corps buddies? They were about to find out. Action was an excellent antidote for the fear that crept in whenever there was nothing to do. But being up top, Mac had nothing to rely on other than what her eyes could see, and was grateful for her goggles as the smoke swirled around her. Suddenly, she was a machine gunner instead of a battalion commander, and that was no easy task.

A Stryker with a 105mm cannon appeared to her right, and knowing that none of her vehicles had a long gun, Mac fired the LMG (light machine gun) at it. The relatively light 5.56X45mm rounds couldn’t penetrate the other vehicle’s armor, but rebs would hear the bullets ping their hull, and the sound might distract them.

Then Cowboy turned to the left and Mags began to fire the DOOBY’s 40mm grenade launcher at a target Mac couldn’t see. She could hear, though… And a hellish symphony it was. Mac heard the crack of grenades exploding, as well as the intermittent chug, chug, chug of multiple .50 caliber machine guns, overlaid with the harsh bang, bang, bang sound produced by the LAVs’ chain guns.

The DOOBY threw Mac sideways as Rogers made a tight turn. An enemy Stryker appeared out of the smoke with a Confederate flag flying. Was that a matter of pride? Or a way to identify the unit? Mac fired at it, watched the vic veer away, and saw another truck in the distance. It was flying a flag, too… So maybe the enemy CO harbored the same concerns she did.

Something slammed into the DOOBY’s right flank and lifted the truck up off that set of wheels before gravity prevailed. A 105 round? If so, Mac was lucky to be alive as Cowboy put his boot down. The response was slow. Was that due to the dozer blade mounted up front? Or had the DOOBY been damaged? Mac feared the latter, and Rogers confirmed it. “Two of our right-hand wheels were destroyed, Major… So we’re limping a bit.”

“Do the best you can,” Mac told him. “We’ll make it.”

Because Strykers have eight-wheel drive Mac figured that the DOOBY could continue to mix it up on a limited basis. And the more moving targets the rebs had to deal with, the better.

Mac was forced to duck as a vic pulled alongside and fired its fifty. The big slugs were hammering the hull, and eating their way in, when she heard a muffled explosion. A triumphant shout followed: “Semper fi, motherfuckers!”

And when Mac stuck her head up again, she saw why. Because there, in the DOOBY’s wake, was a burning Stryker. An LAV was doing victory laps around it as a Marine fired his LMG into the wreckage.

The smoke was drifting away by then… And Mac was desperate to see what had taken place. Had the battle been won or lost? Gradually, as DOOBY circled the battlefield, a picture started to emerge. Nine of the enemy machines were little more than burning hulks, and a handful of rebs stood with their hands raised. The rest of the Confederate vehicles were nowhere to be seen and had presumably withdrawn.

That was the good news. The bad news was that two of her vics had been destroyed, two of her soldiers had been wounded, and three were dead. Some machines, like the DOOBY, were badly shot up. Those realities were enough to counteract any feelings of jubilation that Mac might have otherwise felt. “This is Marauder-Six,” she said over the radio. “You are the best group of crazy people that ever wore whatever uniform you’re wearing. Hooah!”

What came back over the radio was a mutual “Hooah,” intermixed with “Oorahs” from the Marines. Mac couldn’t help but grin. The Marauders might be a badly mismatched bunch, but they were hers, and she was proud.

Mac was kneeling next to Cowboy, and they were inspecting one of the DOOBY DO’s badly mangled wheels, when Colonel Walters arrived. Engines roared as Marine amtracks churned past them. Walters was forced to shout in order to be heard. “Good job, Major! I watched the whole thing via our drones. What I could see through the smoke, anyway. Strykers on Strykers! That was a battle for the textbooks.”

“My truck commanders were outstanding,” Mac replied. “Take Rogers here… It turns out that he can drive and chew gum at the same time.”

Cowboy had a huge wad of pink gum in his mouth. He blew a bubble, and it popped. “Thanks, Major… I appreciate the feedback.”

Walters laughed. “It looks like your Stryker needs some repairs, Corporal. As for you, Major Macintyre, there’s no rest for the wicked. I want you and any vehicles that are operable to follow the troops in. Major Corvo will show you where to put them. The rebs had lots of time to prepare. Maybe they’ll sit tight, or maybe they’ll come out to play. If so, the weapons mounted on your Strykers could make the difference.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac replied. “The LAVs did a great job, by the way… Maybe the Marine Corps isn’t so bad after all.”

Walters grinned. “I’m gratified to hear it. I’ll see you later.” And with that, she was gone.

Mac ran a quick check, determined that seven of her vehicles were functional, and ordered them to follow the STEEL BITCH. She had taken some hits, but her TC swore that she was good to go. Mac climbed aboard and rode up top as the Stryker passed between two widely separated houses. The LAVs had left deep track marks in the soil, and so all they had to do was follow them. A large retaining pond blocked their path, forcing the trucks to turn and follow the amtracks north.

That led the vehicles to an access road. Mac brought her binoculars up as the BITCH turned left. Corvo’s amtracks could be seen in the foreground and were splitting into a Y formation that was calculated to envelop the Confederate base.

Beyond the personnel carriers, Mac could see the low-lying oil reserve. Concrete barriers had been set up to slow incoming vehicles, rolls of razor wire had been laid along the bottom of the berm, and a steel gate guarded the entrance. It was going to be a tough nut to crack. Fear began to seep back into her belly again. Fear of dying, fear of failing, and fear of fear.

Planes and or helicopters could have laid waste to the facility in fifteen minutes. But that wasn’t going to happen. The brigade had orders to capture the reserve intact, or mostly intact, so that the Union could access the oil stored there as quickly as possible.

Mac heard a boom, followed by the scream of a ranging shot, and saw a column of dirt leap into the air just short of an amtrack. The second phase of the battle had begun.

HOUSTON, TEXAS

General Bo Macintyre sat slumped in the backseat as the black SUV threaded its way through downtown traffic. His phone vibrated every now and then, but Bo chose to ignore the incoming messages in order to focus on an important problem. Lots of problems, actually… But only one that kept him up at night. And that was what he perceived to be a lack of will on the part of the people who were in charge of the government.

President Lemaire and his backers had been full of piss and vinegar when the war started. But after some setbacks, and a half year of fighting, it felt as if he was going through the motions. Meanwhile, people were dying. But what if Bo was wrong? What if the president and his staff were gung ho?

So Bo was going to have lunch with Orson Selock, who was not only a friend but Secretary of the Army. They’d gone to West Point together. And if anyone could give him the straight scoop, Selock could. But would he?

Selock had been passed over for general, had retired as a colonel, and was working for a government contractor when the war began. Thanks to his military background and a carefully nurtured network of contacts, he’d been named Secretary of the Army.

So what was Selock? A soldier at heart? Or had he gone over to the dark side? By which Bo meant civilians who liked to talk the talk but couldn’t walk the walk.

The SUV pulled in under the formal portico in front of the Four Seasons Hotel. One of Bo’s aides got out to open the door for him. Both were dressed in civilian clothes. “I’ll be a while,” Bo told her. “Grab some lunch. I’ll call when I’m ready to leave.”

The major who opened the door was young for her rank and bore a vague resemblance to Victoria. Had that influenced his decision to select her? No, of course not.

The major said, “Yes, sir,” and closed the door behind him.

Bo had been to Quattro Restaurant on previous occasions and knew the way. The maître d’ welcomed Bo and led him past tall windows and paneled walls to a table located in the back of the dining room. It was large enough to seat four but set for two, and half-hidden by a bushy plant. There was nothing unseemly about the Secretary of the Army having lunch with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. But Bo had no desire to advertise it.

After shaking hands and taking their seats, the men spent some time socializing. Selock congratulated Bo on his upcoming marriage to his longtime secretary and on the successful defense of Tower 26. “You kicked Bunny’s ass fair and square,” Selock proclaimed. “I’ll bet she’s still feeling the pain.”

Then the drinks arrived, and the conversation turned to the crappy weather, Selock’s fading golf game, and his son’s latest DUI. “The boy’s an idiot,” Selock finished bleakly. “He’s in a line outfit. Maybe the Yankees will kill him for me.”

“Or maybe he’ll wise up,” Bo said dutifully. Although he knew that was extremely unlikely.

The food arrived shortly thereafter and, after a bite or two, Bo began to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. He had to be careful, however… If Selock had gone over to the dark side, he might report the conversation to the Secretary of Defense. And while that wouldn’t be fatal, it wouldn’t be helpful, either. “Tell me something,” Bo began. “How would you describe morale?”

“You’ve seen the polls,” Selock replied. “The number of people who approve of the war, and think we’re going to win it, fell off when we lost New Orleans. But the majority of our citizens still support the president and what he’s doing.”

Bo nodded. “Right. But what about higher up? How’s the morale within the administration?”

Selock frowned and put his fork down. “What’s on your mind, Bo? It isn’t like you to weasel word around.”

Bo did his best to appear nonchalant. “I’m not as close to such things as you are, Orson. So there’s a good chance that I’m wrong. But I feel as if the overall sense of urgency has fallen off a bit… Almost as if certain people have given up.”

Selock looked left and right before taking a sip of his drink. “You’re very perceptive, Bo… Of course you always were. That’s one of the reasons you made general.

“Yes, I think our failure to secure a quick victory, followed by our inability to wall the Union off, had a negative impact on executive morale. But the Cayman Island thing put an end to that. The people you’re referring to are all in now, and you’ll feel the difference soon.”

“The Cayman Island thing”? What Cayman Island thing? Bo knew he was onto something, but he had to proceed with care. “Yes,” he lied. “I heard whispers. But nothing specific.”

Selock nodded. “It’s hush-hush, needless to say… But certain officials had substantial sums of money stashed in the Caymans. Escape money, if you will, to use if we lost the war.

“But President Sloan put an end to that when he invaded the islands and forced the banks to divest the money in the accounts that belonged to the board of directors, the president, and members of his cabinet. Now, if the Confederacy were to fall, those officials would be SOL.”

Bo stared at him. “I see. So what you’re saying is that their backs are to the wall. And that means they’re going to fight harder.”

Selock drained his glass. “Yes. Sloan made a serious mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Bo agreed. “Tell me something, Orson… Did you lose some money?”

Selock looked away, waved to a waiter, and held his empty glass up for the man to see. Then he turned back. “Enough shop talk, Bo… How ’bout those Astros? They won’t have to play the Yankees, thank God.”

Bo had his answers. Lemaire and his cronies had been preparing to run, and that included Selock, a man who’d been a warrior once. There was some news to savor, however. The rats were trapped on the sinking ship, and they’d be forced to fight if they wanted to survive. He raised his wineglass. “To the Astros… Long may they prosper.”