Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 4

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan entered the executive conference room to discover that a large number of his closest associates were already present. The group included his military attaché, Major Sam McKinney; Secretary of State George Henderson; Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison; and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Four-Star General Herman Jones. They were seated at a circular table and stood as he entered.

Sloan paused, looked down at the sheet of paper with his schedule on it, and back up again. “Wow, there’s a lot of brainpower in this room… And I see a lot of serious-looking faces. Please take your seats. Now, what is Operation Exodus?”

There was a scraping of chairs as everyone except McKinney obeyed. He positioned himself next to a screen. Sloan found himself looking at an aerial photo of what? A fort? A ghetto? It was impossible to tell. “Operation Exodus concerns 296 Union POWs,” McKinney said. “All of whom are being held in Detention Center One, near the town of Ascensión, Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Sloan demanded as he sat down. “What the hell are they doing there?”

“That’s a good question,” McKinney said. “And the answer begins with this man.”

Sloan saw the visage of a grim-faced man appear on the screen. “As you know,” McKinney continued, “General Bo Macintyre is General Jones’s peer within the Confederacy’s military structure.”

Sloan knew him all right… Or knew of him. Bo Macintyre was Robin Macintyre’s father. How could such a wonderful woman be related to such an asshole? Sloan forced himself to concentrate. “Okay, keep going.”

The photo of Macintyre was replaced by the likeness of a gaunt brigadier general. “This is General Marcus Lorenzo,” McKinney explained. “He reports to General Macintyre—and has responsibility for feeding, housing, and looking after our POWs. And, in keeping with the Libertarian principles that guide the Confederacy, Lorenzo chose to privatize his area of responsibility. And like any good conservative, he took the work to the lowest bidder who, in this case, was located in Mexico. The same country that is currently sending mercenaries to fight for the Confederacy.”

Secretary of State Henderson had a jowly face and a compact body. “We submitted numerous protests to the Mexican government,” he said. “But they were ignored.”

“So the POWs are being held in Ascensión, Mexico,” Sloan said slowly. “Where, exactly, is that?”

Secretary of Defense Garrison had wispy hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He was cleaning them with a handkerchief. “It’s about 120 miles southwest of El Paso,” he answered. “In an area known for its lawlessness.”

“Exactly,” McKinney agreed. “In fact, the woman who runs the detention center is a well-known drug smuggler. Her name is Rosa Alvarez Carbone. But she’s better known as ‘La ángel de la muerte,’ or the Angel of Death. The name stems from both her angelic appearance and the fact that she is responsible for killing at least 182 people, thirty-seven by her own hand.

“So, as you might expect, our POWs have been subjected to all sorts of abuse. Some were killed during a mass-escape attempt, there’s no medical care to speak of, and they’re starving.”

Sloan looked from face to face. “I assume you have a plan.”

General Jones had a buzz cut, brown skin, and a chestful of ribbons. “We do,” he said gravely.

“I’m all ears,” Sloan replied. “Lay it on me.”

They did. And Sloan smiled when the presentation was over. “It won’t be easy… But you’re well aware of that. I want our people back.”

BAYOU CHOCTAW STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE

Mac knew she wasn’t going to die—and felt a mix of emotions. Happiness, guilt, and relief all battled each other for dominance. After surrounding the Bayou Choctaw Petroleum Reserve, the brigade settled in for a night of psychological warfare. Flares went off at random intervals. Mortar shells fell occasionally. And a cheesy recording of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blared through portable speakers. Anything to keep the Confederates on edge. Unfortunately, that cut two ways and, after spending the night in a Stryker, Mac was exhausted.

An MRE was followed by a predawn staff meeting with Colonel Walters. And that was when Mac learned that Major Corvo was going to lead all of the troops, hers included, up and over the defensive berm. Or try to anyway… Because the outcome was anything but certain.

And that’s why Mac wasn’t going to die, and why she felt guilty about it. Her job was to lead Mac’s Marauders, not stand on top of a Stryker and watch the battle like a spectator at a football game.

But Walters was not only insistent but fundamentally correct. Corvo didn’t need a spare major looking over his shoulder. So Mac was left to peer through a pair of binoculars as the sun rose behind her, and the infantry advanced. The brigade’s redlegs fired the first shots. Their 155mm howitzers were stationed five miles back from the Confederate base, and the first shell produced a rumbling sound as it passed overhead. That was followed by a dull thump, and a column of smoke, as the round exploded somewhere within the enemy compound. More shells followed.

Would the artillery fire destroy the facilities the brigade was supposed to preserve? Maybe. But Walters didn’t care if the brass slapped her wrist. Not if the strategy worked. Mac admired the Marine’s style. Walters was an asskicker… No doubt about that.

The artillery barrage ended as suddenly as it had begun. And, like attacks launched on behalf of countless causes over the last three thousand years, soldiers charged forward. Never mind what kind of weapons they carried. The essence of the assault was no different than Wellington’s attack on the city of Badajoz. There had been artillery, a wall, and a storm. Just the thought of it seemed to summon the rain.

Like the French, the Confederates were standing on top of the wall, firing down. Automatic weapons rattled, and grenades exploded, as the Union soldiers surged forward. They were able to take cover behind the concrete traffic barriers, which, ironically enough, had been put in place by the rebs. I’ll bet someone feels stupid now, Mac thought, as her Strykers and LAVs opened fire on the defenders.

Grenade launchers weren’t appropriate for the situation, but the big fifties had a lot of reach, and so did the Marine Corps’ chain guns. Keep their heads down, Mac thought, as the vic’s fifty began to chug. Red tracers drew a line between the STEEL BITCH and the top of the wall. And that was important because the Union troops were going to be extremely vulnerable as they made their way up the rain-slicked slope.

And the strategy worked. As Mac panned her binoculars along the top of the berm, not a single head was visible. So Mac felt a new sense of optimism as the soldiers continued to climb. Then she heard what sounded like hundreds of firecrackers going off as flashes of light rippled across the front surface of the slope. Union soldiers were hurled backwards as the rebs detonated dozens of M18AC Claymore antipersonnel mines. Smoke rose like an evil mist. Badly mangled bodies slid downhill as more people fought their way up and over them.

Now the heads appeared as the Confederates fired down on the soldiers, and the assault stalled. Mac watched in horror as the attackers were forced to pull back under fire. Stretcher parties rushed forward only to stagger and fall.

There was counterfire though… A rocket exploded on top of the wall and sent bodies flying. But it wasn’t enough. The attack is about to stall, Mac concluded. No, the attack has stalled. And our wounded are dying. Mac felt an overwhelming need to do something.

“This is Marauder-Six,” Mac said. “All units will continue to provide fire support as they move forward to evacuate the wounded. Trucks one, two, and three will split left. Four will lead the remaining vics to the right. Let’s go. Over.”

None of the battalion’s Strykers were M1133 Medical Evacuation Vehicles. But all of them could be pressed into service for that purpose. The berm seemed to grow taller as the STEEL BITCH got closer to it. The TC was a corporal named Provo. Bullets kicked up geysers of mud all around a stretcher party as Provo came to a stop between the soldiers and the incoming fire. Mac felt a stab of fear as a projectile snapped by her right ear. She shouted into her boom mike.

“This is Marauder-Six… Put their heads down!” Then, as if to demonstrate what she meant, Mac aimed bursts of machine-gun fire at the top of the wall.

The fifty began to thump as the BITCH’s ramp went down and soldiers hurried to load stretchers into the cargo bay. “Get them to the LZ (landing zone) as fast as you can,” Mac ordered. “Seconds count.”

Mac removed her headset and jumped to the ground. There were more wounded to care for and not enough medics to go around. For the next twenty minutes, Mac was just another grunt, trudging through the mud and comforting the wounded. All the while waiting for the hammer blow—and the long fall into darkness.

“Don’t worry,” she told the soldiers. “You’ll be fine.” Some nodded, and one kid called her “Mom,” just before the light faded from his eyes. Unrestrained tears ran down her cheeks as Mac turned away.

By the time the last casualty had been evacuated, and the last body bag had been loaded into an LAV, Mac was physically and emotionally spent. What felt like five pounds of mud clung to each boot as she slogged back through the brigade’s perimeter and collapsed next to a wounded private. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head and his eyes stared at her without any sign of recognition. “Emilia, is that you? They killed Tom.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac told him as she put an arm over his shoulders. The soldier’s body shook as he cried. Mac held him until a navy corpsman arrived to lead the Marine away.

She wanted to stay there and let the cold rain wash her face, but there were other soldiers to tend to. Her soldiers. And they needed her.

Mac spent the next hour tracking the Marauders down, doing what she could to comfort them and restore morale. Most were okay, but some had been killed, and others wounded in ways that would never heal.

Mac was on her way back to the tent that had been assigned to her when she saw Colonel Walters. The Marine officer was sitting under a tarp, staring at the patch of mud between her boots. “Colonel?”

Walters looked up. Her face was drawn, and for the first time since they’d met, Mac saw despair in the other woman’s eyes. “Major… Thank you for pitching in to help the wounded. I won’t forget.”

Mac felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. Here, even in defeat, Walters was doing her job. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

Walters pointed to a crate. “Sure… Take a load off.”

Mac sat down. “It wasn’t your fault, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” Walters replied. “But that’s bullshit. I should have thought of Claymores. I should have, but I didn’t. People died. End of story.”

Mac nodded. “Okay, but ask yourself this… Did I think of Claymores? Did Major Corvo alert you to that possibility? There was no negligence involved, Colonel. And, until an all-knowing commanding officer shows up, the job is yours. I, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mac saw what might have been a look of gratitude in the other woman’s eyes. “Thanks, Robin, that means a lot. You look like hell, by the way… Try to set a better example for the troops.”

Mac grinned, stood, and delivered a textbook-perfect salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” And with that, she did an about-face and left.

The rest of the day was spent encouraging the mechanics who were trying to complete field repairs on the vics, requisitioning more of everything, and plowing through all of the usual paperwork.

But throughout it all, there in the back of Mac’s mind, a simple question waited. Was there a way to enter the rebel base without taking so many casualties? Could paratroopers do the job? What about some sort of special ops mission? Or attacking the berm with enormous tractors?

Each scenario had advantages, but each had weaknesses as well, like the tractor concept. Sure, earthmovers could dig a path through the berm. If the rebels allowed them to do so. But they wouldn’t. What to do? The problem continued to plague Mac as she crossed a sea of mud to the area where her vehicles were parked.

The sun was setting, and Sergeant Lang was sitting on the front deck of his mine-clearing tank, smoking a pipe and reading a book. It was a peaceful scene at the end of a very bloody day. And as Mac walked past, something clicked. The result was an idea. But what kind of an idea? A good idea? Or a bad one?

Mac turned, stepped over a puddle, and arrived below the point where Lang was seated. He saw her and stood. “As you were,” Mac said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I could use some help.”

“Sure,” Lang replied. “What’s up?”

“I have an idea,” Mac told him. “But I don’t know if it’s feasible. I’d like to pitch it to you. Then, depending on what you think, I might take it to the CO.”

Lang nodded. “Shoot.”

“I want an honest evaluation,” Mac cautioned.

“You’ll get it,” Lang promised.

So Lang listened as Mac explained what she had in mind. And once she was finished, he nodded. “It would take some prep. But if we set it up the right way, I think it will work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Hell, no,” Lang answered with a grin. “But I think it’s worth a try.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.”

Colonel Walters was in a meeting when the twosome arrived at the brigade’s HQ tent. That left them with no choice but to sip bad coffee and wait. The occasional pop of a flare could be heard, along with the faint strains of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and an occasional rifle shot. The snipers were working late.

It was well after 2000 hours by the time Walters was free to speak with them. “So,” Walters said, as her guests perched on stools that had been “liberated” from a nearby house. “I understand you have a proposal. Fire away.”

“We need a way to enter the Confederate compound while suffering only minimal casualties,” Mac began. “And maybe we have it. What if we took one of Sergeant Lang’s mine-clearing tanks, mounted a two-thousand-pound bomb over the front rollers, and pushed the payload up to those steel doors?”

Mac watched the idea sink in. Walters was tired, so it took her a moment to process it. But it wasn’t long before her expression started to brighten. “Holy shit! I like it… But the explosion would destroy the tank. And what about the driver?”

“I’ll be in a Stryker,” Lang told her. “Operating the tank by remote control and following along behind it.”

“That’s right,” Mac agreed. “And once we blow the door, my gunner will fire over the remains of the tank and into the compound as troops rush the entrance.”

Mac could see the wheels turning as Walters began to expand on the idea. “Maybe we’ll use two bombs… Let’s see what the experts say. And we can launch a feint at the west side of the berm while the tank goes in… That should draw some of the bastards away from the gate.”

Mac grinned. “So, it’s a go?”

“Hell yes, it’s a go. Make it happen.”

Thus began a long, sleepless night. There was a lot of work to do. It was necessary to stretch a huge tarp over the tank to conceal it from rebel drones, Captain Wu had to obtain the necessary bombs from the air force, and a team of mechanics were ordered to fabricate the bulletproof boxes that the explosive charges would ride in. Because if the bombs were detonated early, the entire effort would be for nothing.

Mac collapsed on her cot just after 0300 and got up three hours later. After a quick trip to the latrine, a mug of coffee, and a can of peaches, it was time to inspect the tank.

Twin boxes were mounted over the roller assemblies. What would the Confederates make of them? Would they assume the boxes contained weights? Which were part of a strategy to detonate mines? Or would one of them divine the truth? Fortunately, it didn’t matter so long as the modified M1 managed to complete its mission.

Other changes were apparent as well. Messages had been spray painted onto the tank. They included, “To the Confederacy with love,” “For Mindy,” and “Payback is a bitch.”

The nameless machine had been transformed into a vessel for the brigade’s sorrow and hate. Was that a good thing? What if the attempt failed? But it was too late for such concerns. Colonel Walters had a weapon, and she was going to use it.

The area was suffused with a sense of grim purpose as engines started, sergeants ran last-minute gear checks on their soldiers, and Mac made her way up the ramp and into the STEEL BITCH. She couldn’t stand in the air-guard hatch this time. Not initially.

As soon as the modified M1 tank appeared and began to make for the gate, the rebs would throw everything they had at it. And once the Abrams blew, shrapnel would fly every which way. Like it or not, Mac would have to sit in the cargo compartment and sweat the trip out.

Sergeant Lang was already aboard, as was Perez, who was busy painting her nails. Mac couldn’t figure out if Perez was brave or simply crazy. One thing was for sure, however… The army didn’t allow soldiers of either sex to have painted fingernails. But, given the fact that Perez might be dead within half an hour, Mac decided to cut her some slack.

Provo and her gunner were running systems checks as Private Yancy entered the cargo bay. Mac knew that he’d been sent to ensure that Walters could communicate with the Stryker even if its com system went down.

“I brought you this,” Yancy said shyly as he offered a thermos. “It’s full of coffee. Just the way you like it.”

That was when Mac realized that Yancy had a crush on her. Was it a case of hero worship? Or did the RTO have a thing for older women? It didn’t matter. “Thanks, Yance… That was very thoughtful. Some caffeine would hit the spot.”

Yancy looked pleased, and Mac was sipping coffee when the order came down. “Thunder-Six to Marauder-Six. Go get ’em. Over.”

Mac made eye contact with Yancy. “Tell her we’re on it.” Then, after turning to Lang, “You heard the lady… It’s time to rock and roll.” Lang nodded and went to work.

There was a pause while the M1 got under way. Then, once the correct interval had been established, Provo put the STEEL BITCH into motion. Both vehicles were traveling at about 10 mph, which meant that it would take fifteen minutes to reach the oil reserve and approach the gate.

Time seemed to stretch as the modified tank churned through the mud. How many times? Mac wondered. How many times will I do this before my number comes up? I hope it’s quick.

Then bullets began to ping the M1’s armor, mortar rounds fell, and geysers of soil flew up into the air. Lang was talking to his tank. “You can make it, hon… A little to the left, that’s right babe, you’re looking good.”

What were the rebs thinking? Mac wondered. Maybe they assumed that the Abrams was going to be used as a self-propelled battering ram. And that wasn’t far from the truth. But regardless of the M1’s specific purpose, the enemy knew the machine was a sixty-ton threat, so they threw everything but the kitchen sink at it. Machine-gun fire raked the hull and AT4 rockets flashed as they struck. But, unless they managed to destroy a track, there was nothing the Confederates could do to stop the behemoth.

Rank hath privilege. And even though Provo might not appreciate Mac’s presence, she went forward to peer over the truck commander’s shoulder. From that vantage point, Mac could see the back end of the tank as well as the looming wall beyond. The rebs were starting to panic by that time, and most of the M1 was obscured by smoke as the incoming fire enveloped it. “We’re close,” Provo said. “So far so good.”

Mac turned and went back to sit next to Lang. An unlit pipe jutted from his mouth as he made a small correction to the M1’s course. By looking at his screen, Mac could see every scratch and ding in the steel doors that protected the rebel base. The tank stopped. “I have contact,” Lang announced.

“Blow it,” Mac ordered, and he did. Even though Mac was inside a Stryker, the explosion was still extremely loud. The STEEL BITCH rocked as the pressure wave hit her, shrapnel clanged against the hull, and Provo produced a whoop of joy.

Perez blew on her nails. “There goes seven million dollars,” she observed coolly. “I hope it was worth it.”

Mac stepped up onto the seat, opened the hatch, and stuck her head through the hole. It had been worth it. To her, anyway. The twin explosions had reduced the once-powerful M1 tank to a burning hulk. “Hey, Kolo,” Mac said. “Fire through the smoke… Keep them back.”

The fifty started to chug as troops surged past both sides of the Stryker. Then Kolo had to let up as the soldiers poured through the shattered gate and into the compound beyond.

Most of the Confederate heavy weapons were pointing out. And there was very little time in which to turn them around as Union troops began to shoot the gunners from behind. The rebs fought bravely, but the effort came too late. The Confederates had no choice but to surrender. Mac felt a sense of relief.

She entered the compound on foot. There wasn’t much to look at other than some damaged storage tanks, a shattered shed, and a lot of mangled pipes. Bodies lay where they had fallen. As for the oil that so many people had died for, that was somewhere under her feet. Was it worth the suffering on both sides? Mac hoped so.

An hour later, Mac was seated in her tent, finalizing a letter to a dead soldier’s parents, when Colonel Walters arrived. Mac began to rise. Walters said, “As you were,” and lowered herself into a rickety lawn chair. Mac’s miniscule staff withdrew. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Walters said. “But no good deed goes unpunished. And you’ve been good lately.”

Mac forced a smile. “Uh-oh, what’s up?”

“Major Corvo’s people found a list of the soldiers assigned to the base, and three rebs are missing.”

“There were lots of body parts lying around the compound,” Mac said. “Maybe they add up to three people.”

Walters shook her head. “No, I’m positive that they ran. And that’s one of the reasons why we won. The CO, the XO, and a doctor left their people to die.”

Mac winced. “That’s terrible… But why do we care?”

“Because they took all of the records with them. That includes how much oil was pumped, where it was going, and the name of the person who authorized the transaction. All of which would be useful after the war.”

Mac could imagine it. The trials would involve hundreds of defendants and last for years. “Roger that. Thanks for sharing. I hope Corvo finds them.”

Walters chuckled. “Nice try, Macintyre… But this plate of shit has your name on it.”

“No offense, ma’am… But that’s crazy. How would I find the bastards? They could be anywhere by now.”

A smile appeared on Walters’s face. “I have good news for you, Major… We have a very good idea where Lieutenant Colonel LeMay and his officers are.”

“LeMay was the CO?”

“Yes, he was. And when you blew the west gate, he and his buddies fought their way out through the east gate. They were in a Stryker, and quite possibly headed for a town called Frogsong.”

“‘Frogsong’? Seriously?”

“Seriously. That’s where LeMay’s family farm is located. It was a plantation prior to the first civil war and, according to Lieutenant Everson, it’s partially fortified. It seems LeMay is a hard-core every-man-for-himself Libertarian. So grab some sleep, gear up, and go to Frogsong. I want those records. Everson agreed to accompany you.”

Mac groaned. “Oh, goody… A POW to keep track of.”

“Stop whining,” Walters replied. “It sets a bad example.”

Mac made a face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Walters turned to go and turned back again. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I put you in for a distinguished service medal.” Then she was gone.

Mac was tired but curious as well. So after consuming most of an MRE, she went looking for Lieutenant Everson. Much to her surprise, the Confederate officer was being held with the other POWs in a makeshift jail. The “pen,” as the MPs referred to it, was located inside the recently liberated compound. It consisted of a double-wide trailer that had originally been used as an office, plus some chain-link fencing scavenged from another part of the facility, and rolls of razor wire that had been on top of the berm.

Mac’s reaction stemmed from the fact that Everson was being held with the other rebs. They were bound to be at least somewhat cognizant of the fact that he had been cooperating with their captors, and that being the case, he was likely to be regarded as a traitor. Except that he wasn’t. And the reason for that became clear when Everson was brought out to meet her.

The officer had sandy-colored hair, freckles, and slightly protruding ears. The salute was parade-ground perfect. “Lieutenant Mark Everson, ma’am… Confederate Army. May I make a request?”

“That depends on what it is,” Mac replied. “I’m Major Macintyre.”

“Yes, I know,” Everson replied. “Everyone does. If you have no objections, I would like to speak to you next to the fence. So my soldiers can hear what’s said.”

That was a surprise, but it made sense. Everson was operating in the open, which implied that the other prisoners knew and approved of what he was doing. Why were they willing to cooperate? Because Lieutenant Colonel LeMay had betrayed them, that’s why. “Sure,” Mac replied. “Let’s see if the MPs can round up some chairs. I’m glad it isn’t raining.”

Once two beat-up lawn chairs were in place, Mac and Everson sat down only inches from the cyclone fence. Everson took a moment to introduce the delegation of five Confederate soldiers who had volunteered to listen and share what they heard with the other prisoners.

“Okay,” Mac said, once the preliminaries were taken care of. “We’re here to discuss how to locate and capture a deserter named Lieutenant Colonel LeMay. Tell me everything you think I should know. My task force will depart in the morning.”

The language was necessarily formal given the unique nature of the situation and made no mention of Mac’s real mission, which was to recover the records that Colonel Walters had described. As the meeting came to an end, Mac thanked the Confederates and asked if they were getting enough to eat.

After being assured that they were, Mac went back to her tent, where she collapsed on her cot and fell asleep. It felt as if only minutes had passed when the alarm sounded seven hours later. After a frigid shower, followed by two mugs of coffee and a chicken noodle MRE, Mac was ready to depart.

Marine Lieutenant Maureen Collins and the rest of Mac’s team were waiting next to the team’s vehicles. The force consisted of Collins, a squad of Marines, and an equal number of soldiers under Staff Sergeant Mick Preston. There were eighteen people in all. The plan was to split them up between two Strykers and two Marine LAV-25s.

After introducing herself to the troops, and explaining the mission, Mac asked Collins and Preston to join her as she inspected each vehicle. Knowing that the unit might have to fend for itself for up to five days, Mac wanted to ensure that Task Force Longarm had plenty of everything, with an emphasis on food, ammo, and fuel. And thanks to good planning by Collins and Preston, Mac could find very little to complain about.

At that point, it was time to mount up, drive to the holding pen, and sign for Everson. Mac chose to put the rebel officer in the STEEL BITCH with her and assigned two privates to keep an eye on him.

After providing Provo with some preliminary directions, Mac sat next to Everson in the cargo compartment. A map was spread out in front of them. “Show me where we’re going,” Mac instructed.

“Frogsong is here,” Everson said, as a grubby index finger stabbed the map. Mac saw that he was pointing to a bend in the Mississippi River located north and west of Baton Rouge. That put the community in the so-called disputed zone. Meaning the stretch of river that the Union didn’t fully control yet. And based on her experiences up around Vicksburg, Mac knew that could mean trouble. The key was to get in, grab what she needed, and get out quickly.

According to what Everson had told her, LeMay was likely to go home because he couldn’t rejoin the army. Not without explaining why he wasn’t dead or being held captive in a Union POW camp. As for how Everson came to know about Frogsong, that stemmed from the fact that he and some of his fellow officers had been guests at the farm a month earlier, when Mrs. LeMay held her annual cotillion. War be damned.

The task force had to clear multiple checkpoints as it passed through Baton Rouge. There hadn’t been a lot of fighting there as far as Mac could tell, and that was a good thing.

Highway 61 took them north and slightly to the west. Traffic was light, the weather was relatively good, and all Mac had to do was enjoy the view as they rolled through a succession of small towns. Then came verdant farmland, which was dotted with well-kept houses and barns. Mac looked back every once in a while and was pleased to see that the other vehicles were maintaining the proper intervals.

About an hour outside of Baton Rouge, Everson told Provo to turn off the highway and onto a country road. That was the point where the possibility of trouble increased. Union forces were in firm control of the highways. But the areas to either side of them? They were up for grabs.

And there was another threat as well. It didn’t seem likely given the circumstances. But what if Everson was flat-out lying? And more than that, leading the task force into a trap? It was a possibility that Mac and Walters had discussed. So unbeknownst to Everson, a Predator drone was scouting the route ahead. Lieutenant Collins was responsible for maintaining contact with the operator—and would let Mac know if there were signs of trouble.

But there weren’t any alerts as the Union vehicles ventured out into the countryside. “This is Longarm-Six,” Mac said. “We’re in the zone. Keep a sharp lookout. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of clicks before ducking down into the cargo area below. The rest of the passengers turned to look at her. “So,” Mac said, as she sat down. “We’re getting close. What’s next?”

“We’re going to pass through the town of Frogsong,” Everson replied. “It was founded by ex-slaves immediately after the first civil war. Then we’ll enter the farm. According to what I was told during my visit, it’s about half the size of the family’s original holdings. But it still includes something like a thousand acres of land and swamp.”

“Okay, and then?”

“Then we’ll drive to the center of the farm. Union troops burned the original mansion to the ground. When the war ended, Colonel LeMay’s great-grandfather built a new home on an island in the middle of Snake Bayou where, in Mrs. LeMay’s words, ‘the Yankees couldn’t get at it.’”

“We’ll see about that,” Mac said dryly. “So LeMay is on the island. How can we reach it?”

“There’s an old drawbridge,” Everson replied. “But the colonel is likely to raise it. Maybe we can locate some boats.”

Both of the LAV-25s were amphibious, and could “swim” out to the island, so long as there was a beach to launch from. But Mac saw no need to explain that and didn’t. She went forward to stand in the hatch again.

The vic passed dilapidated houses from time to time, along with empty fruit stands and a run-down church. Then the column entered Frogsong. There weren’t many people on Main Street, and those who were stood and stared. Mac figured they hadn’t seen much of the war and weren’t sure who the vehicles belonged to.

Judging from the brick buildings that lined both sides of Main Street, Frogsong had been a bustling place at one time. But those days were over. At least half the stores were empty and hung with FOR SALE signs. The sidewalks were sagging, weeds grew in the neglected street planters, and the clock on the bank was more than four hours off.

After passing a defunct Ford dealership, the task force entered the leafy tunnel formed by two rows of ancient oak trees. The passageway delivered the convoy to a formal gate with an overarching sign: FROGSONG FARM. The soldiers had arrived.

The gravel road went past a rusty tractor and a tumbledown barn before turning north. Mac caught a glimpse of the Mississippi off to the left but lost sight of the river as thick trees blocked the view. Rays of sunlight streamed down through broken clouds to splash the land with pools of liquid gold. No wonder the LeMay family loves this place, Mac thought. I would, too.

The road narrowed as water appeared on the right. Snake Bayou? Probably. And that meant the task force could run into trouble at any moment. LeMay had a lot of employees according to what Everson had told her, some of whom were so-called swamp rats, and excellent shots.

That’s what Mac was thinking about when she spotted the vehicles parked up ahead. There were cars, pickup trucks, and a bus. People were milling around but none appeared to be armed. It wasn’t what Mac expected to see, and she told Provo to pull over. Then she asked Yancy for his mike. “This is Longarm-Six actual. We’re pulling over. Gunners will remain at their stations. Longarm-One, Longarm-Four, and I will go forward to check the situation out. Longarm-Five will be in command while I’m gone. Maintain situational awareness. Over.”

The back ramp was down by the time Mac dropped down into the cargo compartment, and Sergeant Preston was waiting outside. “Bring three soldiers,” Mac told him. “Whoever you’d like to have around you if the shit hits the fan.”

With her M4 at the ready, Mac led them up the road. A well-kept cemetery bordered the road on the left. It was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence on which wreaths of flowers had been hung. A man in a black suit was helping an elderly woman out of an ancient Cadillac. Mac paused to speak with him. “Excuse me. I’m Major Macintyre, Union Army. What’s going on here?”

The man had short black hair, dark skin, and a dignified manner. “Welcome to Frogsong, Major… I’m Mayor Cummings. This is my mother, Natalie. We came for the funeral.”

“May I ask who died?” Mac inquired, as people entered the cemetery.

“Of course,” Cummings answered. “We’re here to say good-bye to Colonel LeMay. This was his farm.”

LeMay was dead? Mac could hardly believe it. “What happened? Did he have a heart attack?”

“Oh, no,” Cummings replied. “He deserted, and Mrs. LeMay shot him. Then she planned the funeral.”

Mac stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, Mrs. LeMay is in jail?”

“No, ma’am,” Cummings answered. “The sheriff says the army should deal with it. He means the Confederate Army, but they left the area. Maybe you can handle it. Would you like to meet Mrs. LeMay?”

“The locals don’t want to charge her,” Everson observed. “They think Mrs. LeMay did the right thing.”

Mac knew that her father would agree. And, because she was his daughter, she had similar feelings. Would she shoot a deserter? No. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. “Thank you, Mayor. Please lead the way.”

The Union soldiers followed Cummings through the gate and up the aisle, which, according to the names on the monuments, served to divide the LeMays from everyone else. They included in-laws, servants, and a Great Dane named Duke.

And there, at the end of the corridor, about fifty folding chairs had been set up. And as the mayor arrived, a woman in a knee-length black dress came forward to greet him. “Mayor Cummings! How nice of you to come! And Mrs. Cummings… I do hope you brought some of your famous peach pie for the wake. It’s a pity, isn’t it? The peach crop was only half what it should have been. Peach trees don’t like waterlogged soil.

“And Lieutenant Everson! What a wonderful surprise. That was such a beautifully written note that you sent us. Please allow me to apologize for the colonel’s actions. His father is buried right over there, and I can hear him rolling over! There’s no excuse for cowardice, none at all, and I’m sure the Lord will explain that to John when they meet in heaven.”

Mrs. LeMay’s bright blue eyes were alight with patriotic fervor, or was it madness? Regardless of that, Mac could feel the power of Mrs. LeMay’s personality as the other woman turned to confront her. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Major. Union Army, I presume?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “My name is Macintyre. I was sent to find your husband.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Mrs. LeMay said as she directed a nod toward the ornate casket. “He’s right there.” The coffin was sitting on two sawhorses draped with bunting. “Macintyre you say… I met a general named Macintyre about three months ago. Are you related?”

“He’s my father.”

“And you’re fighting for the North? How extraordinary. That must be very difficult for him.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mac replied. “We haven’t spoken to each other in a long time.”

Mac cleared her throat. “Please accept my apologies, ma’am, but I need to look in the casket. More than that, we’ll have to take photographs and a tissue sample.”

Mrs. LeMay’s eyes grew larger. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Mac insisted. “For all I know, that casket is filled with rocks, and your husband is at home sipping bourbon.”

Everson looked at Mac with a newfound sense of respect. “I never thought of that.”

Mrs. LeMay made no attempt to conceal her disgust. “Daddy was right… Yankees are pigs. Go ahead. Do what you will. I have no choice, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” Mac agreed. “And it will be necessary to search your home as well.”

Mrs. LeMay turned away. “Take my arm, Natalie. You’ve been standing for too long. I have a nice chair waiting for you. Would you like a glass of water?”

Mac looked at Sergeant Preston. “Open the casket.”

The noncom obeyed. And, as the lid was lifted, a body was revealed. It was that of a middle-aged man dressed in a blue suit. A blue-edged hole marked the exact center of his pale forehead. Mac turned to Everson. “Well? Is that Colonel LeMay?”

Everson nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s him all right.”

Mac turned to Preston. “Take photos and cut his left ear off.”

Preston was aghast. “You’re kidding?”

Mac frowned. “Why don’t people believe the things I say? No, I’m not kidding. Stand with your back to the crowd so people can’t see what you’re doing.”

To Preston’s credit, he was fast. Once the photos had been taken, he cut LeMay’s left ear off and wrapped a battle dressing around it. The package formed a bulge in a cargo pocket. “Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s return to the vehicles.”

It seemed as if Mrs. LeMay’s anger was contagious, because the soldiers were on the receiving end of some nasty looks as they exited the cemetery. “What about Mrs. LeMay?” Everson inquired. “Aren’t you going to arrest her?”

“The colonel got what he deserved,” Mac said, without looking at him. “We’ll let the sheriff handle it.”

The STEEL BITCH preceded the other vehicles to the turnaround at the end of the road. Three vehicles were parked there, including a Stryker that bore Confederate markings. The one LeMay used to escape the battle? Of course.

And the fact that LeMay had chosen to leave it at the turnaround suggested that it was too heavy for the wooden drawbridge. Or LeMay thought so, and Mac saw no reason to question his judgment.

With that in mind, Mac left half of her tiny command at the parking area, with Lieutenant Collins in command, and led the rest of them across the bridge. The house was a stately two-story affair, complete with white columns and a sweeping porch.

The front door was unlocked, and when Sergeant Preston pushed it open, a bell jangled. That brought a woman in a maid’s uniform out from somewhere deep within the house. She frowned. “This is Colonel LeMay’s home! You have no business here. Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac told her. “We won’t be here long. Lyons, take this woman into custody. Sergeant, search the house. You know what we’re looking for. I’ll check the study.”

The office was to the left off the foyer. It was furnished with an ancient desk, walls hung with memorabilia, and shelves loaded with books. It took Mac less than a minute to locate a briefcase that contained a laptop, a thick sheaf of Excel spreadsheets, and a variety of other documents pertaining to LeMay’s battalion.

Mac placed all of it in a cardboard box, which she carried out into the hall, where the angry maid was waiting. Sergeant Preston looked out of place as he descended the broad staircase. A couple of soldiers followed. “There’s nothing of interest upstairs, ma’am.”

Mac nodded. “Let’s haul ass before people arrive for the wake.”

“Roger that,” Preston said enthusiastically. “They might come after the ear.”

The trip back to the Choctaw Oil Reserve went smoothly. Not a shot was fired. Maybe, Mac thought, they’ll send us north to keep the peace in a city like Vicksburg. Or, better yet, leave the battalion where it is. A vacation so to speak… While the war plays itself out. The idea pleased her, and Mac smiled.