Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 5

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan was seated at his desk staring at page 12 of a tasking order titled: “Operation Exodus.” He’d read every word of it three times. More than that, he’d studied the text looking for anything that didn’t make sense or might be missing. Like the extra helicopter that could have made the critical difference during the Iran hostage-rescue attempt in April of 1980.

Eight helicopters had been sent to the first staging area, but only five arrived in good condition. One developed hydraulic problems, a second was exposed to a cloud of extremely fine sand, and a third had a cracked rotor blade. Or what might have been a cracked rotor blade.

During the planning stage, it was decided to abort the mission if fewer than six helicopters remained operational, even though it was agreed that four aircraft would have been sufficient to carry out the mission. But when military commanders asked President Carter for permission to abort, he agreed.

Then, as the rescue team prepared to depart, a helicopter crashed into a transport loaded with military personnel and jet fuel. The resulting inferno destroyed both aircraft and killed eight servicemen. It was the sort of disaster that Sloan feared.

But no, the president told himself. This mission is risky, but it’s well resourced. Did that mean it was a slam dunk? Of course not. There were lots of variables, not the least of which was the way that Mexico’s government might respond. Maybe they didn’t care what happened to the so-called Angel of Death and her private prison. Or maybe they did and would decide to take offense when sovereignty was violated. That was one of the reasons why Sloan was hesitant to sign the order.

The other reason had to do with the person that his advisors agreed was best qualified to lead the mission: army major Robin Macintyre. Sloan was in love with Mac. Or believed he was in love with her, even though they’d never been on a date or shared a kiss. And if he signed the order, and if his signature resulted in Mac’s death, Sloan knew he would never forgive himself.

But if he didn’t send her, and the rescue attempt failed because of poor leadership by another officer, what would become of the POWs? Slowly, and with great reluctance, Sloan scrawled his name on the sheet of paper.

THE BAYOU CHOCTAW STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE

They came for Mac in the middle of the night. As a dark figure entered her tent, he ran into the waist-high string that pulled a coffee can full of rocks off the top of an upended crate and dumped them onto the plywood floor.

The ensuing clatter was more than enough to wake Mac. She was trapped inside of her sleeping bag as she rolled off the cot, hit hard, and brought the pistol up. The red dot wobbled across the man’s chest. His voice was desperate. “Don’t shoot!”

“Why not?” Mac inquired as she kicked the bag off.

“Because if you shoot him, I’ll have a lot of paperwork to do,” Colonel Walters replied. A boyish-looking lieutenant was pinned in the glare of her flashlight as she entered the tent. “I told him to wait for me, but he didn’t,” Walters added. “They get dumber every day.”

The red dot vanished as Mac got to her feet. She was dressed in a baseball shirt and a pair of running shorts. The air was cold, and Mac shivered as she looked from the lieutenant to Walters. “What the hell is going on?”

“The boy genius arrived on a helicopter twenty minutes ago,” Walters said. “He has orders for you and, as far as I can tell, they’re legit.”

The intruder had lowered his hands by then and was struggling to regain some measure of dignity. “I’m Lieutenant Baker,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry about barging in… I didn’t realize…”

“Get out,” Mac said. “I’ll talk to you outside.”

Walters laughed as Baker left. “I wonder if he peed his pants.”

“I damned near peed mine,” Mac said as she kicked the shorts off. “Why couldn’t they send orders down through the chain of command?”

“I asked,” Walters replied. “And Baker told me that I don’t need to know. He’s from the Joint Special Operations Command, which would suggest that some kind of spookery is afoot. And you were chosen to take part in it.”

“But I don’t want to be part of it,” Mac said as she pulled her pants up.

“Nobody cares what we want,” Walters replied. “If they did, I would be allowed to retain your services. You’d make a halfway-decent Marine.”

“Only halfway decent?” Mac inquired as she tied her bootlaces.

“You don’t say the word ‘fuck’ frequently enough to qualify as a real Marine.”

“I’ll work on that,” Mac said as she put her jacket on. “Right after I find out what the fuck is going on.”

“That’s better,” Walters said agreeably.

Baker was waiting outside. He gave Mac an envelope. “Your orders, ma’am.”

“To do what?”

“You have been temporarily assigned to the Joint Special Operations Command. That’s all I can tell you because that’s as much as I know. Please pack your gear. A plane is waiting for you in New Orleans.”

“That’s it? There’s nothing more?”

Baker nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac turned to Walters. “What about my battalion?”

“I’ll try to hold it together while you’re gone,” Walters replied.

There were all sorts of instructions that Mac wanted to give her subordinates, and it would have been nice to say good-bye. Walters would try to keep the outfit intact, but could she? The brigade was a temporary entity, so anything was possible.

But orders were orders. And there was nothing Mac could do but go into the tent and pack. She’d done a lot of packing over the last few months and gradually reduced her belongings to the bare minimum. All that remained was her sleeping bag, two sets of camos, and her combat gear. Everything fit into a large duffel bag. Mac lowered the TAC vest over her head, put her helmet on, and was ready to go. It was second nature to grab the M4 on the way out. Walters gave her an awkward hug. “Take care, Robin… I’ll see you soon.”

Mac hoped that was true as she followed Baker to a Black Hawk helicopter. He tossed her bag up to the crew chief and stood to one side. Once inside, she sat where the crew chief told her to, which was all the way in back, facing the cockpit.

Mac held her M4 muzzle down as she listened to the engines wind up. The helicopter wobbled as it left the ground, steadied, and sped away. The doors had been removed, and Mac was thankful for her jacket, as a rush of cold air pummeled her body. A scattering of lights was visible below as the helo continued to climb. The city of New Orleans glowed in the distance. How many people had chosen to ignore the official blackout? Damned near all of them, judging from appearances.

Mac felt lonely… And frightened. Where was she going? And why? She was like a cog in a machine too large to comprehend. A younger her would have been excited. But a lot of people had died since then, and Mac was tired. She closed her eyes. Faces came and went. Most of them belonged to ghosts.

It was a short flight, and when the Black Hawk landed, Mac realized that the Louis Armstrong International Airport was operating under military control. That made sense since the North and South were still fighting for air supremacy, and it wouldn’t be safe for commercial flights to come and go.

The helicopter skimmed past two tubby transports before landing next to a sleek Learjet. No sooner had the wheels touched down than Baker threw her duffel bag to a dimly seen person on the tarmac. Mac thanked the crew chief before jumping down onto the ground. And there, waiting for her, was a friendly face.

The first time Mac had met Major Sam McKinney was in Richton, Mississippi, where President Sloan’s attempt to establish an airhead had gone terribly wrong. Her company of Strykers had been sent south to rescue as many survivors as possible. McKinney had been Sloan’s military attaché—although “mentor” might have been a more accurate title.

But now Major McKinney was sporting the silver oak leafs of a lieutenant colonel. “Welcome to New Orleans, Major,” he said. “I wish we could go out and grab a good meal, but we don’t have time.”

Mac smiled as she shook his hand. “Congratulations, sir. I’m glad they made an honest 05 out of you.”

“Rank comes quickly during a war,” McKinney observed. “As you are well aware. Come on… The Learjet is for you! And breakfast is included.”

The plane’s interior was luxurious compared to life in a tent, and Mac wished that her boots were clean. But they weren’t, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Once her helmet, TAC vest, and M4 were stowed—Mac took a seat across from McKinney. There was a lot of catching up to do, and they were still at it, when the jet reached cruising altitude. “We’re headed north,” McKinney informed her. “Up to Missouri, west to Colorado, and south to New Mexico.”

Mac frowned. “New Mexico? Why?”

McKinney was about to reply when the civilian flight attendant brought their breakfasts. The food was precooked but steaming hot, and Mac was surprised to discover how hungry she was. Twenty minutes passed while they ate, and McKinney brought her up to speed on the war effort. The good news was that the North was winning. The bad news was that it was taking forever. And people were dying every day.

Once they were finished, Mac poured the last of the coffee into their cups. “Okay, give. Why are you taking me to New Mexico?”

Mac listened intently as McKinney explained how the general who was in charge of all Confederate POW camps had decided to outsource a prison to a Mexican drug dealer named Rosa Alvarez Carbone, AKA “La ángel de la muerte.” Or the Angel of Death.

Mac frowned. “Who does General Lorenzo report to?”

“Your father.”

Mac winced. Even though she and Bo were fighting for different sides, she knew what his core values were. Or had been. The man she’d grown up with would never countenance treating POWs the way Carbone was treating the men and women under her control. But people change… And, since her father had chosen to side with the Libertarian oligarchs, maybe he approved of handing POWs over to the lowest bidder.

“So,” McKinney concluded, “your job is to lead a rescue team into Mexico, free our people, and bring them home. How you accomplish that is up to you. A lot of resources have been assembled at Antelope Wells. And, if you need something more, I’ll get it for you. That’s why the president sent me… To make sure that no one roadblocks you. And he told me to give you this.”

As Mac accepted the envelope, she saw that her name was written on it and recognized the scrawl. “Nature calls,” McKinney said. “And, like General MacArthur, I shall return.”

Did McKinney believe, as so many did, that she and the president were lovers? Probably. And he was giving her a moment of privacy to read whatever was contained in the envelope.

Mac tore it open and read the note.

Mac read the note again before tucking it away. The message was short but spoke volumes. If only they were normal people, Mac thought to herself. What would it be like to sit across from Sam in a restaurant and share a meal? It was a simple thing for other people but impossible for them.

“So,” McKinney said as he returned to his seat. “Did the president have some advice for you?”

“Yes, he did,” Mac deadpanned. “Drink bottled water.”

McKinney laughed. “He should know. Given his long trip home from Tampico. Grab some sleep, Mac… The moment we land, everyone will want something from you. Attention if nothing else.”

Mac knew that was true and was happy to discover that the Lear’s seats could fold down, offering a narrow bed to sleep on. After throwing a blanket over Mac and dimming the lights, the flight attendant went forward. Mac felt good stretching out, knowing that she was momentarily safe.

Sleep came quickly and ended with a thump as the wheels touched down. Mac glanced at her watch. She’d been asleep for three hours. It would have been nice to have more, but something was better than nothing.

Mac sat up and peered out through a window. She saw a radar installation flash past, followed by tents, then vehicles parked under camo nets. Then the installation disappeared, and a stretch of open desert appeared. The Lear slowed, turned, and taxied back.

“Welcome to Camp Freedom,” McKinney said, from the other side of the aisle. “I hope you like the airstrip. We made it just for you.” Mac had her boots on by the time the plane came to a stop, and the door opened. A shower would have been nice, along with a fresh uniform, but they would have to wait.

It should have been hot outside, but it wasn’t. The globe-spanning high haze was responsible for that. But it was bright, and Mac had to squint as she made her way down the stairs to the point where two people stood waiting. McKinney followed behind her.

A sharp-looking captain stepped forward to offer a salute, which Mac returned. He had deeply sunken eyes, gaunt features, and a rapier-thin body. “Good morning, Major. My name is Alan Roupe. I’m your XO.”

Mac shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Captain.”

“This is Command Sergeant Major Lester Deeds,” Roupe added as he stepped to one side. Deeds was wearing a green beret. He had bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and brown skin. Mac returned his salute and could feel the man’s strength through his handshake. “Tom Lyle claims that you know your shit,” Deeds told her. “And that means it’s true.”

Lyle was a special operator Mac had worked with in the past. She smiled. “I’m glad he’s okay… And I like who you hang out with. So give it to me straight, Command Sergeant Major… What kind of soldiers do we have?”

“The best, ma’am… I chose them myself.”

“Well done,” Mac replied. “I’d like to meet them as soon as possible.”

Mac saw something click behind the bright blue eyes. Approval? Yes, she thought so. All the gear in the world didn’t mean jack shit without good soldiers—so that was something they agreed on. “Okay, I’m sure we have lots to do. What’s up first?”

The last thing Mac wanted to do was step off the plane and walk into a staff meeting. But Roupe and the rest of them were all jacked up and eager to get going. And Mac knew it was important to harness that energy.

Roupe led the way. And as they passed some Strykers, each safe within its own revetment, Mac saw the mobile radar unit in the distance. It consisted of a tan-colored truck, a mast with a rectangular antenna fastened to it, and two boxy trailers. “What’s the radar for?” Mac inquired. “Is there reason to believe that we’ll be attacked by the Mexican Air Force?”

“That’s our cover story,” Roupe explained. “The rebs are sure to spot Camp Freedom from the air and wonder what we’re up to. So we’re doing what we can to make the base look like it’s part of an early-alert detection system.”

“That makes sense,” Mac replied. “Although there is the law of unintended consequences to consider. What if the Mexicans decide to attack it?”

Roupe frowned. “That’s a possibility I guess. But why bother? Unless they’re planning to side with the Confederates.”

It was a reasonable answer, and Mac knew that Roupe was correct. The Confederates would almost certainly spot Camp Freedom from space, a spy plane, or a drone. Or maybe they had.

Mac was on the receiving end of numerous salutes and curious stares as they passed the tents where her soldiers were living. She was pleased to see how organized everything was and wondered who deserved credit for that. Roupe? Deeds? Or had the two of them been working as a team? The third possibility would be best.

The house trailer was long and narrow. The interior was divided into an admin section, a meeting space, and an office for Mac. The meeting area was set up for a briefing. A large map and numerous photographs obscured one of the windows. “I thought we could begin with a sitrep,” Roupe suggested, “and take it from there.”

“This is an excellent time to brief you regarding Captain Roupe,” McKinney interjected. “He’s the only person to escape from Detention Center One and live to tell about it. That’s one of many reasons why he was chosen for this mission. Alan knows everything there is to know about the layout of the prison, the way Carbone runs the place, and the appalling conditions there.”

A faraway look appeared on Roupe’s skull-like face. “I was lucky,” he said. “Better people died trying to escape that hellhole.”

“I’m glad you made it,” Mac said as she approached the bulletin board. “Is this the building you escaped from?” The structure she was referring to was shaped like a square, with a central courtyard located at its center.

Roupe nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It was supposed to be a regional hospital. But after the meteors struck, construction came to a stop. About a month later, Carbone leased the building from the government for $1,000.00 per month. Money changed hands under the table, you can be sure of that, since it’s worth more.

“It isn’t clear whether she had a deal with General Lorenzo at that point,” Roupe added, “or was hoping to get one. Nor does it matter. The building is two stories high, and each of the four wings was designed to accommodate 40 patients, for a total of 160 people max.

“But, since Carbone and her gangbangers chose to occupy all of the east wing, only 120 slots remain. That’s if the structure were used as a hospital. At this point we estimate that 296 POWs are being held there, although the actual head count fluctuates as people die and new prisoners are brought in.”

“Which raises an important question,” Mac put in. “What can we expect? How many prisoners will be able to walk? And how many will need to be carried?”

“If it’s like it was on the day I left, about 80 percent will be able to walk, albeit slowly,” Roupe answered. “The rest will require stretchers.”

Mac looked at Deeds. “That suggests a lot of medics in addition to our combat personnel. Let’s put a number on that.” Deeds nodded and made a note.

Mac turned back to the photo. “Tell me about the central courtyard. Could helicopters land there?”

“No,” Roupe replied. “Carbone thought of that. You can’t see them in the photo, but steel wires crisscross the central courtyard at roof level.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes,” Roupe agreed. “It does.”

As the briefing continued, it soon became clear that Roupe had done his homework. He knew about the roads in and out of Ascensión, where the nearest army unit was located, and more. Roupe even had a full-on mission plan ready to go. All of it was contained in the thick packet that he handed to Mac.

After promising to read the material, Mac asked Deeds to show her around. She could have chosen Roupe. But Mac wanted to assess how Deeds interacted with the troops and signal the noncom’s importance.

There were a number of stops on the tour, along with opportunities to chat. And, for the most part, Mac liked what she saw. She could tell that although Deeds was popular, he kept the right amount of distance between himself and the troops and was quick to identify discrepancies. As for the rank-and-file troops, morale was high. In fact, most of the soldiers were champing at the bit. They wanted to free the POWs and do it yesterday.

Once the tour was over, Mac thanked Deeds and went to her tent. Her duffel bag, TAC vest, and helmet were waiting there—along with the M4. It was midafternoon, and Mac was in need of a nap. She closed the tent flap, lay down, and pulled a blanket up around her body. Sleep came quickly, and it was nearly 1730 by the time she woke up hungry. There was no chow hall. So Mac went looking for an MRE and wound up having dinner with three of the Stryker crews. All of them were aware of Mac’s Marauders and peppered her with questions. The most common was, “How can I get a transfer?”

Then the conversation turned into a full-on bullshit session and storytelling fest, complete with a lot of anecdotes. Some were true, and some weren’t, but all of them were funny.

It was dark by the time Mac thanked her hosts, borrowed a flashlight, and took an unannounced stroll around the perimeter. It consisted of a cyclone fence, well-sited machine-gun emplacements, and a central mortar pit that could provide 360-degree fire support if the base came under attack. The sentries were pleased to see her, and Mac knew why. Sentry duty was boring as hell… And it was nice to see that the CO cared.

After the walkabout, it was back to the tent for a cup of instant hot chocolate and her homework. All of the shelters had power thanks to the portable generator that ran twenty-four/seven, so a reading light sat on Mac’s folding table.

After eyeballing a variety of maps and photos, Mac settled in to read Roupe’s plan. She was impressed by the fact that her XO had the initiative required to write one. But the good feelings ended there. The way Roupe saw it, the task force would depart at 0500, enter Mexico via the border-patrol checkpoint in Antelope Wells at 0530, and follow Highway 2 to the town of Ascensión.

Then, after what Roupe assumed would be a brief fight, Carbone would surrender. All of which was hopelessly naïve because Mac figured the Angel of Death would hear about the gringo column five minutes after it left the United States. Or what had been the United States. That would give the bitch plenty of time to get ready, and rather than surrender, she’d fight like hell.

Roupe’s exit plan wasn’t any better. Having won the battle in Ascensión, Roupe planned to put the POWs aboard a fleet of trucks and ambulances. Then, with Strykers acting as escorts, the column would return to Camp Freedom. The whole thing was laughable. But why?

Mac was pretty sure that she knew the answer, and that was a straightforward lack of talent. Mac knew officers who were very good at implementing plans but not all that good at coming up with them, and it seemed as though Roupe fit the second description. So her task would be to make the plan better without eroding her XO’s self-confidence.

The process began the next morning when Mac requested that Deeds, Roupe, and his platoon leaders join her in the trailer. McKinney was present as well. Mac stood next to the improvised bulletin board. “First, I’d like to compliment the entire group regarding your efforts to get this unit ready for combat. Thanks to the fact that the company is well organized, and our morale is high, we’ll be able to launch this mission quickly. And that’s important because our POWs are suffering, as Captain Roupe can attest. I read the preliminary mission plan last night and, as all of you know, any document submitted to the commanding officer will be changed. That’s what COs do when they aren’t playing golf.”

Most of them laughed. Roupe was the single exception. Uh-oh, Mac thought. He’s pissed. I’m off to a bad start.

“For starters,” Mac continued, “the mission will take place at night. There are a number of reasons for the change. First, our soldiers have night-vision equipment and, as far as we know, Carbone’s people don’t. Second, our Strykers are equipped with thermal-imaging gear. So while the enemy pickup trucks have headlights, that’s the extent of their night-fighting capabilities.” Most of them chuckled, but Roupe frowned.

“Third,” Mac said, “is the matter of the Confederates. They have the capability to see us at night, but will they be looking? And if they are looking, and they see heat signatures on the move, how quickly will word of that reach Carbone? There’s no way to know for sure, but I think there could be some lag. If so, that will be helpful.

“Finally, in order to take full advantage of our capabilities, we’re going to sleep during the day and train at night.”

Roupe cleared his throat. “Can I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Mac replied. “Shoot.”

“What about security? Who will guard the camp during the day?”

It was a sensible question even if Mac wasn’t entirely certain of Roupe’s motive in asking it. “I asked Colonel McKinney to request a platoon of MPs,” Mac replied. “They’re scheduled to arrive by 0600 tomorrow. Once they set up, they’ll assume responsibility for security. And, if we return with civilian prisoners, the MPs will be here to receive them.”

Roupe’s plan made no mention of Mexican prisoners or how to handle them. And Mac could see the look of consternation on his face. She scanned the crowd. “Maneuvers will begin at 1800 tomorrow night. The goal will be to strengthen teamwork, hone our night navigation skills, and give our platoon leaders an opportunity to shine. And that’s important because there’s no way to anticipate what we’ll encounter in Ascensión. If things go poorly, it could be necessary for each platoon to fight independently. Are there any questions?” The lieutenants looked solemn and shook their heads.

“Good,” Mac said. “Here’s what I have in mind. On the first night, Command Sergeant Major Deeds will organize a game of capture the flag. Platoon leaders will be in charge of the opposing teams. Colonel McKinney will serve as referee. The victors will win a cold, wet prize, which I predict will be to their liking.” The announcement drew cheers and some enthusiastic hooahs.

“During the second night, the Command Sergeant Major will host two or three games of hide-and-seek. One platoon will hide, and the others will try to find them. As before, prizes will be awarded to those who are deserving.” That set off a second round of applause.

“And on the third night,” Mac said, “we are going to bring our brothers and sisters home.”

That announcement produced the biggest celebration yet. Mac grinned. “Tell your people what I told you. Keep them in the loop. That will be all. Colonel McKinney… Could you join me for a moment?”

McKinney could and did. After getting cups of coffee, they took them into Mac’s office. Her desk consisted of a sheet of plywood resting on two sawhorses. The red plastic chairs were better than nothing. “The night exercises are a great idea,” McKinney observed as he sat down. “Although trying to play capture the flag with eight Strykers and sixty soldiers will result in total chaos.”

“And total chaos is what we’re likely to encounter down south,” Mac said. “So here’s hoping they learn how to deal with it in two days.” Mac eyed him over her coffee mug. “You said you could get me whatever I need. True?”

“True,” McKinney said. “Assuming it makes sense. What do you have in mind?”

“I need four C-17 transport planes plus a backup,” Mac replied.

McKinney’s eyebrows rose. “Five C-17s? What the hell for?”

“The first bird will bring a load of medics into Ascensión,” Mac replied. “Deeds figures we’ll need about fifty of them. And rather than add all the vehicles required to haul the medical personnel across the desert, I prefer to fly them in. As for planes two, three, and four, they’ll be used to evacuate the POWs who can walk. The fifth Globemaster is a backup. Assuming that all goes well, it won’t need to land.”

“And the POWs who can’t walk?”

“We’ll put them aboard the plane with the medics,” Mac replied.

“That’s smooth,” McKinney said. “Very smooth. But there’s a problem. A big problem.”

Mac nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Ascensión has an airstrip called Amp Aeropuerto. It’s fine for light planes and helicopters, but the runway is short. And a Mexican Army detachment is quartered right next to it. So, even if the seventeens could land there, the Mexicans would be likely to object.”

“Exactamundo,” McKinney said. “So? What’s the solution?”

“The C-17s will land on Highway 2,” Mac replied. “According to aerial photos, the section leading into town is straight as an arrow and two lanes wide. Plus there’s plenty of shoulder on both sides. There is a row of telephone poles, but we’ll drop them if we need to.”

“Shee-it! “McKinney said enthusiastically. “A whole flock of four-engined jets landing on a highway! I’d like to see that. If the Globemasters can land on unimproved runways, then a highway should be a fucking piece of cake. I’ll get on the horn to General Jones. Once he’s on board, the rest will be easy. One thing, though… How about our task force? How does it get in and out?”

“We’ll use Strykers,” Mac replied. “And rather than follow Highway 2 down, we’ll drive cross-country, which will cut forty miles off the trip. We’ll come back the same way we went in. It would be a good idea to have some helicopters on call, though… Just in case.”

“That makes sense,” McKinney agreed as he stood. “I’ll get to work.”

“Me too,” Mac said. “If this operation is classified—how come the paper pushers know where to send all of their bulletins, memos, and instructions?”

McKinney grinned. “Because we work for them… Not the other way around.” And then he left.

FORT BENNING, GEORGIA

Four-Star General Bo Macintyre was seated in the reviewing stand waiting to welcome more than a thousand soldiers into the Confederate Army. And that was good because the casualty rate was high. But there was a dark side to the occasion as well. The young men and women arrayed in front of him were conscripts rather than volunteers. And draftees were less reliable than people who joined on their own.

Even worse was the fact that the need for replacements was so high that it had become necessary to shorten basic from ten weeks to eight. Two weeks was no big deal. That’s what his public-affairs officers had been ordered to say. And that was grade-A bullshit.

But new bodies were required to feed the Confederate war machine, and time was critical. Hopefully, after pushing the Union back, the army would be able to reinstitute the previous standards.

And Bo took comfort from the fact that the board of directors had approved a nationwide draft. That was clear evidence of a renewed commitment to the war. Secretary of the Army Orson Selock was correct. After losing their secret bank accounts, people like President Lemaire had to win the war or live like everyone else.

The thought brought a wry grin to Bo’s face as the current speaker mentioned his name. “So, it is my pleasure to introduce the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Bo Macintyre!”

Bo heard a simultaneous “Hooah!” as he took the podium and knew that it had been rehearsed. A sea of faces stared up at Bo as he began his speech. It was standard stuff for the most part. They were special… They should be proud… And they were about to embark on a grand adventure.

Then it was time to transition into the material supplied by the newly formed Office of Morale Management. Bo’s voice boomed through loudspeakers as his eyes swept the formation before him. “As you take your place among the ranks of soldiers sworn to defend our country, know this… After failing to win the war on the battlefield, the enemy has chosen to terrorize our families with acts of unprecedented barbarity. A week ago a unit of the Union Army entered the community of Macy, South Carolina, and executed every male over the age of twelve.”

That wasn’t true insofar as Bo knew… But if lies would help to win the war, then he was willing to tell them. The assembled soldiers uttered a mutual gasp of horror, which elicited a loud “As you were!” from a drill sergeant.

Bo nodded. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You want to punish those Yankee bastards. Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your chance. Kill those sons of bitches for your family, kill them for your hometown, and kill them for your country! And may God bless the New Confederacy!”

A noncom shouted, “Atten-hut!” The band played “I Wish I Was in Dixie,” and a sergeant yelled, “Dismissed!”

The officer in charge of the training facility was an aging colonel named Mundy. He was waiting to shake Bo’s hand. “That was an excellent speech, General. I hadn’t heard about the massacre in Macy. Damn those bastards to hell!”

Bo said all the right things, left as quickly as he reasonably could, and entered the waiting SUV. It took him to the airfield, where a small jet was waiting. His next stop was Houston. But what should have been a three-hour flight, would take three times that long, because the plane would have to circle out over the Gulf of Mexico before turning north. The trip would give him time to work on administrative tasks, however, and take a nap.

The flight went smoothly, but there was a lot of traffic in Houston, which was virtually untouched by the war. That was clearly a matter of choice since the Union had the means to bomb the shit out of the place if they chose to. And, had Bo been fighting for the North, he would have done so by then.

But most of his peers agreed that President Sloan was too pragmatic to kill thousands of civilians, and by doing so, create the kind of hatred that would make it impossible to put America back together again. And that was fine with Bo since it made his life easier.

Bo’s destination was the new command and control center located south of Houston and adjacent to the Bryan Mound Strategic Petroleum Reserve. Or in the words of one critic, “as far from the fighting as the brass could go without getting their feet wet.”

But the location made sense because it was well away from the civilian population and practically on top of something the Union wanted to protect, which was the Bryan Mound Reserve. The facility was vulnerable to stupidity, however, including meetings like the one Bo had been ordered to attend. Bo’s motorcade consisted of three SUVs. Their grill lights flashed as the lead driver used burps of sound from her siren to clear a path. But in spite of her best efforts, the one-hour trip still took an hour and a half.

After passing Freeport, the motorcade paused at Checkpoint Alpha, where all personnel, Bo included, had to show their IDs before passing into the half-mile-deep “restricted zone.” It was crisscrossed by prepared fighting positions and connecting trenches.

Then the procession had to stop at Checkpoint Bravo and show IDs again. After being cleared, the party was allowed to pass through the twelve-foot-tall steel-reinforced blast wall that surrounded the CCC on three sides. The Gulf of Mexico bordered the center’s south flank, where all manner of naval defenses had been put in place to protect it.

Most of the complex was belowground, so the motorcade had to follow a circular drive down to the third level before Bo could exit the vehicle. Bo didn’t have enough time to stop by his new office, so he went straight to the Executive Center’s Reagan Room, where the most boring meetings were held. This one was titled “Succession Planning,” which typically meant “We’re about to dump the Secretary of XYZ and replace him with someone equally incompetent.”

But as Bo entered the room, he noticed that the mood was different. The side conversations were muted, and being a political animal himself, Bo could smell blood in the air. But whose? His? No, he didn’t think so. But someone was on the bubble. Bo could feel it. And the people in the room had been summoned to witness whatever was about to take place.

Bo sat next to Selock, and both of them watched the president’s cabinet enter the room, closely followed by the man himself. And as Morton Lemaire stepped up to the podium, Bo could see it on the president’s face. He was the one! Holy shit, Lemaire was going to step down! That was a big deal.

It quickly became apparent that Bo’s assumption was correct. After mentioning what Lemaire saw as his primary accomplishment, which was the creation of “… a great nation,” the president cleared his throat. “However,” he added. “I’m sorry to say that my health has taken a turn for the worse, making it necessary for me to resign the presidency. Fortunately, we have a very capable vice president who is ready to take over. Please join me in an offering of universal support for the vice president, soon to be the president, Martha Stickley!”

Bo stood with all the rest of them and joined in the applause. Martha Stickley, he thought. The so-called Iron Maiden. A nickname that stemmed from the fact that if Stickley had a sexual preference, no one knew what it was—as well as the fearsome coffin-like devices of the same name.

So what did Stickley’s ascendency mean to him? Not a great deal, Bo concluded. Stickley was neither friend nor foe. And, to the extent that she had the balls that Lemaire lacked, Stickley might be the jolt the sagging Confederacy needed. The board of directors clearly thought so because they called the shots. And when they told Lemaire that he was too sick to serve, he had the good sense to feel ill.

Stickley rose to say a few predictable words. Then her chief of staff announced that a press release had gone out fifteen minutes earlier, talking points had been sent to each person via e-mail, and it was important to abide by them.

The meeting was adjourned after that, and Bo was relieved to see Stickley leave the room. The last thing he wanted to do was line up to kiss her ass. There were no negative comments as people filed out into the hall. That sort of thing was best saved for conversations with close confidants.

It was getting late by then, and Bo had promised Kathy that he’d come home for dinner. So he checked out by phone, retrieved his Land Rover from the fifth subbasement, and left the complex. A circular route took him out and around the Brazosport area to the Coast Guard station located in the community of Surfside. And that was where, by virtue of his position, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was allowed to park for as long as he wanted to.

A phone call was all it took to summon a water taxi, which took him along the coast to Galveston’s upscale Cedar Lawn neighborhood. That was where he and his soon-to-be second wife, Kathy Waters, had purchased a three-bedroom ranch-style house.

Kathy was a middle-aged blonde who kept herself in good shape. She’d been Bo’s secretary and companion for many years, and he was lucky to have her. The look of pleasure on Kathy’s face was plain to see as Bo came through the front door and gave her a kiss. “Dump the briefcase,” she told him, “and meet me on the deck. Your drink will be waiting.”

Bo said, “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am,” and made his way down the hall to his office. It was supposed to be a bedroom, but it had a wonderful view of the Gulf and was large enough to meet his needs. They were still moving in, but Kathy was starting to spread things around the house, and his study was no exception.

And as Bo eyed the row of framed photos Kathy had arranged on his credenza, one of them came as a shock. Because there, sitting next to a picture of her mother, was a photo of Robin! That in spite of his negative feelings about her.

The picture was no accident. Bo knew that. Kathy was a peacemaker by nature and, in spite of Victoria’s death, insisted that Bo should regard Robin as being innocent unless she was proven guilty. So Bo hadn’t told Kathy about the bounty. Why upset her? Especially with their wedding day coming up.

He stared at the photographs for a moment. Robin was the spitting image of her dead mother who, in spite of the conflict that characterized their marriage, Bo still loved. More than he loved Kathy? Yes, probably. But Kathy was a lot easier to live with.

As for Victoria, well, she’d been his favorite. The son who never came along and, more than that, a younger him. Slowly, carefully, Bo placed the picture of Robin facedown on the credenza. Kathy would find it there and get the message. Bo had one daughter, and she was dead.