Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 7

THE TIERRA DORADA RANCH, CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO

It was early afternoon, and all the members of President Luis Salazar’s hunting party were comfortably ensconced in a hillside “hide” waiting for a herd of African blesbok to pass through the defile below. A shooting bench ran across the front of the bunker—and tripod-mounted rifles were aimed at the killing ground. General Bo Macintyre was sitting between a white-clad businessman from Ecuador and a natty drug dealer from Colombia. They were discussing the lamentable shortage of Cuban cigars.

Bo’s weapon was a Nosler M48, which, judging from the box sitting next to it, was loaded with .308 Winchester ammo. It was a big-game rifle to be sure. And, according to Jorge, Salazar’s executive assistant, a favorite with a certain Hollywood actor.

Bo didn’t give a shit who liked the weapon but was careful to act like he did since flattery was free. And if Salazar thought the actor was a big deal, then fine.

Bo sipped his drink, and a woman laughed as Salazar delivered the punch line to a dirty joke. The key, according to the pretrip briefing he’d been given, was to shoot well but not too well. “Kill a buck if you can,” the briefer told him. “But don’t drop more than two. Don Salazar will smoke three or four animals on an average outing, and it’s bad form to top his score.”

“Says who?” Bo had inquired.

“Says Salazar,” came the response. “And he’s the one you need to please.”

And that was true. Because the war wasn’t going well for the Confederacy, and he’d been sent down south to negotiate a deal. “Places everyone!” Jorge announced. “Get ready to fire! The herd is nearly here.”

There was a murmur of conversation and the scraping of furniture as guests turned to face the horizontal opening. Shooting antelope as vaqueros herded them past an air-conditioned hide was far from sporting. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. But Bo knew the occasion would call for some good marksmanship nevertheless. For one thing the “hunters” would be firing at a downward angle, the animals would be in motion, and none of the guests had fired their weapons before. And that meant something since every rifle has an individual personality.

Then there was the social pressure involved. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. So if he missed, it would not only reflect poorly on the Confederacy’s military, it could put him at a disadvantage during the negotiations that lay ahead, all of which upped the ante. Bo checked to make sure that the weapon was loaded, that the safety was off, and that the tripod was operating properly. When he glanced at the digital readout mounted over the bench, Bo saw that a one-mile-an-hour breeze was blowing south to north through the valley. Still another thing to remember as he took his first shot.

Bo heard the blesbok before he saw them. Their hooves created a dull thunder as they sought to escape the shouting vaqueros. Then the herd appeared. It looked like an undifferentiated mass of heaving horns at first. But as animals approached the hide, Bo could distinguish the antelopes’ white faces, pointy ears, and tan bodies.

Bo spotted a big buck toward the front of the herd. One of his horns was missing. Lead him, Bo told himself, just like a deer. The trigger seemed to squeeze itself, the rifle butt thumped his shoulder, and the blesbok stumbled. Then Bo saw a puff of blood mist appear over the animal’s hindquarters and realized that the animal had been shot by someone else as well.

When the buck disappeared, there was barely enough time to trigger a second shot. It was right on the money. And Bo was pleased to see an antelope go down with a bullet through the heart. Then the blesboks were gone, leaving twelve bodies behind.

A camera drone was circling the scene, and as Bo turned to look at the monitor, he spotted one-horn lying on its side. “Congratulations!” Jorge said enthusiastically. “Almost all of you scored at least one kill. Please make your way up to the parking area, where vehicles are waiting to take you to the Casa de Salazar, where you’ll have time to freshen up before dinner.”

Bo allowed himself to be led past the bar, down a hallway decorated with beautifully executed murals, to a small elevator lobby. Two trips were required to get everyone up to the covered loading area located on the east side of the ridge. Three Range Rovers were waiting. All of them had green paint jobs and bore the Tierra Dorada’s distinctive rising sun logo.

Bo was ushered into the second Rover. He slid in next to the driver. A female fashionista and a Japanese businessman were in the back. They were discussing sushi, a subject that Bo had zero interest in since the thought of eating raw seafood was disgusting. That left him free to enjoy the scenery.

The Tierra Dorada ranch was huge. According to the glossy brochure in Bo’s room, the estate included more than four million acres of land, employed some eight hundred people, and was home to half a million cattle. Never mind the four hundred thousand sheep and sixty thousand horses that grazed on the grasslands as well.

But even though Salazar was wealthy, most Mexicans weren’t so fortunate. Prior to America’s Second Civil War, the total value of goods imported to and exported from Mexico totaled more than 530 billion U.S. dollars. But now, as a result of the fighting, cross-border trade had dwindled to 10 percent of what it had once been. And tourism was in the tank for the same reason.

The result was widespread unemployment and increasing levels of civil unrest. So Mexico needed to bring in some cash and get unemployed people off the streets. Especially unemployed males under the age of thirty-five. Because if they rose up, Salazar and his cronies would be in some deep shit. Would those factors be enough to fuel an advantageous deal? Bo believed that they would.

As the convoy rounded the side of a barren hill, the Salazar residence was revealed. Huge blocks of what looked like white adobe had been stacked so as to balance each other out. Except that what appeared to be adobe was actually steel-reinforced concrete.

Having been there for a day, Bo knew the house had twenty-four bedrooms, thirty-two bathrooms, an Olympic-sized pool, a state-of-the-art workout facility, a huge living room, and a very attentive staff. But as the convoy paused at a checkpoint, other features were visible, too.

Bo’s trained eye was drawn to the partially screened SAM (surface-to-air missile) launchers, tennis courts that could accommodate four helicopters, and a maze of landscaped retaining walls that would provide defenders with plenty of cover. It seemed that Salazar had reason to be concerned about his personal safety, even here at the heart of his empire.

After clearing the checkpoint, the convoy followed a curving drive up to the house and the shade provided by a portico. Servants hurried to open the doors, and as Bo got out, a boy was there to offer a glass of well-iced lemonade. He took a sip from it as Carla appeared to welcome him home. She was the hostess assigned to Bo’s suite and made the peasant outfit look good.

After conducting a quick assessment of Bo’s current needs, Carla led him back to his room. It was quite large and included both a king-sized bed and a luxurious bath. “Dinner will be served at six,” Carla said. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” Bo replied. Carla bowed and backed out of the room in much the same way that a geisha might have.

It would have been nice to call the office on his sat phone. But Bo felt certain that the room was bugged. So he took a nap followed by a shower. Then it was time to get dressed. A dark suit and tie were mandatory according to the “Guide” on Bo’s dresser, and tuxedos were welcome. No mention was made of uniforms, but Bo decided to wear his on the chance that Salazar would be impressed.

Once he was ready, Bo made his way down to the main level, where his fellow guests were gathered in front of a sleek, modernistic bar. The bartenders were backlit by a spectacular fish tank, and soft music was playing in the background, as Bo ordered a bourbon.

That was when the fashionista sidled up next to him. She had predatory eyes, a sculpted face, and was wearing a simple black dress. A cloud of perfume wafted around Bo as she fingered one of the ribbons on his chest. “Tell me about this one, General… How many people did you kill to earn it?”

“None,” Bo replied. “Some guy with an AK-47 shot me.”

The woman was undeterred. Her finger moved to another ribbon. “And this one?”

And so it went until Jorge rang a silver bell. “Dinner is being served in the dining room. Please follow me.”

The dining room was beautifully furnished, in keeping with the rest of the house. A long slab of black granite rested on chrome legs, and was flanked by high-backed chairs.

The table settings were equally modern and laid out with the sort of precision that any general would approve of. Outside, beyond the glass, hundreds of carefully placed lights turned what would have otherwise been a black hole into a twinkling fantasyland.

Jorge was in charge of seating, and Bo found himself sitting between the drug lord and the Ecuadorian businessman. The crime boss was the more interesting of the two, and Bo was quizzing him about the war’s impact on the drug trade when Salazar arrived.

The president was wearing a beautifully tailored tux and went straight to the head of the table, where a glass of cold champagne was being poured for him. As Salazar raised his glass, he invited his guests to do likewise. “¡Viva México!”

“¡Viva México!” the guests replied in unison. Waiters appeared as Salazar took his seat. Dinner began with a small tossed green salad, followed by lentil soup and blesbok steaks. The antelope meat was a first for Bo, and he liked it.

“Nothing goes to waste here,” Salazar assured them. “The rest of the meat was distributed to my employees and their families.” That produced some polite applause although Bo got the feeling that his fellow guests weren’t concerned about what happened to the rest of the meat so long as they had theirs.

Once the meal was over, Salazar led his guests into the living room. It was a large, carefully decorated space, with all the charm of a hotel lobby.

Bo heard a whirring sound as a screen was lowered from a recess in the ceiling. “I thought you would enjoy watching footage of today’s hunt,” Salazar told them. “Especially those of you who actually hit something!”

The statement was framed as a joke, but Bo knew Salazar took the subject of marksmanship seriously and felt reasonably sure that his own performance had been adequate.

The opening shot consisted of an aerial shot captured by Salazar’s drone as it flew over the undulating herd. That was followed by tighter shots captured from a variety of angles, and cut together with the skill one would expect of a world-class TV production company.

But most amazing, to Bo’s mind, was the way in which Salazar’s people had been able to grab a shot of a person firing their weapon followed by video of the hit. If they had a hit—which was not always the case.

The guests appeared one by one, often accompanied by commentary from their host. “That was a very nice shot,” the president said, admiringly, as the fashionista dropped a buck with a bullet to the head. “Maybe next time,” Salazar said, when the Japanese businessman missed. And so on.

Then Bo saw himself. And, according to what appeared on the screen, he proceeded to shoot a blesbok in the ass. “Oops!” Salazar said, as the slow-motion blood mist floated away. “It looks as though General Macintyre is a bit rusty! But never fear… He drops the next one with a clean shot through the heart.” The guests chuckled.

As Bo watched the second animal fall, he knew that he’d been had. His bullet had killed the first animal even as another shooter put a bullet in its butt. Salazar perhaps? Firing quickly, so as to kill more blesbok than anyone else? Yeah, Bo would have been willing to bet on it.

Had Salazar directed his staff to misrepresent what actually occurred? Or did they routinely cover up for him? Bo would never know. Nor, in all truth, did he give a shit. What Bo wanted to do was cut a deal… And to go home.

Once the video review was complete, and the screen had been retracted into the ceiling, a pianist appeared. She was no more than sixteen years old but very talented. As the girl played, Salazar worked the crowd, telling jokes and slapping backs. Bo’s included.

“So,” Salazar said. “Do you smoke cigars?”

Bo didn’t but said that he did. “Good,” Salazar replied. “Follow me… We’ll light up, enjoy the evening air, and discuss the war.”

Bo felt a rising sense of excitement as he followed Salazar into the adjoining study. The president took a humidor off his desk, flipped the lid open, and offered the contents to Bo. “Cuban,” Salazar said, as if that was all his guest needed to know.

“Thank you,” Bo replied as he took a cigar. “These are hard to come by.”

“That’s true for most people,” Salazar replied as he returned the humidor to the desk. “But for men such as ourselves? Anything is possible. Come… We’ll light up outside. My wife hates the smell.”

Sliding doors led out to a dedicated patio, which was home to some high-end deck furniture and lit with wall sconces. Salazar made a production out of clipping his cigar, passing it under his nose, and lighting up. Bo followed suit. Shadows moved as bodyguards patrolled the grounds.

“So,” Salazar said, once their cigars were drawing properly. “Have a seat. The Confederacy sent its top general down to see me. Why? Is your Secretary of State on vacation?”

Bo smiled. “No, Mr. President. I’m here because this is a military matter—and the civilians figured we could discuss it general to general.”

Salazar was a general in his country’s reserve force, although to the best of Bo’s knowledge, Salazar had never participated in anything more dangerous than a parade. Still, maybe some flattery would work. It did.

“Yes,” Salazar agreed. “What do civilians know? It’s our task to advise them.”

“Exactly,” Bo agreed. “And that brings me to the purpose of my visit. The Confederacy is winning the war, albeit slowly.” That wasn’t true of course, but how good was Mexican intelligence? And it was the kind of thing the Mexican president would expect him to say.

“So,” Bo continued, “President Stickley wants to speed things up. And when she called on me for advice, I suggested that we examine the possibility of an arrangement with Mexico.”

“What sort of arrangement?” Salazar wanted to know.

Bo blew a column of smoke out into the night. “The Confederacy would like to hire four divisions of Mexican troops to help bring the war to a speedy conclusion.”

The tip of Salazar’s cigar glowed cherry red as he drew on it. Smoke dribbled out through his nostrils. “I see,” he said noncommittally. “Four divisions… What is that? Sixty thousand men? Tell me, General… What would the Confederacy offer my country in return?”

“Half a billion Confederate dollars for twelve months of service,” Bo answered. “Plus the supplies required to support your troops.”

Salazar had heavy eyebrows and a Tom Selleck mustache. His eyes narrowed. “You must be joking.”

Bo had arrived ready to negotiate. But the contempt in Salazar’s voice took him by surprise. Some ash dribbled onto his right pant leg. He brushed it away. “Joking? Why do you say that?”

“Because the price is too low,” Salazar replied. “Contrary to your claims, the Confederacy is losing the war, and losing it badly. What? You think that all of the mercenaries you hired are what they seem? Some of them work for our Inteligencia Militar. So, if you wish to secure our help, it will cost more. Much more.”

In spite of the fact that the air was cool, Bo was beginning to sweat. “Okay, I might be able to scrape up another two hundred million or so.”

Salazar threw back his head and laughed. “No, General… Mexico isn’t going to take sides in your civil war for seven hundred million dollars.”

“What then?” Bo wanted to know.

Salazar leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were unnaturally bright. “What we want is a large chunk of the land that was stolen from us during and after the Mexican-American War. Assuming the Confederacy wins, we want sovereignty over the states of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona. You’ll notice we aren’t asking for all of our territory… Just the section that is currently controlled by the North.

“And win or lose,” Salazar added, “we want two tons of gold. One ton of which will serve as a deposit.”

Bo felt his spirits plummet. Now he knew the answer to his question. Mexican intelligence was better than good—it was excellent. Because Salazar had not only known about the Confederate offer in advance, he’d been ready with a counter. And his demands made sense, from a Mexican point of view, anyway, which was the only thing Salazar cared about.

By taking control of the land Salazar was asking for, his country could not only regain what had been lost back in the 1800s, it could pocket some serious change and enjoy a measure of revenge for the anti-Mexican rhetoric American politicians had trafficked in for so long. All of which would be wildly popular with Salazar’s constituents.

And who would be seen as the father of all that? Don Luis Salazar, that’s who… And that’s why the man across from Bo had a big smile on his face. “So,” he said, “what’s your answer?”

“I will take your proposal to the president,” Bo replied stiffly. “We’ll get back to you.”

“Of course,” Salazar said as he leaned back into his chair. “Take your time. Would you like some cognac?”

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, THE UNION OF NORTHERN STATES

Sunlight streamed down through breaks in the cloud cover to bathe Chicago’s Near North Side neighborhood in gold. The soldiers stood in ranks, feet apart, hands clasped behind them. They wore new uniforms and had been inspected twice. Of the 277 POWs rescued from the Confederate prison in Ascensión, Mexico, 212 had been cleared to take part in the parade that was about to begin. The others were still being treated for injuries, malnutrition, and/or PTSD in Colorado. “Listen up!” Sergeant Major Deeds boomed. “You are going to ride in the buses parked behind you. You will wave, you will smile, and you will be happy. Do you read me?”

It was a joke, and the soldiers knew that. They replied with a loud “Hooah!”

Deeds grinned. “Good. Major Macintyre would like to say a few words. Major?”

Like her soldiers, Macintyre was wearing a dress uniform. When was the last time she’d had one of those on? For her court-martial? Yes. It seemed like a year ago even though only months had passed. Mac took three paces forward and stopped. A camera drone circled overhead. The craziness had begun.

“Good morning. The city of Chicago and the rest of the nation will be watching you during the parade and afterwards as well. So don’t pick your noses. I’m looking at you Corporal Moses.” The rest of the soldiers laughed, and Moses grinned proudly.

“Reporters will ask you questions,” Mac told them. “They’ll want to know what it was like in prison, the way you were treated, and how you managed to survive. Tell the truth.

“But remember, charges have been brought against Captain Roupe, and questions about his case should be referred to the public-affairs officer. She’ll take it from there. Do you have any questions?” There weren’t any.

“Okay,” Deeds said to a staff sergeant. “Load ’em up.”

As the ex-POWs boarded the double-decker tour buses, and climbed up to the top, where onlookers could see them, Mac led Deeds over to the point where the rescuers were assembled. They, too, had been asked to participate in the parade and the festivities that were to follow. The preboarding briefing that Mac gave them was nearly identical to the one that the ex-POWs had received. The soldiers were excited, and Mac knew why. Once the waving was over, they would be free to roam Chicago, the citizens of which were sure to wine and dine them.

Mac, along with Evers, Okada, and Deeds had been scheduled to lead the parade in a retro Cadillac convertible but elected to follow along behind so that the focus would be on the troops. It didn’t work.

As a squad of motorcycle cops led the buses out onto the Magnificent Mile parade route, and dozens of cameras focused on the ex-POWs, even more photographers were busy grabbing shots of the Cadillac. Or more specifically, of Mac.

Because if the soldiers were interesting, then Major Robin Macintyre was even more so. Here was the officer who had rescued President Sloan from Richton, Mississippi, and defeated the Warlord of Warlords, prior to being court-martialed for disobedience.

Then, after a pardon from the president, Mac’s Marauders had racked up a string of successes, many of which had been in the news. “Now what?” one of the news anchors wondered out loud. “The president is here, Major Macintyre is here, and both of them are going to attend the Freedom Ball this evening. Are the rumors of an affair true? Maybe we’ll find out.”

The Magnificent Mile had been closed to vehicular traffic, and onlookers lined both sides of what was normally a very busy street. Many members of the crowd were armed with American flags and waved them as the POWs waved back.

Then, as the buses passed between rows of high-rise buildings, a blizzard of red, white, and blue confetti began to fall. It was a sight to see—and President Sloan was watching from his suite in the Langham Hotel. He turned to Press Secretary Doyle Besom. “Nice job, Doyle… Where did the flags come from?”

“The America Rising Foundation paid for them.” Besom answered. “This is an excellent time to remind people of the old flag. The real flag.”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed, as a drone-mounted camera zoomed in on Robin Macintyre. She was still alive, thank God. And as beautiful as ever.

“There she is,” a TV newswoman said. “Major Robin Macintyre. She led the raid into Mexico. But many viewers will remember that she rescued President Sloan, too, and was rumored to be having an affair with him, although no evidence has surfaced to support that allegation.” Because there isn’t any evidence, Sloan thought. Robin says we should wait. But maybe, just maybe, I can change her mind.

“Mr. President?”

Sloan could tell that he’d missed something. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Farrow wants to finalize seating arrangements for tonight’s dinner. As it stands now, the Secretary of Defense, Senator Markley from Illinois, the House majority and minority leaders, Ambassador Zinski, and Mya Morrison are slated to sit with you.”

Morrison was a well-known pop singer and one of Sloan’s supporters. And, since she was going to sing, he couldn’t move her. But Zinski? Mrs. Farrow would find another way to stroke the diplomat’s ego. “Remove the ambassador from the list,” Sloan instructed. “And add Major Macintyre.”

Besom was fortysomething, a bit overweight, and famously wore his hair Ben Franklin style. He frowned. “That’s asking for trouble, sir… You know what the press will say.”

“Yes,” Sloan replied. “I do. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

Mac had never been required to wear a blue mess uniform before. But, according to what she’d been told, that was what the occasion required. There was a full-length mirror in her hotel room, and she stood in front of it. The blue waist-length jacket had gold facings and was cut so as to reveal a black neck tab and a ruffled white blouse.

A black cummerbund was cinched around her waist and, below that, a full-length skirt hung to the floor. There was a lot of gold braid, too, not to mention her silver star and two medals that had been working their way through the bureaucracy until the day before. They included the Distinguished Service Cross and a Purple Heart.

Mac thought she looked pretty good but dreaded the prospect of having dinner with Sloan. People would talk. No, they were talking. Surely, Sloan knew that. And, judging from the invitation, he didn’t care. Or he cared but was willing to take the heat.

Mac felt mixed emotions about that. On the one hand, she thought Sloan was being reckless, and on the other, she liked the fact that he would take risks to be with her. Mac felt a familiar tightness in her abdomen as she turned away. It was the same sensation she felt just before she entered combat.

The Langham’s gigantic ballroom was more than half-filled with linen-draped tables, each set with silver, and surrounded by formally attired guests. Sloan and two members of his security detail were waiting behind the blue curtain that ran all the way across one end of the room. The thing that Sloan liked least about his role as president was the endless pomp and ceremony. Yes, he understood the need for it but looked forward to a time when he could enter a room without being announced. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a male voice said loudly. “It is my pleasure to welcome the President of the Northern States!”

Everyone stood and a band played “Hail to the Chief” as Sloan entered the ballroom and made his way over to a small podium. The applause was loud and sustained. “Thank you, thank you very much. Please be seated. And thanks for attending the America Rising Dinner and Ball. Our ex-POWs are here… As are the men and women who rescued them. Please welcome both.”

The soldiers stood, and many of them looked embarrassed as the crowd applauded. Sloan smiled as they took their seats again. “There won’t be any speeches tonight, my friends. Just good food, and good friends, followed by an opportunity to embarrass ourselves on the dance floor.”

There was appreciative laughter as Sloan made his way over to the head table. He was careful to greet all of the people seated around it, but only had eyes for one of them. Mac looked every inch the army officer but beautiful, too, and when their eyes met, something special passed between them. Sloan felt like a schoolboy who, having been smitten by the prettiest girl in the seventh grade, has trouble speaking. “Good evening, Major… It’s wonderful to see you again. Thank you for your service to our country.”

Mac felt the instant sense of connection. It was so strong that she feared the rest of the people at the table could sense it, too. “Thank you for your service, Mr. President. I like the tux by the way… You have a James Bond thing going on.”

The people at the table chuckled, including Secretary of State Garrison, who was seated on her left. “It’s wonderful to have you back, young lady. There were some worried faces in the Situation Room. Especially when those Jaguars arrived on the scene. I want you to know that the president called for air support the moment they appeared. But, by the time the F-35s arrived over your position ten minutes later, you had the situation under control.”

The possibility that Sloan had been watching over her hadn’t occurred to Mac. It should have. Sloan would monitor such a mission no matter who was in command. But the fact remained, he’d been there for her even if it was from a long ways off.

Senator Markley was seated to Mac’s right. He was a staunch member of the Patriot Party and peppered her with questions as courses came and went, so that by the time the cherry tart arrived, Mac was wondering if the interrogation would ever end.

Meanwhile, Mac hadn’t been able to chat with the stunning Mya Morrison, the one person other than Sloan who she wanted to speak with the most.

Senator Markley was in the process of formulating his next question when the MC stepped up to the podium. He had white hair, a runner’s physique, and the practiced manner of a game-show host. “And now, after a fabulous meal, it’s time for some entertainment. The Grammy-winning vocal artist Mya Morrison is with us this evening… And she’s going to sing her latest hit. Please give her a warm welcome!”

Morrison had carefully styled hair, dark-colored skin, and a great figure. Her blue dress was covered with hundreds of silver sequins. They glittered as Morrison made her way over to a raised platform, and the other guests clapped.

Mac joined the applause as the blue curtain parted to reveal Morrison’s band. Once she was in place, they began to play. Mac was pleased to discover that the song had nothing to do with the war. It was upbeat dance music and a reminder of better times. The audience loved it and gave Morrison a standing O. “Now,” the MC said, as the dessert dishes were cleared away. “It’s time to dance! Mr. President? Are you ready?”

Sloan wasn’t ready. But he’d been taking lessons for the last five days in hopes of maintaining his dignity. Everyone applauded as he went forward to embrace Morrison and wheel the entertainer around the dance floor. Their performance lasted for no more than a couple of minutes. But it felt like an eternity, and Sloan felt a tremendous sense of relief once it was over.

More people filtered onto the dance floor as Sloan thanked Morrison, made way for the Assistant Secretary of Veterans Affairs, and returned to the table. Senator Markley was still there—and still bending Mac’s ear. “Excuse me, Senator,” Sloan said. “But I’m going to pull rank. Major, could I have this dance? Even though I may step all over your feet?”

Mac laughed. “At least you aren’t wearing combat boots! Of course, it would be my pleasure. Senator, if you’ll excuse us?”

Markley had no choice but to nod agreeably as the couple departed for the dance floor. “Thank you,” Mac said. “There’s only one thing worse than combat; that’s sitting next to Senator Markley during a long dinner.”

Sloan laughed as they came to a stop. “Welcome to my world, Major. Shall we?”

Mac entered the circle of his arms. “I prefer Robin while dancing.”

Sloan grinned. “And I prefer Sam. Are you ready?”

Mac smiled up at him. “Roger that, Sam.” Then they were off. Sloan was a better dancer than Mac expected him to be. And, as they circled the floor, Mac found that it was easy to follow his lead. The surrounding faces became a blur, and for that brief moment, Mac was free to be herself, without worrying about the people who reported to her. And it felt good.

So Mac felt disappointed when the music came to an end, and they stepped off the dance floor. People were staring, but none of them were close enough to hear. “I want to take you home,” Sloan told her. “To the farm where I grew up. Will you come?”

“I’d like to come,” Mac told him. “But we’d be crossing a line. People would talk. Cable news would work it twenty-four/seven. Your enemies would rehash my court-martial and the pardon.”

“I know that,” Sloan replied. “But it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Please, Robin… Please come with me.”

Mac paused for a moment. She didn’t want to cause problems for Sloan, but the opportunity to spend some quality time with him was too good to pass up. And what the hell? He was a big boy and knew what would happen. “All right, Sam… I’ll go. But only if we go there soon. I’ve been away from Mac’s Marauders for too long. I need to get back to them. Plus, if I hang around for very long, people will accuse you of favoritism.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Sloan told her. “You’re going to receive an invitation to testify before Congress. Members of my party want to ask you questions, and being politicians, be seen with you. I will ask the Speaker to shoehorn your appearance into the schedule. And if you’re here to testify, no one can complain. Thank you, Robin. You’ll hear from me soon.”

And with that, they were forced to part company as a middle-aged congresswoman in a red suit arrived. “Excuse me, Major… But it’s rude to hog all the single men! How ’bout it, Mr. President? Shall we trip the light fantastic?”

“I’m ready to trip,” Sloan said good-naturedly. “So be ready.” He offered his arm, and the congresswoman took it. Mac looked, saw that the head table was momentarily empty, and took the opportunity to fade. Her evening was over.

A sharp-looking lieutenant delivered the “invitation” the following morning. And, according to the formally phrased document, Mac was to appear in front of the House Armed Services Committee at 1000 the next day. “Fortunately, you have some time to prepare,” Lieutenant Newsome told her.

“For what?” Mac inquired.

“Committee members can ask you anything they want, ma’am,” Newsome answered. “The chairman will try to keep things on the straight and narrow. But the members have the right to ask you questions about obscure weapons programs, military strategy, and morale if they choose to. So it’s best to be ready for anything.”

Mac didn’t like the sound of that. But there was nothing she could do. The rest of the day was spent in a hotel meeting room prepping for the hearing. Newsome was there, along with other subject-matter experts, all vying to ensure that Mac would represent their particular discipline well. Mac had a headache by the time 1400 rolled around and had to go take some pain tablets before returning to the fray.

Mac had trouble getting to sleep that night. And once she did, her dreams were beset by all manner of fears and concerns. So that when Mac awoke, she felt no more rested than she had the evening before.

After brushing her teeth, Mac took a hot shower and dressed with care. And there were lots of reasons to do so. It was important to look sharp for the committee, but there was the military brass to be concerned about as well, not to mention the TV cameras. “You’re the reason the networks want to cover the hearing,” Newsome had told her. “So keep that in mind.”

Mac met Newsome in the hotel’s lobby, and they had breakfast together before going out front, where a black SUV sat waiting for them. A private was at the wheel. “Where are we going?” Mac inquired, as the vehicle pulled away.

“We’re headed for what was the University of Chicago and hopefully will be again,” Newsome replied. “The university was forced to close after the May Day meteor strikes. And when Congress decided to set up shop in Chicago, the campus was the natural choice.

“A lot of people think Chicago should be recognized as the new capital, but the president isn’t one of them. He plans to rebuild D.C., or start the process, anyway, since the project will take a long time.”

Mac thought about that as the SUV’s driver wound her way through morning traffic. The problems that Sloan faced were not only numerous, but complex, and she was one of them. The thought amused her, and Mac smiled through rain-streaked glass.

The trip took twenty minutes. Newsome used the time to quiz Mac regarding the military minutiae she’d been force-fed the previous day. But eventually the SUV entered a side street and pulled over. “We’ll have to hoof it from here,” Newsome told her. “But don’t worry… It’s a short walk.”

“I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave,” Newsome told the driver, and she nodded.

A light rain was falling, and neither of them had an umbrella. They hurried through a passageway between two buildings and onto the path that led to Cobb Hall. There were no students to be seen—and for good reason. Most were fighting or working in a factory. There were plenty of bureaucrats, though… Most of whom had been wise enough to bring umbrellas to work.

The Cobb Lecture Hall was on the left. It was a Gothic-style structure with an imposing entrance. But unlike the exterior, the interior had a utilitarian feel. Newsome knew his way around. And as they arrived on the second floor, both of them had to show their ID cards and pass through a metal detector before being allowed to proceed.

After they cleared the checkpoint, Newsome led Mac down a corridor to the door labeled, HOUSE ARMED SERVICES COMMITTEE. A man left, and as the officers entered, they were intercepted by a young woman named Molly.

“I’m one of Congressman Hastings’s aides,” she informed them. “Please follow me.” Thanks to the schooling she received the day before, Mac knew that Hastings was the chairman of the committee and one of Sloan’s supporters.

Reporters yelled questions as Molly led the officers through the press section and into the area reserved for members of the public. It was packed, and Mac could feel their stares as she followed Molly to a table down front. Three officers were waiting to greet her, all of whom were used to dealing with Congress and could help her in a pinch. Had Secretary Garrison requested that? Or the president himself? Not that it made any difference.

Mac had never met the general, the colonel, or the major before—and wondered how they felt about having to take part. Were they annoyed? Probably. And that would make sense. Her testimony was a sideshow, and likely to be a boring one at that.

But what was, was. And all of them had to go through the motions. “Odds are that everything will go smoothly,” General Overby told her. “But don’t hesitate to stand up for yourself if those jerks get in your face.”

Mac thanked the general for his advice and took her seat, knowing that Newsome, Overby, and the others were seated behind her and had her six. A nerve-wracking five minutes passed while committee members milled around, whispered to each other, and checked their cell phones before finally taking their places.

The session was called to order after that and, much to Mac’s surprise, she was sworn in. Was that a mere formality? Or a hint of potential trouble? Mac was already nervous and felt even more so at that point.

The process began with a warm welcome from Hastings. He was a grandfatherly type from Maine and went to great lengths to thank both the ex-POWs and their rescuers before allowing others to speak.

Then, consistent with Newsome’s warnings, Mac found herself fielding questions about strategy, the new Iron Shield defense system, and the increasing use of robotics on the battlefield. None of which were subjects that she knew much about.

Mac said as much, called upon what little she knew, and things were going fairly well until Congressman Will’s turn rolled around. He had a crotchety manner and, according to what she’d been told the day before, was one of Sloan’s most outspoken critics. And because of her relationship with the president, Mac knew the politician was likely to be hostile. That, as it turned out, was definitely the case.

Will cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I have a different type of question for you, Major. According to what I’ve read, your father, General Bo Macintyre, serves as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs for the New Confederacy. Is that correct?”

“I’ve read that,” Mac replied carefully. “But I don’t have personal knowledge of it.”

Will tilted his head down so as to peer at her over his glasses. “So you don’t communicate with your father?”

“No,” Mac answered flatly. “We’ve been estranged for years. And, even if that weren’t the case, such communications would be inappropriate at this time.”

“I see,” Will said as he played with a pen. “But what if your father found a way to contact you? And told you to act on behalf of the Confederacy? What would you do then?”

“I would tell him to fuck off,” Mac replied. “Then I would report the contact to my commanding officer.”

The audience tittered. Will had bushy eyebrows. They rose incrementally. “Please watch your language, Major. You aren’t in a bar.

“Now, while you maintain that you would ignore an order from your father, I remain unconvinced. And I daresay that others share my concern about the possibility of a security breach where you and General Macintyre are concerned. Especially in light of the fact that you were court-martialed for disobeying a direct order.”

“I was pardoned,” Mac said flatly.

“By a man you may, or may not, have slept with,” Will countered smugly.

A mantle of hopelessness began to settle over Mac. Will was using her to hurt Sloan, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it, unless… A possibility entered her mind. “One moment, please. I would like to submit a document that I believe is relevant to this discussion.”

Chairman Hastings looked surprised. “Yes, of course.”

“I object!” Will said loudly. “We need to make sure that the document is real before…”

Hastings brought his gavel down. “Never fear, the document will be verified.”

Mac opened her purse, removed the piece of paper she kept there, and gave it to Molly.

Molly took the much-folded piece of paper up to Hastings, who flattened it on the table in front of him. A look of surprise appeared on his face as he read it. A thin smile followed. “This is relevant. Molly, please make copies for the rest of the committee.

“In the meantime,” Hastings continued, “I will read the document out loud. ‘Wanted Dead or Alive, Major Robin Macintyre, Commanding Officer Mac’s Marauders, for war crimes.’”

Hastings went on to describe Mac’s photo before reading the rest of the text. “‘After being pardoned by Union president Samuel T. Sloan, Macintyre and her band of criminals committed numerous crimes, including kidnapping and the murder of her sister, Confederate major Victoria Macintyre.

“‘Upon delivery of Major Robin Macintyre to the proper authorities, or DNA evidence proving her death, the government of the New Confederacy will pay a reward equivalent to $100,000 in either gold or silver.’”

Hastings paused at that point, as if to make sure that everyone in the hall was paying close attention. “And here, at the bottom of the page, is the following text: ‘By order of General Bo Macintyre, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Confederate Army.’”

Hastings eyed the TV cameras. “I think that any questions regarding Major Macintyre’s relationship with her father, and her loyalty to our government, have been answered.” The gavel fell again. “This meeting is adjourned.”