Battle Hymn

CHAPTER 8

HOUSTON, TEXAS

A stiff breeze was blowing in from the southwest. It caused the water taxi to wallow as it turned into the channel that led into Brazosport.

It felt good to be back in Houston even if that meant Bo had to deal with the Iron Maiden. Still, based on what Bo had heard via his personal network, the newly confirmed president was doing a good job. “She’s kicking ass and taking names,” was the way one admiral put it.

And that, Bo reflected, would make for a nice change. Thanks to a combination of incompetence and laziness on the part of ex-president Morton Lemaire, the initiative had been lost during the early months of the war.

Once the launch was inside the channel, the waves disappeared, and it took less than five minutes to reach the Coast Guard station where Bo’s Land Rover was parked. Colin Ferth turned the wheel and brought the boat in next to the dock with a gentle bump.

A skillful application of power kept the boat in place as Bo stood and handed the retired petty officer a silver coin with a likeness of Ayn Rand on it. “Thanks for nothing, Colin… That was a crappy ride.”

Colin grinned. “Tell it to Mother Nature, General. She’s in charge. What time are you going to head home?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bo replied as he stepped up onto the dock. “I’ll text you later in the day.”

Colin tossed a salute. “Yes, sir. Have a good one.”

That seemed unlikely. But Bo could hope. It was a short drive to the command and control center, but a long wait was required to get in.

Finally, after working his way through a twenty-vehicle queue, Bo arrived at Checkpoint Alpha. A sharp-looking MP delivered a perfect salute, eyed Bo’s ID, and waved him through.

Half a mile later, Bo had to stop at Checkpoint Bravo and go through the whole rigmarole again. The process was a pain in the ass, but a necessary one, to prevent Union agents from getting in.

After parking his car, Bo rode the elevator up to the floor where his office was located. Bo had been forced to select a new secretary once his engagement to Kathy was announced, and Emily was there to greet him as he entered the office. She was about ten years younger than Kathy, and though given to trendy clothing, had a style that was similar to her predecessor’s. Which was to say that Emily was calm, cool, and magnificently efficient.

Emily handed Bo a list of the people who had called in descending order of importance as he passed her desk, and Bo read it as he entered his inner office, where the usual thermos of hot coffee was waiting. The next forty-five minutes were spent dealing with all sorts of pressing problems, including the raid on a contractor-run POW camp in Ascensión, Mexico.

A number of Mexican prisoners had been captured and taken north, where they would probably spill their guts. And that, according to a telephone conversation with General Marcus Lorenzo, was likely to be a problem. “If the North wins the war, they’re going to hold trials,” Lorenzo explained. “And we could be blamed for irregularities at the prison.”

“What fucking irregularities?” Bo demanded.

“It seems that Senorita Carbone was feeding the POWs less food than the contract called for,” Lorenzo told him, “which allowed her to skim money off the top. And, according to some, she was abusive.”

Bo felt the anger boil up inside of him. “Listen, you son of a bitch, it was your job to make sure that Carbone honored that contract! I have to meet with the president in fifteen minutes,” Bo added. “But if I didn’t, I’d go down to your office and kick your ass!”

And with that, he slammed the receiver down. General Marcus Lorenzo didn’t know it, but he was going to die fighting for his country, and in the very near future.

The command and control center’s top floor was divided into meeting rooms. They were named after Confederate generals, and it seemed fitting that the meeting with President Martha Stickley was scheduled to take place in the Robert E. Lee Room. Bo and half a dozen of his senior officers were present when the helicopter designated as Rebel One circled the building and landed on the roof.

Ten minutes passed. Then a Secret Service agent entered, looked around, and spoke into a wrist mike. That prompted three additional agents to enter the room. They checked to make sure that the people in the room were who they claimed to be and conducted a brief search before allowing Stickley to enter.

The president was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed. She had dark shoulder-length hair and green eyes. They jumped from face to face as Bo made the introductions. Stickley had met most of the attendees before and, thanks to an eidetic memory, she remembered the date of each encounter. It was an impressive feat, and a surefire boost to needy egos, of which there were many in the room.

Once the pleasantries were out of the way, and everyone had taken their seats around the oval table, it was time to get down to the important business of waging war. “So,” Stickley said as she placed a well-manicured finger on the binder in front of her. “This is the final draft.”

Bo nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And the comma splice on page 112 was corrected?”

Bo wanted to say, “Who gives a shit about the comma splice,” but managed to control his temper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Stickley smiled. “Good. I assume the issues I identified in draft one have been resolved. So pitch me. Or repitch me as the case may be. Why should we enter into an alliance with Mexico? And how would it work?”

Bo, with help from officers representing all of the different branches of the military, spent the next fifteen minutes detailing the plan. And they did a good job, too. That’s what Bo thought, anyway. But, judging from the expression on the president’s face, she remained unconvinced.

“I agree that the influx of four divisions, no matter how untested they are, could make an important difference in the war effort. But the price is too high. Two tons of gold plus the states of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona is more than I can stomach. And, if that part of the deal were to become public somehow, the North would fight even harder.”

Bo nodded. “I realize that, Madam President. But what you won’t find in the written plan, or on the PowerPoint slides, is something called Operation Overlord.”

Stickley looked skeptical. “Which is?”

“President Salazar’s proposal is very specific,” Bo responded. “His chain of command is to be left intact, his troops won’t be allowed to serve side by side with ours, and we can’t break the Mexican divisions down into their component parts. All of which makes sense from Salazar’s point of view. He knows that the citizens of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona will fight back when Mexico declares sovereignty over them. And he’ll need at least four divisions of battle-tested troops to keep the gringos in line.

“But Salazar’s plan has a weakness,” Bo added. “And it’s this… By keeping his forces together, all in one place, he will make them vulnerable to weapons he can’t defend against. Weapons that can lay waste to an entire division in minutes.”

Bo watched Stickley take the idea in and process it. Her well-plucked eyebrows rose. “Let me see if I understand. We pay the deposit, Mexico sends troops, and we use them to win the war. Then we use tactical nukes to decimate Salazar’s divisions before Mexico can seize any territory.”

“Exactly,” Bo replied. “And that might be sufficient. But remember that while Mexico would be severely wounded at that point, it would still have a pulse. And by killing something on the order of sixty thousand Mexican troops, we could create so much hatred south of the border that we would have to fight another war just months after winning the one with the North.

“To avoid that scenario, we recommend that the Confederacy pivot to the south as soon as the tactical situation allows us to, invade Mexico, and take all the territory north of the Panama Canal. Countries like Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua were doing poorly before the meteor strikes. They’re even worse off now.

“Think of it as an extension of Manifest Destiny,” Bo added. “Think of it as the country the United States could have been, should have been, reborn based on conservative principles.”

The president was silent for a moment. Bo held his breath. What would it be? Yes to a glorious future? Or no to the plan that could win the war and pave the way to a twenty-first-century empire?

Stickley’s eyes locked with his. “You amaze me, General… Finally, someone with vision. And the balls to make the vision real. I want every person in this room sworn to secrecy. I want a security detail for all of the participants, and I want everything pertaining to Project Overlord to be classified as top secret. We have a plan, people… Let’s make it happen.”

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

After testifying before Congress, Mac returned to her hotel. And there, waiting at the front desk, was an envelope bearing the presidential seal. Mac took the envelope up to her room before opening it. Mac found a neatly typed itinerary inside along with a handwritten note from Sloan.

Mac checked to see if she had any doubts regarding the trip. Was Sam the one she’d been waiting for? Yes, well, maybe. But she would never be able to decide without spending some time with him. Even if a price had to be paid.

Mac slept well that night, awoke feeling rested, and ordered room service. Then, after completing her morning routines, she got dressed. Not in a uniform but in some of the civilian clothes she had purchased the evening before. Mac had lost track of fashion many months earlier. Fortunately, the store had a professional shopper who was happy to help and professed to be a fan. Mac knew she had critics. A lot of them. But it was nice to have a fan.

Now, dressed in new clothes, Mac felt different. For once, the person in the mirror came across as a young woman instead of a military officer. An attractive woman? She hoped so.

Since her arrival in Chicago, Mac had not only acquired some civilian clothes, she’d been issued new uniforms as well, and stocked up on everything from toothpaste to shampoo. That forced her to purchase a rolling suitcase to carry her loot in. After completing an idiot check to make sure she had everything, Mac towed the bag out into the hall.

It was early, and there was only one other person in the elevator that carried her down to the lobby. A man in a black suit was holding a card with her name on it. Mac identified herself, and unlike all of the drivers she’d had in the past, this one demanded to see her ID.

Something else was different, too… Rather than offer to take Mac’s suitcase, the man led the way unencumbered. In order to keep his hands free? If so, the security precautions weren’t for her but for Sloan.

It was quiet in the back of the SUV. So much so that Mac figured the vehicle was armored and sealed against gas attacks. It took the driver forty minutes to work his way through traffic and arrive in front of an obscure gate at O’Hare Airport. The guards wore civilian clothes but had military mannerisms.

A two-person team ran a check on the vehicle, while a third checked the driver’s ID, before coming back to request Mac’s. After examining the card, the woman gave it back.

Then, before Mac had time to roll the window up, the guard came to attention. The salute he gave her even though neither of them was in uniform was parade-ground perfect. “Thank you for getting those POWs out of Mexico, ma’am. One of them was my brother.” And with that, the MP turned and walked away.

After passing through the gate, the SUV followed a pickup equipped with flashing lights through a maze of access lanes to the location where a Boeing C-32 sat waiting on the tarmac.

The SUV stopped a hundred feet away from the roll-up stairs that had been pushed up against the plane. As Mac got out of the vehicle, the driver went back to get her suitcase. It made a rattling noise as he towed it forward, and Mac was about to take over, when an air force noncom appeared. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “It will be available in the main cabin if you need it. The president is here… You’re free to board.”

Mac thanked both men before making her way up the stairs to the entry port, where a casually dressed attendant was waiting to greet her. “Major Macintyre? I’m Tim… Welcome to Air Force One. Please follow me.”

As they went aft, Mac caught glimpses of a communications center, a galley, and a lavatory. Then came a section of seats followed by a private cabin. There were more business-class seats beyond that. Sloan rose to greet her. “Good morning! Have you had breakfast? No? Have a seat. Tim will fix you up. I need to go forward for a minute… But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mac was sipping coffee by the time Air Force One took off. Tim brought breakfast shortly thereafter, and Sloan arrived two minutes later. He was dressed in a polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of beat-up cowboy boots. “How’s the food?”

“Good, thanks,” Mac replied. “I love the fresh fruit.”

“It’s coming back,” Sloan said as he sat next to her. “Slowly, but surely, everything is coming back. It’s only a matter of time now. The Confederacy is on its last legs.”

“Good,” Mac said. “The sooner the better.”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed. “But enough of that. I’m taking the day off, to the extent that such a thing is possible.”

“You told me that we’re going to the family farm,” Mac said. “Where is it?”

“North of Omaha,” Sloan replied. “I’m an only child. And when Dad passed away, Mom hoped that I would take over. But I had other ideas. So she hired a local man to run it. His name is Tom Benson. Then, when Mom’s health started to slide, I moved her to D.C. so I could keep an eye on her.”

Sloan looked away at that point. “Mom’s assisted-living facility was near ground zero. I went there as soon as I could. But there was nothing left.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac said as she placed a hand on top of his.

Sloan forced a smile. “Thanks. I was trying to protect her… to take care of her. And, if I’d left her in Nebraska, she’d be alive.”

“All you can do is work with the information you have,” Mac told him. “And there was no way to know that meteors were going to fall—much less exactly where they would strike.”

“Yeah,” Sloan agreed. “That’s what I tell myself. Anyway, Tom continues to run the farm, and he’s doing a good job. But that isn’t the point of the trip. I want you to see the place where I grew up. How I grew up. And I want to escape the press for one glorious day.”

The rest of the flight was spent talking about Sloan’s childhood adventures, the summer vacations Mac had spent on her father’s farm, and the steadily growing rift that came to separate them.

The trip to Offutt Air Force Base took a little more than an hour, and a Marine Corps VH-60N “White Hawk” helicopter was waiting on the ground when Air Force One landed. Marine One carried them over Omaha and up into farm country, where vast tracts of corn could be seen from both sides of the aircraft. “The crop is only half as tall as it should be at this time of year,” Sloan observed. “Government scientists are working on that. In two, maybe three years, we’ll have a variant that can flourish with less sunlight. That’s when production will increase.

“The Whigs oppose that research by the way… Some of them believe that God sent the meteors to punish sinners—so bioengineering constitutes a contravention of God’s will.

“Others suggest that I’m pushing the project because I own a farm. Meanwhile, the lobbyists for the big agro companies are all for it. They like me.” Sloan sighed. “This stuff begins to wear on you after a while.”

Mac changed the subject. “We covered your childhood on the farm. What about college? I have you down as a class-cutting, pot-smoking, girl chaser. Am I wrong?”

Sloan laughed. “You got two out of three right. I won’t say which ones. Suffice it to say that I made it through, matured a bit, and went to grad school.

“How about you? According to one of the magazine articles I read, your father wanted you to attend West Point, but you entered OCS instead.”

“True,” Mac replied. “Dad pushed me, and I rebelled. But after taking some time off after college, I felt the pull. I guess the army is in my DNA. So I joined, but I did it my way, and it pissed him off. That and the fact that I sided with Mom prior to her death.”

Sloan nodded. “I’m sorry, Robin… I wish things had been different for you.”

The White Hawk had started to descend by then. Mac saw a curving driveway, a nicely kept farmhouse, and a handsome barn. All surrounded by shade trees and closely cropped grass. Cornfields stretched off into the distance. “It’s beautiful,” Mac remarked.

Sloan looked pleased. “Thank you. I thought about selling it at one point but decided not to. And a good thing, too… Now I have a place to go when the presidential gig is over.”

Sloan was thinking about the future. A future without war. Mac tried to imagine it. What would she do? Who would she be? And what part, if any, would Sloan play in answering those questions? The ground came up to meet them, and there was a gentle thump as the chopper touched down.

“Come on,” Sloan said as he freed his seat belt. “I’ll say hello to Tom. Then, assuming you’re up for it, we’ll take a walk.”

Benson wasn’t the only person who was waiting for them. Four Secret Service agents were present, too, all of whom were sporting identical sunglasses, barn coats, and jeans. They formed a protective barrier around Sloan and stood facing out.

Benson was wearing a Levi’s jacket, blue tee, and jeans. His gray hair was short, and there were creases around his eyes. Sloan took care of the introductions. “Robin, this is Tom Benson. Tom, this is my friend Robin Macintyre.”

Mac could feel the calluses as Benson’s hand closed around hers and could see the curiosity in his blue eyes. He’d known Sloan for a long time, after all… And had been friends with Sloan’s parents.

Sloan had chosen to omit any mention of Mac’s rank, thereby dropping any pretense that she was there in some sort of official capacity. That felt good. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Benson… Sam is a big fan of yours.”

The praise caused Benson to beam. And as the men chatted about the corn crop, Mac circled the house. It was interesting to see Sloan in his natural element. And that, Mac realized, was his plan. He wanted to convey a sense of his actual persona minus the presidential trappings. It was helpful, even if he wasn’t a farm boy anymore and never would be. Because, like it or not, Secret Service agents and a certain amount of notoriety would follow him for the rest of his life. “There you are,” Sloan said as he came up behind her. “Are you ready for that walk?”

Mac was wearing expensive half boots purchased the day before and hoped they would survive whatever Sloan had in mind. “Sure,” she said. “Lead the way.”

“Every kid needs a hideout,” Sloan said, as they entered a field.

It had rained the day before, and the ground was soft. Mac felt her boots sink in. “That’s true,” she agreed. “Especially if you have a big sister.”

They were strolling between rows of corn by then. The plants were only waist high, and the tightly wrapped ears of corn were only half the size they should have been. “So you’ll appreciate my fort,” Sloan said. “It’s a place where imaginary Indians and pirates couldn’t touch me. There it is… Straight ahead.”

The cottonwood was standing all alone and impossible to miss. Massive branches twisted and turned as they sought the sun, and thanks to the shade that the tree’s canopy threw, the ground beneath the cottonwood was nearly bare.

“Dad wanted to cut it down,” Sloan told Mac, as they paused to admire the tree. “He said we should plant corn there. But Mom said ‘no.’ She said the tree belonged to me and that I was the only one who could kill it.”

Mac looked up at him. “And you didn’t.”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I didn’t. And I never will.” He pointed. “Look up there… Can you see the platform? I built it.”

Mac could see the platform. And she could see something else as well. She could see the essential goodness of the man standing next to her. Was he perfect? No. But neither was she.

Their first kiss was a tentative thing… little more than a gentle touch. Then Mac felt the pull she’d experienced before, and they kissed again. The second contact was more insistent and, had they been somewhere more private, would have led to further intimacies.

The moment was so compelling that neither of them was conscious of the Secret Service agents who stood with backs turned, staring out at the cornfields. Then something crashed through the foliage above them and clattered to the ground. Sloan turned towards the threat. “What the hell is that?”

“I’m sorry,” one of the Secret Service agents said. “An unauthorized device entered the area… So one of our interceptor drones fired a burst of microwaves at it.”

Mac went over to look at the device. The drone was about three feet across, had four motors, and was equipped with a camera. There were no visible markings on the device, but it didn’t require a genius to know that it belonged to a TV network. Mac made eye contact with the agent. “Could a drone like this send a live feed?”

The agent nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac turned to Sloan. “You know what this means.”

He nodded. “We’re busted. For real this time. Are you sorry?”

Mac remembered the kiss. “No. Never.”

Sloan nodded. “Me either.”

“I need to rejoin my unit. Especially after this. Before the shit hits the fan.”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed reluctantly. “That would be best.”

Then he turned to the agent. “Head back to the helicopter… And take the rest of the detail with you. We’ll be along shortly.”

Murphy looked like he might refuse, seemed to think better of it, and spoke into his sleeve. All of the agents disappeared. Sloan took Mac into his arms. “Let’s try that kiss again… Maybe we can get it right this time.” They did.

HOUSTON, TEXAS

General Bo Macintyre looked up at the sky. It was blue, and the sun was shining. How long had it been since he’d seen that? A month? At least. And now, on his wedding day, ol’ Sol was making an appearance. That meant Kathy was happy. And when she was happy, he was happy. Or happier, since a state of giddiness wasn’t possible for someone of his temperament.

Bo went to the back of the Land Rover to get the groceries Kathy wanted. Most of it was items they already had, like mixed nuts, chips, and dip. But Kathy was concerned that they might run out. The sun was out, so more people would come. That was her logic. But Bo figured it would work the other way. People would want to play—and anyone who could bail out would do so. As for the rest of them, meaning the other members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, they were screwed. Bo grinned. He’d been there and done that.

Bo carried the groceries up to the back door, turned the knob, and entered the kitchen. Guests would arrive soon, and the caterer was hard at work. The caterer turned to look at him. “Kathy says it’s time to get dressed. Or else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bo said as he took an appetizer and popped it into his mouth. “Yum! Prawns rolled in bacon! Save ten of those for me.”

“You’ll have to negotiate that with the boss,” the caterer replied. “Those kind of decisions are above my pay grade.”

Bo laughed and left the room. There weren’t going to be any uniforms. Kathy had been clear about that. So his tuxedo was laid out on the bed, and Bo knew that Kathy was in the bathroom. He was tying his shoes when she emerged. She had chosen to wear a peach-colored dress. It looked good against her tanned skin.

Bo went over to give Kathy a kiss, and she raised a hand. “Oh, no you don’t! I just put my makeup on. Your tie is crooked. Hold still while I fix it.”

Bo held still. He was lucky, very lucky, and wanted to tell her that. But such things were difficult for Bo. Maybe, had he been able to communicate more freely, his first marriage would have been more successful.

Forget that, Bo told himself. It’s over. Margaret is gone, just like Victoria, and you have to live in the now. Just thinking about Victoria was enough to choke him up.

“There,” Kathy said. “Slip into your jacket, and you’ll be ready.” Then, by way of a concession, she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” Kathy said. “Now get out there and mingle!”

The ceremony was going to take place on the large terrace located next to the house. A buffet-style dinner would follow. In the meantime, guests were starting to gather under the umbrellas out front. That’s where the bar, the appetizers, and the view were. Sun sparkled on the Gulf. And as Bo stepped onto the deck, a warm breeze caressed his face.

Kathy appeared shortly thereafter, and the next twenty minutes were spent socializing. Bo didn’t care for such occasions as a rule. But, with Kathy to keep things going and a couple of drinks under his belt, Bo had to admit that he was having a good time.

The ceremony was classy but short. And by the time it was over, the sun was hanging low in the sky. Bo was chatting with Admiral Howell when Kathy appeared at his side. “Excuse me, gentlemen… But the bartender is running low on champagne, and I’m sending the general to get more.”

“Your wish is my command,” Bo said. After excusing himself, Bo circled around to the kitchen, entered through the back door, and made his way down a set of narrow stairs to the half basement below. The space was prone to flooding at times. But it was the perfect place for the old refrigerator that served as a wine cooler. Bo pulled the door open, reached inside, and heard what sounded like a clap of thunder.

Suddenly, most of the air was sucked out of the room, the ceiling caved in, and a two-by-four clipped the side of Bo’s head. He fell to his knees. The possibility of a natural gas explosion was the first thing that entered his mind. But the house didn’t use gas.

Then the awful truth dawned on him. A bomb! Dropped from a plane. No, that didn’t make sense. Houston was a prime target, so it was surrounded by air-defense installations and protected by fighters. There would have been a warning had Northern planes headed south.

Bo placed the bottle of champagne on the floor and struggled to his feet. Plaster and other pieces of debris cascaded off his shoulders as he stepped over a shattered beam and was forced to crawl through a hole to reach the stairs. He had to find Kathy. She would be mad about the tux—and how dirty he was.

Bo battled his way up and into what amounted to a crater. The circular debris field was at least a hundred yards across, and with the exception of a single contrail, the sky was empty. There was no sign of bombers, fighters, or anything else for that matter. What then, Bo wondered? What would account for such devastation?

The answer was a missile. A fucking missile. Launched from a submarine off the coast and flying so low that none of the defensive radars had been able to detect it.

The attack was similar to those he had requested while serving in Afghanistan. Only instead of targeting the Taliban, the North had attempted to kill him. And the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It would be a coup… the sort of strike that would do incredible damage to the Confederate war effort. “Kathy!” Bo yelled. “Where are you?”

Sirens could be heard in the distance as Bo searched the rubble, looking for his wife. When Bo found her, he wished he hadn’t. Kathy’s body lay in a pool of blood. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, and her right arm was missing. “Oh, God,” Bo said as he fell to his knees beside her. “Please, no.” Bo’s tears landed on Kathy’s face and cut tracks through the dust on her cheeks. He held her hand, the one with his ring on it, and sobbed. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

A fireman appeared. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing you can do for her, sir. Here… Let me give you a hand.”

“Look at what the bastards did,” Bo said, as the fireman helped him to stand. “I’m going to kill them. Not just a few… I’m going to kill all of them.”

“Yes, sir,” the fireman said soothingly. “You’re bleeding. Come with me… We’ll patch you up.”

Bo had to step over Admiral Howell’s decapitated body in order to leave the scene. Broken glass crunched underfoot, a helicopter clattered above, and sunlight glittered on the sea.

OFFUTT AIR FORCE BASE, NEBRASKA

When the helicopter touched down at Offutt, Sloan left the aircraft by himself. An air force officer was there to escort the president to Air Force One. Sloan paused at the top of the stairs, turned to wave at the cameras, and ducked inside.

Then, and only then, did Mac emerge from the helicopter. Yes, the press might grab a shot of her. But it wouldn’t be the one they wanted so badly. Which was to say a shot that included Sloan. Not that it mattered much. Sloan had already heard from Press Secretary Besom. Footage of what the press was referring to as “the kiss” had aired and was getting lots of play.

A noncom was waiting for Mac. He saluted. “I’m Sergeant Lewis, ma’am. They sent me over to give you a lift.” He gave her an envelope. “Your orders are inside. Here, let me give you a hand with that suitcase.”

The drive took ten minutes. Mac chose to leave the envelope unopened until Lewis delivered her to the terminal, where the tubby C-17 sat waiting. “That’s your bird,” Lewis informed her as he removed the suitcase from the back. “It’s scheduled to take off for NAS/JRB in thirty minutes. Have a good trip!”

Because of the time she’d spent down south, Mac knew the noncom was referring to Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans. So she was being sent back to Louisiana. But to do what?

Mac thanked Lewis and towed her suitcase up the ramp and into the equivalent of a flying bus. Her fellow passengers included a group of navy SEABEES, an army medical team, and a twenty-person detachment from the air force band. Mac noticed that the other passengers were staring at her and wondered why. Did they recognize her from TV? Had they seen footage of the kiss? The true nature of the attention became clear when a loadmaster approached her. “Yes, miss? Can I help you?”

That was when Mac remembered that she was wearing civilian clothing, and not just any civilian clothing but an outfit appropriate for a date. “Yes,” Mac replied. “I’m Major Macintyre. Have you got a slot reserved for me?”

The noncom consulted a clipboard. “Yes, ma’am… We’re expecting you. Please follow me.”

Once her suitcase was secured, Mac found herself seated against the port bulkhead between an army chaplain and a navy supply officer. The swabbie was snoring and reeked of alcohol. The sky pilot was reading an e-book and humming to himself.

Mac strapped herself in and opened the envelope. There was the usual boilerplate to plow through. But the so-what of the orders was clear. Mac’s Marauders were now part of the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC). Meaning the same secretive organization that had sent her into Mexico after the POWs.

I’ll bet it’s a temporary gig, Mac thought, like protecting a base or participating in a raid. But that was pure conjecture, and there was no way to get real answers until she arrived in New Orleans.

The trip took forever. What should have been a five-hour flight took twice that given the need to avoid Confederate airspace and land at out-of-the-way airports. So it was dark by the time the C-17 landed in New Orleans, and Mac was able to drag her suitcase off the plane.

There was a swirl of activity, and Mac was searching the crowd for a friendly face when a sailor appeared out of the gloom. “I’m sorry about the delay, ma’am… My name is Givens. I didn’t know you were wearing civvies… The loadmaster pointed you out. Have you got more gear? No? Please follow me.”

Givens led Mac to a Humvee, placed her suitcase in back, and slid behind the wheel. “We’re headed for the HQ building. The CO wants to see you right away.”

Mac watched the headlights swing across the remains of a two-story building. The base had fallen to the rebs shortly after hostilities began. And, from what she could see, the North had bombed the shit out of the place before taking it back. “Can I stop at my quarters?” Mac inquired. “I’d like to change.”

Givens glanced her way. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

“Of course.”

“When Commander Trenton says ‘now,’ she means ‘yesterday.’ If you know what I mean.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Mac replied, as the Humvee bumped through a pothole. It seemed that the CO was female—and a hard-ass. Ah, well… Mac had been there before.

“This used to be the base exchange,” Givens told her, as the Humvee came to a stop. “But it serves as the unit’s headquarters location now. I’ll grab the suitcase.”

Mac thanked him, followed a path toward double doors, and saw that the windows were blacked out. A man emerged from the shadows. He wore TAC gear and was carrying an HK MP7. That was one of the weapons SEALS favored for close-quarters work, and Mac wondered if he was one. “Hold on, ma’am. I need to see some ID.”

Mac produced her ID card, the sentry aimed a flashlight at it, and made the comparison. “Thank you, Major… Please stand by while Compton checks your bag.”

Another sailor appeared. This one was female and equipped with a headlamp, which she turned on. The rating had clearly searched bags before and knew how to do it quickly. Her report was clear and concise. “A Glock nine mil, two magazines, and a knife. That’s all.”

The male sentry nodded. “Zip it up. Okay, Major… You can enter.”

Light spilled through the entryway as Mac opened the door and towed the suitcase inside. A reception desk faced her on the other side of the room, and wheels clicked as Mac made her way over to it. A petty officer first class sat behind the counter. He knew who she was. “Welcome to NAS/JRB, Major Macintyre. Commander Trenton is in her office—and would like to speak with you.”

Mac glanced at her watch. It was a little after 2200, and Trenton was still at work. What had Givens told her? “‘Now’ means ‘yesterday’”? Yes. Mac made her way over to the door and knocked three times. A female voice yelled, “Enter!” and Mac obeyed.

Trenton’s hair was short, combed boy style, and parted on the right. The asexual look might have been weird on someone else but was consistent with Trenton’s blue-eyed, hollow-cheeked face. Rather than a uniform, Trenton was wearing a navy tee shirt with a silver oak leaf pinned to the collar. A special operator? Yes. They weren’t into uniforms. “Well, well,” Trenton said. “What have we got here? A party girl? Or an army officer?”

“Ma’am, my name is…”

“Shut up,” Trenton said as she rose from the chair and circled the desk. “I know who you are.” By that time, Mac could see that the navy officer was wearing shorts. In a marked contrast with Trenton’s left leg, which consisted of flesh and blood, the other had been fashioned from titanium and plastic. A pair of combat boots completed the look.

“You are Major Robin Macintyre,” Trenton said, as if accusing her of a crime. “The officer who rescued the president from the mess in Richton, and went on to become his fuck buddy, which is why he pardoned your ass.”

Even though Mac was wearing civilian clothes she found herself standing at attention. “That isn’t true,” she objected. “I’m not his…”

“I told you to shut up,” Trenton said, as she circled Mac. “That was an order. But you don’t like to follow orders, do you? That’s why your fuck buddy had to intervene. And don’t try to tell me that Sloan isn’t your fuck buddy because I watched you trade spit with him earlier today. Everybody did. And that includes the slackers, thieves, and perverts in your so-called battalion.”

Trenton stopped in front of her. “Well, guess what, Major… Your ass doesn’t belong to Sloan. Your ass belongs to me. And I’m going to work it hard.”

Trenton was nose to nose with Mac by then. So close that Mac could see the pores in the naval officer’s skin. “Do you read me, bitch?”

“I read you, ma’am.”

They stood that way, neither flinching, for a good fifteen seconds before Trenton took a step back. “Good. Now sit down and listen up. I want you to know what’s going on.”

Mac sat in one of two guest chairs while Trenton circled the desk. “You and your people have been selected to carry out an important mission. You participated in the battle for the Bayou Choctaw Strategic Petroleum Reserve. And, according to Colonel Walters, you’re more than a pretty face. But then she chose the Marine Corps over the navy, which doesn’t say much for her judgment.

“But regardless of that—this mission will be similar to the one at the Choctaw Reserve except that the West Hackberry Reserve is off to the west and well within Confederate-held territory.”

Mac opened her mouth to speak, and Trenton raised a hand. “Hold that thought. I’ll let you know when I’m done. A push is coming. A big push… And the rebs will be forced to retreat. Will they leave the Hackberry Reserve intact? Or will they destroy all of the infrastructure associated with it? We can’t take that chance. So we’re going to drop Mac’s Marauders in there before the push begins. Your job will be to capture the base and hold it until you are relieved. Okay, you have questions. Ask them.”

Mac locked eyes with Trenton. “What does the word ‘drop’ mean in this context?”

Trenton smiled thinly. “That’s the correct question. Good for you. I mean we’re going to attach parachutes to your Strykers, load them onto C-17s, and drop them onto the Hackberry Reserve. But don’t freak out… I’m talking about a low-altitude auto-extraction from twenty feet in the air. So your vehicles aren’t going to float all over the place and wind up in a swamp.”

“With personnel aboard?”

“Yes. There are two reasons for that. First, we don’t have the time to put you and your felons through jump school. Second, there’s a strong possibility that you will find yourself in a hellacious firefight within minutes of putting down. There won’t be time to round people up, dust them off, and have a cup of joe before engaging the enemy. Or, put another way, your ass will be surrounded.”

“How long do I have to get ready?”

“Two weeks.”

Mac stood. “Is there anything else?”

“There is one thing,” Trenton said as she leaned back in the chair. “Your fuck buddy attempted to kill your father yesterday. Unfortunately, he failed. You have to give Sloan credit, though… It was your father’s wedding day, so most of the Confederacy’s Joint Chiefs were gathered at his house, sucking free beer. So it was a class-A juicy target. The cruise missile was spot-on. Everyone died. Everyone except your daddy, that is… Meanwhile, as that shit was going down, Sloan was tongue-fucking you up in Nebraska. Sweet, huh?”

It was meant to hurt, and it did. Mac did an about-face and left the office. The sound of Trenton’s laughter followed her out into the reception area.