Into the Guns

CHAPTER 9

NEAR MIAMI, ARIZONA

It was just after dawn—and the sky was pewter gray. Mac was lying on her stomach on top of a ridge ten miles west of Miami, Arizona, looking down into a canyon. A light dusting of snow covered the ground surrounding the do-it-yourself oil refinery, and half a dozen vehicles were parked around the cluster of multicolored shipping containers used to house the crew.

Five weeks had passed since the mercenaries had departed Camp Navajo near Flagstaff, Arizona, and driven south to Superior. Fortunately, they’d been able to make the journey without taking casualties. Unfortunately, the temperature was only five degrees warmer than it had been in Washington State. And Mac figured conditions would soon get worse. There was no point in whining about it, though… What was, was.

As Mac panned her binoculars from left to right, she could trace the path of the muddy maintenance road that ran from one end of the canyon to the other. She knew that the dirt track followed the path of an underground pipeline that ran all the way from Canada down to Tucson. There were hundreds of such lines in the United States, and they went unnoticed unless one began to leak or caught fire.

But after the meteorites struck, and fuel became scarce, the good citizens of Miami decided to tap the pipeline and steal what they needed. The problem was that they had to refine the crude oil before they could use it. That might have put the kibosh on the idea somewhere else. But the citizens of Gila County were a resourceful bunch and had been able to construct their own refinery using tanks, pipes, and valves salvaged from local mining operations.

The process was simple though extremely hazardous. All they had to do was boil the crude and condense the resulting vapor at specified temperatures to produce what was called “straight run” gas and diesel. And that worked for a month or so.

Then a group of banditos called the 711s heard about the refinery, swept in, and took control. The locals attempted to take the refinery back, failed, and hired the newly arrived Marauders to handle the task for them. Now, after a week of planning, the attack was about to begin. “Damn it!” Ralston said. “The bastards are early!”

First Sergeant Norman Ralston was stretched out to Mac’s left. Unlike most company sergeants, he rarely swore. So the “damn it” was strong stuff coming from him. Mac turned her binoculars north and saw why Ralston was angry.

The Marauders were supposed to enter the valley from the south. Then, if the 711s were smart, they’d flee north in an effort to escape. But just before they reached the exit point, the locals were supposed to block their path with a couple of graders. And that’s when the Strykers would hit them from behind. Except that the goddamned civilians were early!

And as Mac swung her glasses back to the refinery, she saw that the banditos were boiling out of their shipping containers and taking up positions behind the ten-foot-high berm that surrounded the refinery. Sparks Munroe was lying next to her. Mac spoke out of the right side of her mouth. “Tell Strike Force Hammer to…”

But it was too late. The trucks were already nosing their way into the valley, and the Stryker crews couldn’t kill the defenders without destroying the very thing they’d been sent to recapture, and that was the refinery.

“Tell the Strykers to withdraw,” Mac said. “Then I want you to call Mr. Hanson and tell him to meet me at the FOB.”

Sparks said, “Got it,” and was still on the radio as Mac turned to Ralston. “We’ll use the drones to keep an eye on the situation—but let’s leave some observers here as well.”

Ralston nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

The forward operating base was a temporary affair, located on a ranch six miles from the canyon. What had once been a house was little more than a pile of charred wreckage. But the forty-two-foot-by-sixty-foot metal shed was intact and being put to good use. It stood on a rise guarded by two Strykers and was surrounded by a dozen well-dug fighting positions.

As the Humvee followed the curving driveway up to the building—Mac could see that Hanson’s mud-splattered Ford pickup was already there. As she got out, the civilian hurried over to confront her. Hanson was short, stocky, and overdue for a haircut. Spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. “You ran! We want our deposit back.”

What happened next surprised Mac and the soldiers close enough to witness the incident. She was angry, and the pistol seemed to draw itself. Then, with the barrel touching the center of Hanson’s forehead, she pulled the hammer back. “Listen, asshole… Don’t ever talk to me like that again… If you do, I’ll blow your brains out. Understood?”

Hanson’s eyes were huge. He nodded.

“Good,” Mac said as she eased the hammer down. “Your people arrived early, tipped the banditos off, and blocked their exit. That left us with two options. We could destroy the refinery or withdraw… It was my understanding that option one was unacceptable. If I have that wrong, just say the word, and we’ll turn that sucker into a pool of burning sludge by lunchtime.”

Hanson’s eyes tracked the pistol as it slid back into its holster. “Sorry,” he said. “We want to recapture the refinery intact.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Mac replied. “We can seal the canyon off and starve them out.”

“Maybe,” Hanson allowed. “But that could take weeks… And we can’t afford to have you sit here for that long.”

“Okay,” Mac said as she placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go inside. We’ll have a couple of drinks and work on a new plan.”

That appealed to Hanson, who allowed Mac to steer him up the slope and into the metal building. What followed was a two-hour session during which Hanson had three stiff drinks, and Mac took a few sips. And by the time it was over, Operation Fourth of July had been born.

The display of fireworks began at precisely 12:01 A.M. and consisted of illumination rounds fired from an 81mm mortar located a hundred yards behind Mac’s position. Mac heard a muffled bang, followed by a short period of silence. Then came a pop as a miniature sun appeared over the canyon and fell trailing smoke as it did so. Harsh light strobed the ground and threw shifting shadows back and forth. And, because the banditos assumed that an infantry attack was under way, they opened fire.

Mac was lying on the same ridge as before, with Ralston on her left and Sparks on her right. She smiled. The more ammo the bozos burned, the better. The plan was to keep the bastards awake, scare the crap out of them, and force a bloodless surrender.

The 711s weren’t stupid, however… When the attack failed to materialize, they stopped firing. Mac turned to Munroe. “Give Hadley permission to fire.”

He did so. But a full five minutes passed before the sniper squeezed his trigger. Mac knew that Hadley and his spotter were on the opposite ridge—and that the marksman was using a rifle equipped with a night-vision device. “Target down,” Munroe said, as he relayed the report. “He’s lining up on another.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “Tell the special effects team to turn their lights on.”

Once Munroe passed the order along, it was only a matter of seconds before white lights appeared along both sides of the canyon. That gave the impression that soldiers occupied both slopes and were looking down on the refinery. The banditos fired at the lights until someone ordered them to stop. That was when another pair of illumination rounds went off.

Once that display was over, Mac gave the 711s half an hour to marinate in their own juices before ordering the flyover. The Apache arrived ten minutes later, entered the canyon from the south, and passed over the refinery at an extremely low altitude. The roar generated by the gunship’s General Electric T700 turboshaft engines bounced off both sides of the valley and made a deafening statement. “Okay,” Mac said, “I think we have their attention. Tell Kho to deliver the offer.”

Forward Observer Lin Kho and Private Brown had worked their way in close by then. Kho had a megaphone. “Listen up!” she said. “You are surrounded. We don’t want to kill you… But if you refuse to surrender, we will. So put your weapons down and come out with your hands on your heads. You will be escorted out of the valley and allowed to go wherever you wish.”

Part of that was true—and part wasn’t. The Marauders couldn’t kill all of the banditos. Not without destroying the refinery. But they did intend to turn the 711s loose if they surrendered. Would they try to return? Quite possibly. But once the locals had control of the facility, and the high ground, the banditos wouldn’t be able to roll over the refinery the way they had before.

Having received no reply, Kho repeated the offer, told the defenders which frequency to use, and gave them an ultimatum: They were to respond within half an hour or suffer the consequences. Mac was thinking about the potential cost of an infantry assault when Munroe interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve got a guy named Pasquel on the horn, ma’am. He wants to talk.”

Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief. Thank God! The plan was working. The next fifteen minutes were spent talking to Pasquel over the radio. The bandito said that he and his people were willing to surrender, but not until the sun rose, and they could see their surroundings. Then, if everything looked good, the 711s would walk north. Mac didn’t like that but was forced to accept it, and an uneasy truce was born.

But it wasn’t long before Mac’s initial sense of joy gave way to serious misgivings. In retrospect, the “surrender” seemed too easy. And, according to Munroe, scrambled radio messages were flying back and forth between what he assumed to be the 711s—and some other party. The questions being who? And why?

Mac wanted to confide in someone. But there was no one other than Evans that she could share her doubts with, and her XO was back in Superior, literally holding the fort. Besides, commanding officers were supposed to be strong, silent types similar to her father.

So all Mac could do was to make sure that the Marauders remained on high alert and wait for the sun to rise. The hours seemed to crawl by. But finally, as a pus-colored sun rose to backlight the clouds, Mac was free to act. She planned to push the 711s out through the north end of the canyon and bring her forces in from the south. To that end, four Strykers were ready to enter the valley on her command. “All right,” she said. “Tell Kho to order them out.”

Mac kept her binoculars focused on the refinery as Kho spoke. She and her assistant were in a well-dug fighting position behind a pile of rocks. “We kept our part of the bargain,” Kho said over the loudspeaker. “That means it’s time for you to do likewise. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your heads.”

That was when the thunder of aircraft engines was heard, an ancient Douglas AC-47 swept in from the north, and two door-mounted 3-by-7.62mm General Electric miniguns went to work. The weapons could fire two thousand rounds per minute, and they were devastating.

Mac knew that ships like it had been used during the Vietnam War to provide close air support—and had been responsible for saving a lot of American lives in situations where units were surrounded by enemy forces. The modern version of the so-called Spooky was the Lockheed AC-130, but some third-world countries were still using the old AC-47s. And the 711s had one of them.

Gunfire raked the top of the ridge as the miniguns opened fire. That forced the Marauders to turn and slide down the opposite side of the hill as the steel rain swept toward them. Mac shouted into her mike. “This is Six actual! All vehicles will disperse… All dismounted personnel will take cover! Over.”

It was the best she could do. Except for the machine guns mounted on the Strykers, the group didn’t have any antiaircraft weapons to call on. And that, Mac realized, was her fault. Because rather than consider all the possibilities, she’d been stupid enough to believe Hanson when he described the 711s as “a pathetic street gang.”

Now it was clear that the banditos had a backer with a lot of resources and a need for fuel. A Mexican drug lord, perhaps… Not that it mattered. All Mac could do was withdraw and hope to avoid casualties. The AC-47 roared past on its way to the south end of the canyon, where the Strykers had been waiting. Mac could hear the rattle of machine guns as the top gunners fired on the plane and could imagine the rooster tails of snow and mud the vehicles would throw up as the truck commanders put their accelerators to the floor.

Mac’s heart was pounding as she scrambled back up the hill to the top of the ridge. As her eyes swept the valley, she could see that the banditos stationed inside the berm were pouring out. That didn’t make sense at first. The 711s were winning… So why would they run? Then it came to her. The banditos were afraid that the Marauders would destroy the refinery! And that was a very real danger since her snipers were hard at work. “Watch your aim!” Mac said sternly. “Don’t hit the refinery… It could blow.”

Rifles cracked, gang members fell, and the AC-47 circled back. Had the gunship been summoned by one of the 711s? That seemed likely. And if the Spooky managed to kill the snipers, the battle would be over. “This is Six,” Mac yelled. “Take cover! The gunship is going to make another run!”

The words were barely out of Mac’s mouth when the plane arrived over the south end of the valley and opened fire. The pilot was unlikely to know where the snipers were—but could hose the slopes down and hope to get lucky. Columns of snow and mud shot into the air as the miniguns went to work. Then something unexpected occurred.

The sound of the Apache’s engines was obscured by the noise the Spooky was making. As the helicopter rose from beyond the east wall of the canyon, it was swiveling to the right. That was necessary because the gunship was carrying point-and-shoot rockets.

Mac watched in openmouthed amazement as Peters fired six of them. Not at the AC-47, but ahead of it, the way a hunter leads a duck.

Two of the missiles hit the starboard side of the plane. The fixed-wing aircraft exploded into a ball of flame, causing pieces of fiery wreckage to fall everywhere, the refinery included. That triggered a secondary explosion and a geyser of billowing flame. “Holy shit,” Munroe said as he looked out over the valley. “Did you plan that?”

“Hell, no,” Mac said, as a column of smoke poured up into the sky. “I wish I had.”

Roughly four hours later, Mac was sitting in the FOB on the other side of a makeshift table from Hanson and two of his cronies. They were pissed, and Mac understood why. The Marauders had been hired to capture the refinery, not destroy it. So she let them vent.

Finally, after the men ran out of gas, Mac offered her side of it. “Look,” she began, “here’s the deal. I’m sorry about the way things turned out. We did our best to recapture the refinery and, if it hadn’t been for the AC-47, I think we would have done so. And oh, by the way… you folks told us that the 711s were nothing more than a street gang!”

Hanson scowled and was about to respond when Mac raised a hand. “Hear me out… Both sides signed a contract. It provides for a per diem charge plus a bonus for capturing the refinery. We failed to accomplish the primary mission, so you’re off the hook there… But you still owe us three ounces of gold per day for twelve days. So pay up.”

That set off a round of recrimination that lasted for fifteen minutes. But the outcome was never in doubt. The mercenaries could waste Miami, Arizona, so the locals paid.

Mac spent the trip back to Superior brooding. Once again, she’d been tested, and once again, she’d been found wanting. Or so it seemed to her. What if Peters hadn’t taken it upon himself to attack the AC-47 gunship? Would the idea of using his helicopter to attack a plane have occurred to her? Mac didn’t think so. But all of your people are still alive, the voice told her.

Because I got lucky, Mac replied. What about next time?

The question went unanswered as the column entered Superior. It was a small town of about fifteen hundred residents. As Mac’s Humvee led the rest of the column east along Main Street, there was very little to see other than some old, flat-roofed buildings and vertical cliffs in the distance. Historically, the town was known for two things. The first was its popularity as a location for movies like How the West Was Won, Skinwalkers, and The Gauntlet.

The second was the town’s proximity to a major copper mine, which, because of the meteor strikes, was no longer in operation. And that had everything to do with why Mac had chosen Superior as the unit’s home. She figured the mine would make a good base… And the fact that there was a town, no matter how small, helped, too. Because Superior could provide much-needed shopping for the troops and their dependents.

As for Superior’s citizens, they were thrilled to host the unit since the mercenaries would have to protect them in order to protect themselves. Not to mention the much-needed cash that the soldiers would spend. So people waved as the vehicles passed by, and that included a squad of Marauders who were out on patrol. Their presence was a sure sign that Evans was doing his job, which consisted of security, maintenance, and training. The latter was of particular importance as new people continued to join the unit.

A short drive took them to the mine. Two A-shaped steel structures marked the entrances to shafts nine and ten. A water tank was perched on a rise, outbuildings sat here and there, and a pile of slush-covered scrap loomed on Mac’s left.

Meanwhile, some of the mining company’s heavy equipment was being employed to excavate what was to become a subsurface vehicle park and maintenance facility. The company’s living quarters were already underground—and impervious to anything less than bunker-buster bombs. And that was important since the unit was large enough to make a tempting takeover target for a warlord.

The company’s vehicles were parked in walled revetments where they would be safe from anything other than a direct hit—and that included support vehicles like the fuelers, six-by-sixes, and gun trucks.

Evans was not only expecting the detachment but was there to greet it. He came to attention and tossed a salute as Mac’s Humvee came to a stop, and she got out. “Welcome home, Captain.”

Mac returned the salute. “Captain? Since when?”

“Since you were promoted,” Evans said with a smile. “Some potential customers are waiting to meet you—and how many lieutenants command an outfit the size of this one?”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Mac said, “although we’ll need to chew it over with the troops. But if I’m a captain, then you’re a lieutenant. Congratulations, butter bar! You’re overdue for a bump. Who are these people anyway?”

“They claim to work for the new president… A guy named Sloan. He was Secretary of Agriculture or something.”

“There is no government.”

“They claim there is,” Evans countered. “And they’re here to recruit us.”

“For what?”

“To put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

Mac wasn’t sure how she felt about that. That could be good, if it was for real, but what if Sloan was little more than a warlord? That would mean another step backwards. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take a shower and find a clean uniform. Can we invite them to dinner?”

“I’ll pull something together,” Evans promised.

Mac was ready to meet with the government representatives an hour later. The delegation consisted of Interim Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison and an army major named McKinney. He had piercing blue eyes… And Mac feared that he’d see her for what she truly was: a lieutenant, masquerading as a company commander. But it couldn’t be helped. All she could do was play the part and hope for the best.

The meeting took place in what had been the mine supervisor’s office. A conference table dominated the center of the room, a makeshift bar occupied a wall, and a space heater purred in a corner. Evans was present… And wearing the bars Mac had given to him.

After a few drinks, and a discussion of the bad weather, Garrison took charge of the conversation. “Let’s get to it,” he said. “Here’s the situation… As you know by now, Washington, D.C., took a direct hit from a meteorite. That was a devastating blow. Our country was left without leadership, and that opened the way for a group of people who want to take over. They call themselves the New Confederacy, and they plan to run their country like a corporation. The president would be replaced by a CEO. He or she would report to a twelve-person board of directors, and citizens fortunate enough to own land would become shareowners. The rest of the population would become disenfranchised.

“But as bad as that sounds to most of us… Plenty of so-called haves would vote for a system that puts them on top. That, plus a well-coordinated fear campaign, explains how the so-called New Order has been able to gain traction.

“Meanwhile as the A-holes who run the Confederacy sell their crap to anyone who will listen, they’re busy stealing anything that isn’t nailed down. Take the Strategic Petroleum Reserve for example… According to our sources, they’re selling the oil abroad—and using the money to buy voters. In light of these facts, President Sloan plans to restore the federal government, and unify the country.”

Mac stared at him. “Even if that means starting a civil war?”

“Yes,” Garrison answered firmly. “And that’s why I’m here. Military force will be required to stop the Confederacy—and that means we’ll need units like this one. Units that shouldn’t exist. You and your personnel swore an oath to defend the United States of America… Not to steal equipment from the army and go into business for yourselves.”

Mac opened her mouth to object, but Garrison raised a hand. “I know, I know… You were cut off and looked for a way to survive. I’ve heard that malarkey before. And we’re willing to accept that explanation for the moment, realizing that the government won’t tolerate mercenaries forever. Let’s talk business. We want to hire Mac’s Marauders… How much will that cost?”

“No offense,” Mac countered, “but how are you going to pay?”

“I guess you haven’t heard,” Garrison replied. “The Third Continental Congress met and voted to reboot all federal agencies. That includes the IRS under the leadership of Interim Commissioner Marsha Rostov. So get ready to pay your taxes.”

“And there’s another thing,” McKinney said as he entered the conversation for the first time. “President Sloan’s forces took Fort Knox away from a renegade general a few weeks back.”

“So you know him?”

McKinney nodded. “I work for him.”

“He’s a soldier then,” Evans suggested.

“Yes,” McKinney said. “Although he has a lot to learn. The troops love him, though… Because he fought alongside them.”

Mac liked McKinney’s style… And his frank assessment went a long way toward making her feel better about Sloan.

A civilian entered the room and said something to Evans. He thanked her and turned to the others. “Let’s put the business discussion on hold until after dinner. Please take a plate from the back table and follow me. We’ll get our food and bring it back here.”

The meal exceeded Mac’s expectations. Steaks had been cooked on a smoke-blackened barbecue, a pot of baked beans was waiting, and there was plenty of fresh-baked corn bread. Vegetables were hard to come by, though, and nowhere to be seen. But it was a good dinner, with plenty of Mexican beer to wash it down.

Once the dishes were cleared away, negotiations resumed. Mac was unsure of herself. Not only did she lack business expertise, she had no way to know what the unit’s overhead would be or what the competition was charging.

But eventually the discussion came down to a charge of four ounces of gold per day, which was one ounce more than the folks in Miami had paid. And that felt pretty good. But what if there’s a more generous client out there? Mac wondered. If we take this opportunity, we could miss out on that one.

When Garrison spoke, it was as if he could read her mind. “I’d like to remind you of something, Captain… The time is coming when units like Mac’s Marauders will have to rejoin the United States Army or fight it. Which side of that equation would you like to be on?”

It was an important question. Would Sloan succeed or fail? Mac couldn’t be sure. But the unit will be no worse off if he fails, Mac told herself. Whereas you could be in a world of hurt if he succeeds and you are on the wrong side of history. She stood and extended a hand to Garrison. “You have a deal. Let’s kick some Confederate ass.”

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

The enormous white tent was Besom’s idea. It had been purchased from a special-events company in Louisville and erected in front of the Fort Knox depository. That meant any photo of the tent would not only show the modest way in which Sloan had chosen to live but would remind people of the president’s recent victory and the fact that the government was sitting atop a whole lot of gold. All of which made sense but meant Sloan had to wear a winter coat most of the time, even though strategically placed space heaters whirred around the clock.

Sheets of fabric had been used to divide the “new White House” into functional areas, one of which was Sloan’s office. It was equipped with beat-up campaign-style furniture that was supposed to convey the sense of a general in the field. Sloan was seated behind his desk, reading an intelligence summary, when three people were shown into the “room.”

Sloan had interacted with all of them in his role as Secretary of Energy, but never in one place, and the fact that they’d chosen to come as a group was not only interesting—but part of why he’d been willing to fit them into a crowded schedule. Emile Durst represented the Coal Coalition, Joe Cobb worked for the shale industry, and Adele Eakins was a well-known lobbyist for the wind-power people.

Sloan circled around to greet each person, invited them to sit on the canvas director’s chairs that fronted his desk, and returned to his seat. “So,” Sloan began. “This is a surprise. Where are the biofuel folks? And the solar people?”

Cobb was dressed cowboy-style, in a barn coat, khaki pants, and hand-tooled boots. He’d spent a lot of time out in the sun back when it was still visible, and the lines on his face were reminiscent of a road map. “The biofuel people are selling what little bit of corn they have to food processors,” Cobb answered. “And the solar people are selling most of their panels to homeowners for pennies on the dollar.”

“That makes sense,” Sloan allowed. “But I assume you folks are doing well.”

“We are,” Eakins agreed. “But for how long?” Eakins was a fortysomething dishwater blonde. She looked like a soccer mom but had a master’s in aeronautical engineering.

Sloan frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It’s going to take years for us to rebuild, and as we do so, your companies are certain to grow and profit.”

“We want to be part of the solution,” Durst put in. “But we have some concerns.”

Here it comes, Sloan thought to himself. Stick to your guns. “Okay,” Sloan said. “And what are those concerns?”

Durst was wearing a camel-colored overcoat over a suit and tie. His breath fogged the air. “There are rumors that you’re going to attack the South.”

“What I’m pushing for,” Sloan replied, “is the full restoration of our sovereign territory. And that includes the states south of the so-called New Mason-Dixon Line. I hope the secessionists will change their minds and remain with the Union. I sent a letter to CEO Lemaire saying as much.”

Cobb looked Sloan in the eye. “And if he refuses?”

“Then we’ll take whatever actions are necessary to unify the country.”

“And that means war,” Eakins insisted. “Don’t bullshit us, Sam… We aren’t stupid.”

Sloan struggled to contain his steadily rising anger. “So you’re opposed to unification?”

“There would be a lot of casualties,” Cobb answered evasively. “Six hundred and twenty thousand men died in the first civil war.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sloan said. “So that’s it? You, as the representatives of your respective industries, came to warn me about the possibility of casualties?”

“War is a complicated enterprise,” Durst said. “We need time to ramp up… So while unification is important—there might be unintended consequences.”

“That’s right,” Eakins added. “We’ve read your speeches. So we’re aware of your plan to repatriate the petroleum reserves down south.”

“The oil in those reserves belongs to the citizens of the United States,” Sloan reminded them. “It’s my duty to take it back.”

“But that could be problematical,” Cobb warned. “You were Secretary of Energy… Think about what will happen to energy prices if you dump all that oil on the market. Why not wait for a while? What’s the hurry?”

Sloan sighed. There it was. The real reason why the lobbyists were sitting in front of him. Their clients would profit from the reconstruction process. But they’d make even more money while energy prices were sky-high. And that, rather than the full restoration of the country’s lawful government, was their focus. Sloan looked from face to face. “There could be a price drop,” he allowed. “But I doubt it. In fact there’s so much work to do that demand could outstrip supply.”

“So you’re going to push Congress to authorize a war,” Eakins said grimly.

“I’m going to push Congress to rebuild this country,” Sloan replied. “Whatever that may entail.”

The meeting came to an end shortly after that. As the lobbyists left, Sloan knew that a lot of campaign cash was walking out of the tent with them. There were other donors, however… And he’d find them. “How did it go?” Besom inquired as he entered the room.

“Not very well,” Sloan confessed. “They’re afraid that energy prices will drop after we capture the oil reserves.”

Besom made a face. “All right, so be it. But I’m taking names… And when this is over, there will be a price to pay. Are you ready for the tour?”

“The tour” was another one of Besom’s ideas and was set to begin the following morning, with a ground-hugging flight to Virginia. From there, Sloan was scheduled to fly north, west, and back again. The plan was to spend one night in each one of the twenty-five contiguous states that constituted the Union. Sloan was looking forward to the trip and dreading it as well.

Cars came to collect Sloan, Besom, and Jenkins the next morning. In his new role as Interim Director of the Secret Service, Jenkins had assembled a team of five ex–law officers to protect Sloan. They barely knew each other and were learning on the job, but some protection was better than none.

The cars took them to Godman Army Airfield, which was part of Fort Knox. Air Force One was waiting. Except that the postimpact version was equipped with two engines—and could barely accommodate Sloan’s party. It could fly low, however, below the cloud cover, and land at small airports. And that would be necessary because of the consistently bad weather, and the fact that the North could no longer access the Global Positioning System.

Everything went well at first. Thanks to Besom’s advance people, there were welcoming crowds waiting for Sloan at airports, attentive audiences filled the halls where he spoke, and there were offers of support at the dinners he attended.

America is rising, America will come back together, and America will be greater than it was before. Those were the messages Sloan delivered at each stop. And he believed in the first two even if the last one was unlikely to materialize during his lifetime.

City followed city in what became a blur of places, faces, and memorable moments. Those included a standing O in Pittsburgh, fireworks in Detroit, and a clear blue sky in Lincoln, Nebraska. Then the presidential party put down in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Prior to the meteor strikes, the state had been ranked with Alabama as one of the most conservative places in the country. And, according to what Besom had heard from his growing cadre of operatives, nothing had changed.

In fact, most observers agreed that the only thing that prevented Wyoming from aligning itself with the New Confederacy was the fact that all of the state’s neighbors were pro-Union. If only by small majorities. And that was why Besom had wanted to skip Cheyenne.

Sloan had a different perspective however. “We can’t win what we don’t fight for,” he said. “And we need to show the citizens of Wyoming that we care, even if only 10 percent of the population agrees with us.”

But when Air Force One landed, it was snowing, the crowd waiting at the airport was waving Confederate flags, and there was no security other than what Sloan had with him. Jenkins and his people hurried Sloan past the hostile crowd and into the second of three black SUVs. The vehicle took him to a hotel, where about a dozen pro-Union people were waiting. Their homemade signs were nearly invisible in the forest of professionally printed New Whig Party placards and at least a dozen Confederate flags.

Sloan knew that, like the original Whig Party back in 1830, the new Whig Party favored a strong Congress and a weak presidency. A political structure which, if implemented, would not only be more responsive to lobbyists—but could be used to adopt many elements of the “New Order” that controlled the South. That would require changes to the Constitution, of course… But what better time to push for such changes than when the country was on its knees? And people were frightened?

As the security team escorted Sloan into the hotel, he could hear the names they called him, and feel the animus that hung in the air. “Hang the bastard!” someone shouted. A cheer went up. Sloan regretted his decision to visit Cheyenne by that time, but he wasn’t willing to cut and run.

The inside of the hotel felt extremely warm after the cold air outside, and Sloan got only a brief glimpse of the comfortably furnished lobby before being escorted down a hall and into a meeting room. It wasn’t especially large. Besom knew better than to reserve a room that might look empty in photographs. Union loyalists were seated in the first two rows. But the rest of the room was packed with Whigs. And they were clearly hostile as Sloan took his place behind the podium.

The noise level dropped slightly as Besom gave the usual introduction, but began to increase as Sloan spoke. His eyes searched the room looking for a friendly face. “I come from a farm family,” he began, “so it’s a pleasure to visit the Cowboy State.” That produced a smattering of applause but not much.

“Our country has been through some hard times,” Sloan continued, “but I…”

“He’s an imposter!” a woman shouted. “The real president is dead!”

“I am the real president,” Sloan insisted. “But if you want someone else, then vote in the next election.”

“Bullshit,” a man said. “I want someone else now!”

Sloan saw the pistol come up, heard Jenkins shout “Man with a gun!” and was reaching for his own weapon when half a dozen shots were fired. The would-be assassin jerked spastically as the bullets struck him—and a blood mist drifted away from his head. His body went slack at that point and dropped out of sight. His wife screamed and threw herself on top of the corpse.

There was a roar of outrage as more guns were drawn, and people began to blaze away. Sloan brought the Glock up, saw a woman pointing a revolver at him, and shot her in the chest. That was when Jenkins grabbed Sloan from behind and dragged him toward an exit.

Besom was holding the door open, so that Secret Service agents could carry one of their own out of the room, and calmly firing a pocket pistol into the crowd. The press secretary didn’t seem to care who he hit—so long as it was a Whig.

Thanks to Jenkins, the SUVs were waiting out back. The presidential party hurried out of the building and piled into them. It was nearly dark as the motorcade raced back to the airport. Air Force One’s engines were running, and the plane was ready to go.

Sloan allowed himself to be hustled on board—but refused to take a seat as the plane started to taxi. A man was laid out on the floor just aft of the cockpit, and three people were bent over him. “Who got hit?” Sloan demanded. “How is he?”

Jenkins got up off his knees. “Agent Castel was killed, Mr. President.”

Sloan felt sick to his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have come here.”

The wheels left the ground, and Air Force One began to climb. “Idaho will be better,” Besom predicted bitterly. “It couldn’t be worse.” Sloan hoped it was true.

SUPERIOR, ARIZONA

There were a lot of tearful good-byes as most of Mac’s Marauders and their vehicles rolled through Superior, Arizona, on the way to Fort Knox, Kentucky. Would all of the soldiers return? It didn’t seem likely… But Mac planned to bring as many of them home as she could. Assuming she survived—which was by no means certain.

About sixteen hundred miles lay between Superior and Fort Knox. Mac hoped to complete the trip in four or five days, and for good reason, since the unit would remain on half pay until it arrived. The pickup truck designated as Roller-One cleared town first, followed by Mac’s Humvee. The column included fifteen vehicles. That left Evans with two Strykers, a Humvee, and an armed pickup truck. That was why the Apache had been left behind. If the base was attacked, the helicopter could make a crucial difference.

The route Mac had chosen was going to take them northwest on Highway 60 to 191 and Interstate 40. They would follow it into New Mexico but stay west of the border with Texas because that area was subject to raids.

The gray clouds were low, and the source of occasional bouts of sleet, as the mercenaries motored up through Show Low and St. Johns. As usual, the Marauders had to share the road with all manner of cars, steam-powered trucks, pedal-powered carts, horse-drawn buggies, and, on that particular day, a motorized skateboard! Its rider was wearing a football helmet and knee pads. He waved cheerfully as he zipped past.

But many of the other vehicles had to be forced into the slow lane by Private Atkins, who was riding shotgun on Roller-One and spent most of his time shouting through a megaphone.

None of which surprised Mac. What did surprise her was the volume of traffic. There was more of it, as if the nation’s pulse had started to quicken, and things were improving.

Could President Sloan take credit for that? Or had the postcatastrophe shock begun to wear off? Resulting in more activity? The two theories weren’t mutually exclusive, however, so maybe there was some truth to both of them.

They pulled into a rest area just after noon to eat lunch. Then, upon returning to the freeway, the Marauders were forced to pass many of the same slow movers they’d overtaken earlier. The convoy was ten miles outside of Albuquerque when Sergeant Esco warned Mac about the roadblock ahead. “Two tanks are sitting in the middle of I-40 with concrete barriers behind them. It looks like some of the traffic is being allowed to enter the city, but most of it is being shunted onto a side road. Over.”

“Are there any signs of combat? Over.”

“No. Traffic is stop-and-go. But other than that, everything looks good. Over.”

“Can you tell who the tanks belong to?”

“No. But the people around them look more like cowboys than soldiers. Over.”

“Okay… Well done. Follow the detour and see where it goes. Over.”

“Roger that,” Esco replied. “Over.”

The UAV pilot called in fifteen minutes later to tell Mac that the detour was going to take them around the city to a point where they could access I-25 north. It was possible to swing wide and use a secondary road to circumvent the area, but time was money… And the Marauders had to conserve fuel. So Mac chose to remain on 40 and deal with the roadblock.

It wasn’t long before Roller-One came up on the traffic jam. It was start and stop from that point forward, a fact well-known to local entrepreneurs, who sold all manner of goods and food from brightly painted shacks that lined both sides of the highway.

Doc Hoskins was worried about food safety, and Mac was worried about security, so the Marauders weren’t allowed to leave the convoy. It was a decision that was certain to generate a lot of griping—but it was for their own good.

Eventually, after forty-five minutes of incremental progress, the roadblock appeared. A professionally painted sign hung over the freeway. It read WELCOME TO THE NAVAHO NATION and seemed to suggest that Native Americans were in charge of Albuquerque.

The tanks Esco had mentioned were parked so they could fire on the highway, and from where Mac was sitting, it looked as if both 105mm cannons were aimed at her.

Two dozen soldiers were standing around burn barrels, assuming that was the correct way to classify the men and women who were dressed cowboy-style and armed with a wild assortment of weapons. Three were mounted on horses and appeared to be on standby, should there be a need to enter traffic and handle a dispute.

A man stopped to talk to the soldiers in Roller-One before making his way back to the Humvee. Mac got out and circled around the front of the vehicle. The local was wearing a flat-brimmed hat, sheepskin coat, and faded jeans. A pair of beat-up boots completed the outfit. Teeth flashed as he smiled. “Are you Captain Macintyre?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man looked back along the column. “That’s a lot of firepower, Captain. Where are you headed?”

“Fort Knox, Kentucky.”

His eyes were like gun barrels. “Why?”

“We’re under contract to the federal government. I can show you the paperwork if you wish.”

The man smiled. “Why bother? I wouldn’t know if the document was real or forged. I hear the North is going to attack the South.”

Mac shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“We’d like to see that,” the man said. “The Confederates don’t like us—and we don’t like them. Will you be allowed to speak with the president?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, if you do, tell him this: You tell him that Chief Natonaba and the Navaho Nation will stand next to him in battle. But if he tries to take Albuquerque, we will fight him to the death. Got it?”

Mac thought about Secretary Garrison. Maybe she could pass the message to him. “Yes, Chief… I’ve got it.”

“Good. You have a nice day, Captain. Walk in beauty… And remember the old ones.” And with that, he turned away.

Mac returned to the Humvee, got in, and gave Roller-One permission to proceed. The detour took them onto Atrisco Vista Boulevard, which led them across arid land and past an airport. Then, after a long and winding journey through some suburbs, the mercenaries were able to get on I-25 and follow it north.

It was late afternoon by the time the Marauders entered the bedroom community of Rio Rancho. Based on the intel provided by Esco, Mac sent Roller-One ahead to inspect a possible bivouac site just east of the freeway, and directly across from a casino. The report came in ten minutes later. The site didn’t have access to water but it was unoccupied, and only yards from an on-ramp. And that would make for a quick start in the morning.

The last vehicle in the convoy was towing a M149A2 “water buffalo.” That gave Mac the freedom to spend a night without a water source, so she gave the go-ahead. It was her desire to have all the unit’s defenses in place before darkness fell. And, thanks to her NCOs, they were.

The night passed without incident, and the convoy was back on the road by 0630 in the morning. The plan was to follow I-25 north into Colorado. Then, near Trinidad, Mac was going to take the unit off I-25 and follow a secondary highway to the northeast.

The Marauders made good progress over the next couple of days. From Rio Rancho they drove to Limon, Colorado, where they spent the night in a deserted RV park. From there it was a five-hour trip to Junction City, Kansas. It was a small town, with an active militia, the leader of which was none too happy about the prospect of allowing a heavily armed group to stay overnight. But unlike Chief Natonaba down in Albuquerque, he found the written contract signed by Interim Secretary of Defense Garrison to be very reassuring. He even went so far as to invite Mac and her officers to dinner in his home.

Mac didn’t have any officers other than Dr. Hoskins, so she took Sergeants Esco and Poole along as well, leaving Ralston in command. It was an excellent, home-cooked meal. And Mac felt guilty about dining on meat loaf and mashed potatoes while the rest of the unit ate MREs.

The Marauders were on I-70 just after dawn and entered the outskirts of Kansas City three hours later. A checkpoint sat astride the freeway and was defended by a mercenary outfit called the Devil’s Kin. The Devs had six Bradleys. So when one of the mercs ordered Roller-One to pull over, the driver had no choice but to obey. The rest of the column followed, and Mac placed them on high alert.

If memory served, a hard-fought Civil War battle had taken place nearby. Union forces eventually won and forced Confederate General Samuel R. Curtis to retreat. Was the city still in Union hands? Mac discovered that it was.

After showing her contract to the major in command of the Devil’s Kin, she was given permission to continue on. “We’ve got a contract just like yours,” the major told her. “So who knows? Maybe we’ll fight side by side one day. Let’s drink to that.”

Mac was expecting him to produce a bottle of hard liquor, and wasn’t looking forward to downing a drink so early in the day. So she was pleasantly surprised when he pulled two cans of Coke out of a cooler, wiped one of them off, and gave it to her. After popping the tabs, and bumping cans, they drank. Mac hadn’t had a Coke in months. The ice-cold liquid felt wonderful going down. She was back on the road fifteen minutes later.

There was a lot of traffic, most of which was slow—so it took two hours to creep through Kansas City. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Marauders were able to put the hammer down and log some serious progress. Enough progress to arrive in St. Louis before nightfall. That was when Mac began to believe that there really was a Union Army… Even if it was totally fucked-up.

The local military command assigned a specially equipped Humvee to the unit for the express purpose of getting them through the city in a timely manner. Mac was grateful and decided to ride in the Humvee. The man behind the wheel was a sergeant named Taber, and he was a talker. And since Mac was eager to learn whatever she could, that was fine with her. In between burps of sound from the vehicle’s siren, Taber gave a guided tour. “See the troops up ahead?”

As the Humvee drew abreast of them, Mac was surprised to see what looked like a battalion of World War I doughboys marching along. They wore Smokey the Bear hats and carried bolt-action rifles. She frowned. “What’s up with that?”

“They’re volunteers,” Taber replied. “Reenactors who dress up and play soldier on the weekends. Some of them are in their seventies. From what I hear, they’re going to protect small towns just north of the New Mason-Dixon Line. That will allow the rest of us to go down south.”

And there were more volunteers including a gang of middle-aged motorcyclists armed with American flags, a troop of blue-uniformed cavalry who were riding horses, and a float carrying a fifteen-foot-tall Statue of Liberty.

When they crossed the Mississippi at 10 mph, there was time to look down on hundreds of barges and improvised gunboats tied up three or four abreast along the banks of the river. Were they prepping for an invasion? That’s how it looked. But the whole thing had an extemporaneous feel. As if someone was throwing things together on the fly… And that scared the crap out of her. The last thing Mac wanted was to see a bunch of incompetents piss lives away. Especially the lives that belonged to her people.

Once on the east side of the city, Mac thanked Taber, switched over to Roller-Two, and wished it wasn’t so late. That couldn’t be helped, however… And for once, they had been assigned to a bivouac area just off I-64.

That was the good news. The bad news was that Jones Park was almost full. Other military units had arrived and set up camp, leaving only a small patch of ground just off Argonne Drive. “I want to double the number of sentries we put out tonight,” Ralston told Mac. “Chances are that our fellow campers will send teams of scroungers out to steal anything they can.”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to Mac, who gave the go-ahead. And a good thing, too… Because three attempts were made to sneak in and steal equipment during the hours of darkness. The would-be thieves were taken prisoner and left tied to trees when the Marauders departed the next morning.

The trip from St. Louis to Louisville promised to be a straight-ahead affair, followed by a turn to the south. That would put them in Fort Knox by nightfall if all went well. Unfortunately things didn’t go well. A persistent rain began to fall after lunch, a truck broke down, and it took the wrench turners more than an hour to get it running again. Mac was tired and frustrated by the time they reached Louisville and were forced to stop at a checkpoint, where she was required to deal with some officious bullshit.

It was dark by the time the unit arrived at Fort Knox. Or it would have been dark if it hadn’t been for hundreds of flickering campfires. “We might as well send the Confederates a message telling them where to drop their bombs,” Mac griped, as a motorcycle rider led the column through a maze of streets.

Private Adams, who was driving the Humvee, chose to remain silent as their guide came to a stop and pointed into the darkness. “It’s all yours,” he shouted. “Welcome to Fort Knox!” Then the soldier was gone. Mac swore, opened the door, and got out. The headlights from a passing truck swung across a sea of mud. The Marauders had arrived.