Into the Guns

CHAPTER 11

BOWLING GREEN, KENTUCKY

As Major Victoria Macintyre dashed from building to building, she could hear the distant thump of artillery, the persistent rattle of machine-gun fire, and the occasional crack of a sniper’s rifle. A stray dog had latched onto her five blocks earlier and followed Victoria as she crossed a rubble-strewn street. The drugstore had been looted, and she ducked inside.

The black-and-brown mutt followed in hopes of finding food, or collecting a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to get either one of those things from Victoria. She had entered the city of Bowling Green to meet with a Confederate spy—not to care for stray dogs. But, since so much of the town had been leveled, there was no way to know if the operative would be there. Victoria had to try, however… Because the agent might be able to shed some light on what the Union Army would do next. And information like that would be of considerable value to General Bo Macintyre and his staff.

Victoria paused to check her map. She was supposed to meet her contact at a bar just off Fountain Square… And that was two blocks away. Victoria heard the dog bark as two men entered the store. She figured they were looters, going store to store, ready to grab the things that previous thieves had missed. Both carried shotguns.

One of the men caught a glimpse of Victoria in a mirror and was bringing his weapon to bear when she shot him in the throat. He let go of the pump gun in order to grab the wound. Blood spurted from between his fingers as he backed into a rack of reading glasses and sent it crashing to the floor.

The second man fired. But the blast went wide as the dog bit his right calf. Victoria shot him in the chest. He toppled onto his loot-filled pack and lay staring at the ceiling. The dog sniffed the corpse.

Like most urban pharmacies, the store stocked a little bit of everything, including canned goods. Most had been stolen, but Victoria found a solitary can of stew that was half-hidden under a supply case. She pulled the rip top free, dumped the contents onto a yellow Frisbee, and placed it on the floor. The dog was eating hungrily as Victoria left the store.

Engines roared as an Apache gunship swept overhead. Its nose gun was firing at a target that Victoria couldn’t see—and there was no way to tell which side the pilots were on.

Victoria ran, paused behind a dumpster, and ran again. Bodies were sprawled outside a bank. Whose were they? Depositors? Fighting to get their money out? Or thieves shot by the police? Not that it mattered.

Victoria jumped a badly bloated corpse and made her way toward the Mint Julep Bar. One end of the wooden sign was hanging free, and the front window was smashed in. After crossing the street, she paused to catch her breath. Her back was pressed against a brick wall near the broken window. Her contact might be inside waiting for her. Or he might be dead. But assuming he was inside, Victoria needed to warn him or risk taking a bullet. She whistled the first bars of “Dixie.”

There was a pause. Victoria heard the same tune from inside the bar. That didn’t mean it was her contact. It could be a looter attempting to suck her in. So Victoria entered the bar with the pistol raised and ready to fire. “You’re late,” a voice said from somewhere in front of her.

Victoria felt some of the tension drain out of her body and glanced at her watch. “Yeah, by three minutes.”

She heard a chuckle as Captain Ross Olson emerged from the shadows with both hands raised. “Hello, Major… You make those camos look good.”

Victoria slid the Glock into its holster. “And you are full of shit.”

Olson laughed. “So we meet again.” He waved her back. “Come on… I brought a picnic lunch.”

Victoria frowned. “I didn’t come here to eat.”

“You’re so damned serious,” Olson replied. “Just like your sister.”

“Robin?”

Olson raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew everything. Robin and I are members of the same battalion.”

Victoria took it in. Robin… Only a few miles away and fighting for the other side. The wrong side. Her father would pretend it didn’t matter. But it would matter, and that was fine with her. An artillery shell exploded two blocks away. Loose glass fell out of the window frame and made a tinkling noise as it hit the floor. “Lunch, huh? Lead the way.”

Broken glass crunched under her boots as she followed Olson back to a booth, where, true to his word, a picnic lunch was waiting. It was romantic if somewhat calculated. Having struck out in Indianapolis, Olson was determined to get in her pants.

What about Robin? Was he trying to seduce her, too? Maybe he had. Yes, Victoria thought to herself, I wouldn’t be surprised.

They sat across from each other as the city of Bowling Green died around them. “We have fresh bread,” Olson announced, “some cheese, and a couple of very expensive apples. Oh, and there’s this… It’s a nice Chardonnay bottled right here in Kentucky. Did you know that Kentuckians have been growing grapes since 1799?”

Victoria didn’t know. Nor did she care. But she gave Olson points for doing his homework. And, as it turned out, the lunch was excellent. The wine was a nice accompaniment for the crusty bread, slices of apple, and bites of crumbly cheese.

By the time they were finished eating, Victoria knew everything Olson knew, or believed he knew, as the officer’s access to Sloan’s plans was quite limited. Still… given input from a lot of different people, the analysts in Houston would be able to stitch things together.

“Good,” Victoria said, as Olson poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “Now let’s talk about the next step… And that’s coming over to our side. Our forces are going to pull out of Bowling Green in the next forty-eight hours. That will generate positive press in the North and negative press down south. To counter that, we’d like to announce that an entire company of scouts came over to the Confederacy.”

“I see,” Olson said as he sipped his Chardonnay. “And then?”

“And then you will use your skills on our behalf, per the contract you agreed to in Indianapolis.”

Olson smiled. “That sounds good, Victoria… But I was hoping for something more… A memory that would keep me warm during cold nights.”

Vic nodded. “I get it… You want me to strip, lie on the table, and give you a ride.”

“That’s not the way I would phrase it,” Olson replied. “But yes, that would be nice.”

Victoria smiled to take the sting out of her reply. “It’s tempting, Ross, it really is, but I would find it difficult to enjoy the occasion knowing that a 105mm shell might land on us while we’re having fun. So let’s put that idea on hold. In the meantime, here’s a slip of paper with your orders on it. Commit them to memory and destroy it.”

Olson accepted the piece of paper without looking at it. “Roger that. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes,” Victoria agreed as she slid out of the booth. “You will. Take care of yourself.” And with that, she left. The dog was waiting outside.

ABOARD ARMY ONE, OVER THE STATE OF MISSISSIPPI

Sloan couldn’t stop yawning. He hoped that the eight men and two women seated around him would assume that he was sleepy rather than scared but feared that they knew the truth. And the fear made sense. The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk was already deep inside enemy territory. Sloan took a moment to look around. McKinney was aboard, as were Jenkins and eight Secret Service agents. All of them were accompanying Sloan over his objections. “Remember,” Jenkins had said two days earlier, “Napoleon had eight thousand bodyguards.”

“And not only was the man a tyrant,” Sloan had replied, “but he lost the war with England. Thanks a lot.” He looked to his right, saw Jenkins yawn, and smiled.

Both of the side doors were open, which allowed a steady stream of cold air to enter the cabin. But, like the rest of the team, Sloan was dressed for it. As the Black Hawk sped through the darkness, he could see the clusters of lights and knew that each marked a town. And why not? The rebs had no reason to expect an attack deep in their territory. That would change.

Sloan leaned back and closed his eyes for what he thought would be a few seconds and woke to find that he had fallen asleep. It was the copilot’s voice that roused him. “We’re five minutes out,” she said. “Check your gear. Lock and load.”

Sloan had a thing for John Wayne movies and knew where he’d heard the phrase “lock and load” for the first time. The Sands of Iwo Jima had been made in 1949. Now he was John Wayne, except this shit was for real.

There was a thump as the helicopter put down in the middle of the LZ established by the personnel on the first two helicopters. The presidential party jumped out, ready to fight. But the rebs didn’t realize that they’d been invaded yet. Once the passengers were clear, the Black Hawk took off. Dawn was two hours away. That’s when things would get interesting.

A DAY LATER NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

Confederate troops had been forced to pull out of Bowling Green and retreat to a point just south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. But because the rebs had a firm grip on Nashville, the relief force was ordered to swing east and wait for a swarm of missiles to destroy a defense tower. Then they were supposed to push through the hole and race south and west to Richton, Mississippi. And since Granger’s Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion was on the pointy end of the spear—it was their job to lead the way.

But it soon became apparent what would have been a seven-hour trip for a family on vacation was going to take a lot longer than that. In order to avoid Nashville, the relief force had to travel down Highway 231 just east of Music City. They passed through the towns of Bairds Mill and Silver Hill before they approached Murfreesboro and ran into trouble.

The Confederates knew about the airborne assault on Richton by then, and the effort to send reinforcements south. So although some of their resources were tied up dealing with the fake attack on Piggott—the rebs threw everything they could into the defense of Murfreesboro. And that brought the Union column to a halt.

As Abbott’s tanks and the infantry required to support them went forward to deal with the defiant rebs—the lightly armed Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion had an opportunity to rest and regroup. They were camped in and around a middle school. And as Mac made the rounds, she could hear the mutter of cannon fire to the south. It was going to be a long night for the tank crews and the infantry units who were fighting for Murfreesboro.

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by a private. “Excuse me, ma’am… But Captain Olson would like to see you. He says it’s important.”

“Okay, where is he?”

“Room 305, ma’am.”

Mac said, “Thanks,” and followed the pool of light produced by her headlamp over to a pair of double doors. A flight of stairs led up to the third floor and a wide hallway. The door marked “305” was on the right. She pulled it open and went inside. Most of the furniture had been pushed over against the west wall—but a table was positioned at the center of the room. And there, sitting on top of it, was a cake. Olson looked up from lighting candles. “Happy birthday, Robin.”

Mac felt a surge of emotion. No one knew it was her birthday… Nobody except Olson, that is, who had clearly done some research. “I won’t sing,” he promised. “And you wouldn’t want me to.”

Mac felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. “Thank you, Ross. This is very sweet of you. Promise you won’t tell. If people find out, I’ll have to take shit about it for days.”

“It’s our secret,” Olson assured her. “Now come over and make a wish. But, if it involves me, I’m already here.”

Mac laughed as she approached the table. The movement caused the flames to shiver. What would she wish for? Peace? Or something selfish? She chose peace.

“Way to go,” Olson said, as the last candle went out. “Now it’s time for a drink and a slice of cake. Don’t worry… According to the girl at the bakery, this puppy is only a week old. I hope you like chocolate.”

“I love chocolate,” Mac replied, as Olson held a chair for her.

“Good. Chocolate goes with Jack Daniels. Of course everything goes with Jack Daniels,” Olson added as he poured two generous drinks.

The cake was stale, but good nonetheless. And Mac knew that she would never forget that particular birthday. The first drink was followed by a second plus another surprise.

“No birthday party is complete without dancing,” Olson announced. “So I came prepared.” Olson’s MP3 player was connected to a small speaker. “Unforgettable” flooded the room. And, once inside the circle of Olson’s arms, Mac discovered that the man could dance. She allowed herself to relax as they circled the table.

And it was then, as the first song came to an end and another one began that Olson kissed her. It was a good kiss and the first in a very long time. He plans to seduce you, the inner voice warned.

I hope so, Mac replied.

Why?

Because he’s pretty, because it’s my birthday, and because I may be dead in a few days. That, it seemed, was sufficient to silence the voice, which wasn’t heard from again.

What ensued was slow, considerate, and very satisfying. There was no bed or anything that resembled a bed in the room. So, rather than lie on the floor, they made love standing up. Olson was strong enough to lift Mac, find his way in, and hold her there.

As kisses were given and taken, man-made thunder rumbled in the distance. The pace of their lovemaking increased gradually until Mac found herself at a point from which it was impossible to go higher. The resulting orgasm was not only spectacular but mutual, and that made the experience all the more enjoyable. And when it was over, Mac felt no sense of regret.

After putting their clothes on, they slow danced for a while and had another drink before parting company. There were no declarations of love, and no promises regarding a future that might not exist. What would be would be.

Mac went back to what had been the nurse’s office and checked to make sure that her appearance was okay before going out to check on her troops. Then it was time to slip into her sleeping bag and a dreamless sleep.

RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

The Richton-Perry County Airport had been transformed into a fort. The maintenance crew’s backhoe had been used to dig a deep ditch around one-third of the runway, and by piling the loose soil inside the trench, the Rangers were able to create a defensive berm. And the minute that task was complete, the tractor was put to work digging a large hole at the center of the area that, once it was roofed over, would house the unit’s HQ.

Then, if the enemy granted them enough time, the soldiers planned to dig a spider’s web system of trenches that would connect the fighting positions together. Some wags were already referring to the base as “The Alamo.”

By the morning of day three, 360 Army Rangers had landed inside the perimeter, the newly created berm was surrounded by Confederate troops, and the base was taking a pounding. Thanks to a plentiful supply of FIM-92 Stinger shoulder-launched missiles, the rebel air force had been kept at bay so far. But for how long? And now, as the Confederate noose continued to tighten, General Abbott’s airborne supply line was being systematically choked off.

The reality of that was evident as the sun rose, a sickly-gray light crept in from the east, and a heavily laden Chinook helicopter arrived. Ground fire lashed up at it, and Sloan heard himself yell, “Turn around! Go back!”

But the pilot didn’t go back. It appeared that he, or she, was determined to deliver the helo’s cargo of food and medical supplies no matter the cost. So as the Chinook continued to bore in, multiple streams of bullets raked the cigar-shaped fuselage. Smoke appeared as the machine lost altitude. Now the ship couldn’t turn back. Sloan yelled, “Come on! You can make it!”

And for one brief moment, it looked as though the Chinook would make it. Then a rocket-propelled grenade struck the helo, and Sloan saw a flash of light and heard a loud bang. The pilot lost control, and the flaming chopper roared in over the berm, where it flopped onto a mortar pit and killed everyone inside.

Sloan looked on in horror as the fuselage rolled slightly, causing one of the helicopter’s thirty-foot-long rotors to hit the ground, shear off, and fly away. The blade sliced a corporal’s head off before burying itself in the berm beyond.

Sloan was in shock. He was standing there, trying to process the horror of what he’d seen, when General Abbott appeared at his side. “I think that will be the last one,” she said calmly.

Sloan turned to look at her. “And the relief force?”

“They’re still hung up in Murfreesboro,” she told him. “Colonel Foster expects to break out by nightfall however. At that point, they’ll be about 420 miles away.”

“Can we hold?”

Abbott looked surprised. “Of course we can hold! We held at the Battle of Shiloh, we held at the Battle of the Bulge, and we’ll hold here.”

Sloan felt some of Abbott’s confidence seep into his body. The relief force could travel 420 miles in what? A day? Two at the most. One of the Chinook’s fuel tanks exploded and threw pieces of fiery wreckage up into the sky. A chorus of rebel yells was heard from the other side of the berm. The clock was ticking.

NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

After a good night’s sleep, Mac was in the school cafeteria, pouring herself a cup of coffee, when the runner approached her. “I have a message from the major,” she said. “He wants to see you right away.”

Mac’s appetite disappeared. “Roger that. I’m on my way.”

Granger was camped in the coach’s office, just off the gym, where Captain Pearce and her HQ people were stationed. As Mac crossed the badly scuffed floor, she could tell that something was up. Pearce’s people were packing, and more than that, they were unusually subdued.

Mac knocked on the partly opened door and waited for Granger to say, “Enter.” Mac stepped inside and came to attention. Granger said, “As you were,” and pointed to a chair. “I suppose you heard.” His expression was grim.

Mac shook her head. “Heard what?”

Granger made a face. “Captain Olson took his company out on a mission and never returned.”

Mac frowned. “Get serious.”

“I am serious. But it gets worse. Not only did Olson desert—he went over to the enemy! The news is on all of the rebel radio stations. And you can bet it’s getting a lot of play up north as well.”

Mac remembered the birthday cake, the dancing, and all that followed. She’d been set up, used, and discarded. Like a piece of trash. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseous.

Some of Mac’s emotions must have been visible on her face because Granger nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I feel the same way. That’s why I want you to find the bastard and bring him in.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come?”

“He’s an enemy combatant. Treat him as such… And that goes for the rest of Rat Company as well.”

Mac liked her orders. She liked them a lot. But first she had to find Olson, so she went to see Sergeant Esco. The drone pilot and Sparks Munroe were sitting in Esco’s Humvee. “We heard the news,” Munroe said. “So we were expecting you. Is the CO sending us out to bring the bastards in?”

“That’s affirmative,” Mac replied. “Assuming we can find them.”

“We can, and we did,” Esco told her. “The Rats had to keep their IFF (identification, friend or foe) gear on until they entered reb-held territory. And the com people were tracking them. Suddenly, all of Rat Company’s vehicles came to a stop. At that point, some of their IFFs went dead, as if the bastards were trying to disappear, but some stayed on. As for why, take a look at the screen. I’m using the Raven because it’s small and hard to spot.”

Mac leaned in to look at the screen. The drone was circling a sports field. Except that the facility was no longer being used to play games. Mac could see what appeared to be soldiers, more than a hundred in all, standing in small groups. Confederates? No, not given the fences that surrounded them and the Humvees positioned to fire on the crowd.

They were prisoners then… Union prisoners who had been captured during the last three days. “It looks like a holding area,” Mac observed. “A place to keep prisoners until the rebs can ship them somewhere else. But what makes you think that Olson’s people are mixed in?”

“This,” Esco said, as he sent the drone out over the neighboring parking lot. And there, positioned side by side, were Olson’s vehicles. Some were transmitting IFF signals. A picture started to emerge. Rat Company had been ordered to report to the lot and meet with someone. Then, while Olson’s soldiers were busy turning the IFF transponders off, the rebs took them prisoner! Why? Because troops who were willing to desert the Union might desert the Confederacy, too. “Well done,” Mac said. “Have you been able to spot Olson? Granger wants that son of a bitch, and so do I.”

“No,” Esco replied. “I’m afraid the rebs will spot the Raven if I drop that low.”

“That makes sense,” Mac said. “All right… Here’s the plan. We’re going to go down there, find Olson, and turn those prisoners loose. Esco, you’ll operate from here. Sparks, you’re coming with me.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until nightfall?” Esco inquired.

“We can’t afford to,” Mac answered. “What if the rebs move the prisoners south? It would be impossible to reach them.”

Mac left, with Munroe in tow. Then she went looking for Ralston and delivered a short rundown. “We’ll take every Stryker we have… But leave the rest of the company’s vehicles here. I want to roll thirty from now. Oh, and we’re going to need six deuce-and-a-half trucks for the prisoners… Tell Sergeant Smith. He’ll find them if anyone can.”

Strike Force Thunder left the school thirty-seven minutes later. The plan was to circle around the worst of the fighting by following Highway 102 under I-24 to Burnt Knob Road, where the trucks would meet them.

The Confederates would notice the convoy needless to say—and throw whatever they could at it. But once Mac told Granger about the prisoners, and he passed the word to Colonel Foster, two Apache gunships were assigned to protect the column.

With the ESV to clear the way, Mac hoped to hit the POW camp before the rebs could figure out what her intentions were. Mac was standing in MISS WASHINGTON’s forward air-guard hatch. She could feel the press of air against her face and the adrenaline buzz that preceded combat. Large mounds of garbage blocked the road ahead. The ESV hit one of them blade down and sent trash flying as militiamen wearing old-time Confederate uniforms fired assault rifles at it.

Mac engaged one group with the M60 machine gun mounted in front of her and saw two soldiers fall. Once MISS WASHINGTON passed through the gap, the next vic opened fire. The two-lane road was flanked by ranch-style homes, leafy trees, and yards equipped with swing sets. Mac found it hard to believe that she was in a war zone until she saw a burned-out Bradley slumped beside the road.

Half a mile farther on, Mac saw a woman hanging from a tree. Was she a looter? A Union sympathizer? Anything was possible as the ESV swerved to avoid a bomb crater. That sent a flock of crows flapping up into the air. Mac winced when she saw the body they’d been feeding on.

Then the scene was gone, and Mac saw trouble up ahead. It consisted of a one-ton pickup truck with an antitank missile launcher mounted on the back. But MISS WASHINGTON’s gunner spotted the threat, too, and fired. The 105mm shell scored a direct hit on the truck, and the explosion threw debris in every direction.

But that was just the beginning. Rebel troops were concealed in the strip mall that bordered the highway. They fired three RPGs at the ESV, and one of them was right on target. There was a flash, followed by a bang, and Mac feared the worst. But as the smoke blew away, the ESV was still rolling! The force of the explosion had been dispersed by the Stryker’s slat armor. The truck’s top gunner was slumped forward, however—and Mac feared he was dead. “This is Blue-Bolt-Two and -Three,” a voice said in her ear. “Stand by… We’ll tidy up.”

Rockets hit the buildings along both sides of the street as the Apaches roared over Mac’s head. The ground fire stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the convoy free to proceed. Mac felt a surge of excitement as Strike Force Thunder turned onto Burnt Knob Road. The trucks were there, just as Sergeant Smith promised they would be, all armed with over-the-cab fifties. Mac opened the intercom. “Hey, Sparks… Tell the trucks to fall in behind the last Stryker and keep it closed up.”

The Apaches were circling a mile ahead, firing on ground targets and clearing a path for the Strykers. “Charlie-Six actual to Strike Force Thunder,” Mac said. “We’re about two miles from the objective. Remember the plan. I’m going to bail out in the parking lot with Alpha One-Two and his squad. The rest of you will go in hard. Neutralize the Humvees but be careful! A hundred Union soldiers are being held inside the fence, and once you break in, they’ll run every which way. Don’t shoot them. Once the place is secure, load ’em up and meet me in the parking lot. Charlie-Seven will be in command. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of clicks by way of acknowledgments as the ESV took a hard right and entered the parking lot. By prior agreement, MISS WASHINGTON and the BETSY ROSS paused to let people off. Then they followed the last deuce and a half as the column closed in on the athletic field.

The squad detailed to work with Mac and Munroe consisted of Sergeant Poole and eight members of the first platoon. Mac heard radio chatter and machine-gun fire as she led the detachment of troops into the maze of captured vehicles. Some were in perfect condition, while others were shot up. All of them wore Union markings.

The Raven was circling above, which allowed Esco to see the squad and provide directions. “Turn right,” he said. “And follow the corridor west. Take cover behind the Buffalo.”

Mac knew Esco was referring to the hulking MRAP or Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle located directly in front of her. The Buf was huge and would provide the team with a place to hide, while Olson and his people ran from the rescuers and into the parking lot, where their motorcycles and rat rods were parked.

Why? Because the mercenaries had broken their contract with the Union and were classified as deserters. All of them would wind up in a federal prison if captured by the North. Plus, they’d need their vehicles to escape. All Mac and her soldiers had to do was wait.

And sure enough, no more than a minute had passed by the time Esco got on the horn. “Here they come,” he warned. “About three dozen of them all headed your way.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “Over.”

Thirty-six fugitives would’ve been a lot to handle had they been armed. But that wasn’t the case, so Mac figured that Poole and his soldiers could handle the job. She peered around the front of the Buffalo, and there they were, with Olson in the lead. He was running full out. “Wait for it,” Mac said. “Wait for it… Now!”

The soldiers charged into the open, where Poole ordered the escapees to stop and raise their hands. Most obeyed. But a few of them had weapons that had been taken off dead guards. They opened fire, and Olson was one of them. Mac cursed herself for failing to anticipate such a possibility.

She raised her assault rifle and was going to shoot Olson, when Munroe did it for her. Buckshot from his shotgun hit Olson’s legs and dumped the mercenary onto the pavement. His weapon skittered away as Mac went forward to stare down at him. Their eyes met. Olson’s face was screwed up in pain. “Robin? Hey, hon, how ’bout some first aid? I’m bleeding to death.”

Mac nodded. “That’s too bad.”

Olson spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re a stone-cold bitch… Just like your sister.”

Mac frowned. “You know Victoria?”

Olson had freed his belt by then—and was wrapping it around a thigh. “Yes, I do. She paid us to come over and double-crossed us when we did.”

Mac smiled thinly. “That sounds like my big sis.”

Olson made a face as he pulled the tourniquet tight. “Give me your belt,” he demanded. “For the other leg.”

“Sorry,” Mac replied. “I need my belt. It’s holding my pants up.”

Olson’s face was contorted with anger. “I screwed your sister.”

Mac nodded as she brought the rifle up. “And she screwed you.”

There was a loud bang, and half of Olson’s face disappeared. “I saw that!” one of the Rats yelled. “You murdered him!”

The blood drained out of the man’s face as the weapon swiveled around to point at him. “Not so,” Mac replied calmly. “My rifle went off by accident.”

“That’s how it looked to me,” Munroe confirmed.

“I’ll have the company armorer look at it,” Poole put in. “Maybe you need a new trigger assembly.” His soldiers chuckled.

Mac waited for the wave of remorse. It never arrived. She felt empty… sad and empty. An engine roared as one of the Strykers pulled up next to her. Sergeant Ralston jumped down. “The prisoners are on the trucks, ma’am. We took two casualties. Doc Obbie says both of them are going to make it.”

“Good. Search the prisoners for weapons and load them up. We need to get out of here pronto.”

Ralston responded, “Roger that,” and went to work. The Apaches continued to circle overhead as Mac returned to MISS WASHINGTON and climbed aboard. Victoria. They would meet one day… And one of them was going to die.

RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

The President of the United States was sleeping in a ditch six feet away from General Abbot’s unburied corpse. His eyes flew open as cold raindrops hit his face and trickled down his cheeks. A flash of light was followed by a loud boom as something struck the center of the compound. Lightning? Thunder? No. It was an incoming 81mm mortar round. The rebs fired one at the same spot every fifteen minutes. The purpose of the ritual was to prevent the Rangers from sleeping, and the plan was a success.

Sloan eyed his watch. It was 0947 on the fourth day of hell. General Abbott had been killed the day before, leaving Major McKinney in command. All because Sloan had been stupid enough to believe that he could use a shortcut to win the war. General Hern was correct… There was only one way to whip the Confederacy… And that was to push them back foot by bloody foot until they were ass deep in the Gulf of Mexico.

Sloan forced himself to roll over and stand. Sheets of rain were falling by then, and his uniform was covered with mud. He barely noticed as he followed the trench toward the bunker. Sloan heard the crack of a rifle shot as a Union sniper fired—followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire as enemy bullets raked the top of the berm. He was too tired to look back.

A ramp led him down into the stinking hole where the battalion surgeon and his medics were laboring to save as many lives as they could. Everything was in short supply—and that included blood volume expanders, dressings, and painkillers. Sloan heard a man groan as he followed the dangling flashlights past the aid station to the command center beyond. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots as he entered the room. McKinney was sitting on an ammo crate with a handset to his ear. He looked up, nodded, and pointed to a chair. “Yes, sir… Tomorrow by 1500. That sounds good. We’ll save some rebs for the relief force to shoot at. Over.”

And with that, McKinney gave the handset to his RTO. “Good news, Mr. President… Colonel Foster believes the lead element of his relief force will arrive by midafternoon tomorrow.”

Sloan was sitting on a lawn chair with the assault rifle laid across his knees. “He believes? Or he knows?”

McKinney shrugged. “He believes that he knows… How’s that?”

Sloan chuckled. “Can we hold on long enough for that?”

McKinney nodded. “Of course… This is our shit hole, and we’re going to hold it until we’re ready to leave.”

Sloan was reminded of what Abbott had said in response to the same question. He shook his head in mock despair. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

McKinney grinned. “Look who’s talking, sir.”

A mortar round landed above them, and dirt showered their heads. Both of them laughed.

NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

“We broke through. The rebs had to pull back.” That’s what Major Granger told Mac when she returned to the school. Captain Pearce and her staff had finished packing their gear and were loading it onto a truck as the two of them spoke.

“That means we can send a convoy south,” Granger continued. “Except that it isn’t a relief force anymore. General Abbott was killed in action, and there’s no way in hell that her plan will work. So we’re sending an extraction team instead. But the opportunity to pull our people out of Richton won’t last for long. Confederate reinforcements are on the way… And in a day, two at most, they’ll roll over the airhead and erase it. That’s where you and your people come in. I’m sorry to send you out so soon—but Charlie Company is all I have to work with at the moment.”

Mac felt a sense of relief. Granger was all business. If the major knew about Olson’s fate, which he almost certainly did, he’d chosen to ignore it. And that was fine with her. “Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “You can count on us.”

“Good,” Granger replied as he opened a map. “Here’s how it’s going to work. The relief force will rely on speed and brute force to get through. Wheeled vehicles can travel faster—so they’ll take the lead. You’ll have two Buffalo Cougars on point. They’ll trigger any mines or IEDs that have been planted along the highway. Your Strykers will come next, followed by transportation for the Rangers.

“The heavies, including a company of tanks, will bring up the rear. Their job is to protect your line of retreat. But you’ll outrun them pretty quickly. Then you’ll be on your own.”

“Why not bring the president out by air?” Mac inquired.

“For the same reason we can’t resupply the airhead,” Granger answered. “The airport is surrounded by AA batteries. Plus, the president said that if a helo managed to get through, he’d refuse to board it unless all the Rangers come with him.”

“The airborne idea was stupid,” Mac observed, “but he’s staying with the troops. I like that.”

Granger nodded. “The president ain’t perfect, but he’s worth saving, so get your butt in gear.”

That had been four hours earlier. Mac’s temporary command consisted of two Buffalos, six Strykers, a tanker loaded with twenty-five hundred gallons of fuel, and six M35 trucks. Fifteen vehicles in all. Since the convoy’s departure US Route 231 had been “prepped” by A-10s and Apache helicopters. That allowed the quick-moving column to thread its way through a maze of still-smoldering vehicles even as they took sporadic fire from rebel troops.

Rather than give them a target, Mac chose to ride inside one-three’s mostly empty cargo bay. She could hear occasional pings as bullets flattened themselves on the Stryker’s armor. That didn’t bother her but would scare the crap out the people in the unarmored tanker and the M35s. It couldn’t be helped, however… All she could do was hope for the best.

Even though the truck commander swore that they were doing a steady 50 mph, which was damned good given the conditions, Mac wanted to go even faster… And it took a lot of self-discipline to keep from checking on the convoy’s position every five minutes. So it came as a relief when the TC announced that Shelbyville lay just ahead.

Mac ordered the fueler to the front of the column before telling all the other drivers to pull over. “Top off your tanks,” she instructed, “and pull forward. Make sure that at least one weapon in every vehicle is manned,” she told them. “Pee if you need to, but don’t go more than twenty feet off the highway to do it. And pee quickly… We won’t be here for long. Sergeant Poole, meet me at one-three, and let’s get to work.”

Mac had the footlocker open by the time the ramp went down, and Poole arrived with two privates. “Grab some spray paint and flags,” Mac told them. “It’s time to redecorate.”

The idea had occurred to Mac when she saw Pearce’s people stuffing trophy flags into a garbage bag. By covering all of the Union designators with beige paint and flying Confederate flags from every antenna, they might be able to convince the rebs that the convoy belonged to them. And why not? Both sides were using the same kinds of vehicles and were dressed in nearly identical uniforms.

Once the changes were made, Mac ordered everyone to “mount up,” and the convoy got under way. Shelbyville had a population of sixteen thousand people. And as the “Confederate” military vehicles rolled through, the locals came out to wave. “Smile at them,” Mac said over the radio, “and honk your horns.”

They did, and the column of vehicles was able pass through town without being shot at. The good luck held as the convoy snaked through Fayetteville and across the border into Alabama. Then, in order to avoid Huntsville and the Redstone Arsenal located nearby, Mac ordered the lead Buffalo to turn west. The extraction team rolled onto I-65 south with flags flying.

Meanwhile, based on the reports that Munroe was receiving, the heavies had been able to establish a firebase just north of the state line. But tanks and the soldiers sent to protect them were attracting so many rebs that they might have to pull back. If that occurred, Mac’s line of retreat would vanish.

Mac forced herself to ignore that possibility as the blood-red sun arced across the sky, and the column continued south. Everything went smoothly until Munroe received a message from HQ. Based on video captured by the Predator drone that was scouting ahead of them—a Confederate roadblock was blocking the freeway north of Birmingham. Perhaps it was a routine affair—or maybe it had been set up to stop the convoy. The reason didn’t matter.

What did matter was the need to break through, and the fact that if they managed to do so, their disguise wouldn’t work anymore. But all good things must come to an end, Mac told herself, as she stuck her head and shoulders up through the hatch. It had to happen. “This is Six actual,” she said, over the radio. “Shoot anyone who fires at you. Over.”

The checkpoint was a well-organized affair, with two lanes for civilians and an express lane for military vehicles. On orders from Mac, the first Buffalo began to accelerate as Confederate MPs sought to flag them down. The fifty-six-thousand-pound truck collided with the back end of a Humvee and sent the vehicle flying end over end. It landed on its roof, and sparks flew as it screeched to a stop. The Buf blew past. Rebel troops opened up on the rest of the vehicles as they followed. Mac and the rest of the gunners fired back. The engagement was over less than a minute later.

Mac knew what would happen next. The rebs would pull out all of the stops to block the convoy. And, since they were still 230 miles away from Richton, it was going to get hairy. A knot formed in her stomach.

They were doing 60 mph as they left Birmingham on I-20/59. Mac eyed the lead-gray sky. They had no air cover other than the Predator. And she was well aware of the fact that a single A-10 could grease her tiny command in a matter of minutes. But the ceiling was low, and that might keep planes on the ground. Luck would play a big role in what happened next.

Fifteen minutes later, word came in that two tanks and a whole lot of infantry were waiting for them in Tuscaloosa. And there was no speedy way to bypass the city. “I have two Hellfire missiles hanging on my Pred,” the drone operator told her. “I’ll take care of the big stuff. The rest of it belongs to you.”

As they entered town, Mac saw thick columns of black smoke ahead and knew the pilot had kept his promise. After passing the burning hulks, the convoy came under small-arms fire. What sounded like hail rattled against the Stryker’s hull as Mac fired back. Empty brass flew sideways, bounced, and hit the road.

But the rebs had something more serious up their sleeves. The officer in charge had placed AT4 teams on overpasses, where they could fire down on the Union vehicles! Mac swore as a rocket struck the lead Buffalo’s windshield and exploded. With no hands on the wheel, the enormous vehicle careened across the freeway and slammed into a concrete embankment. Fuel spilled and went up in flames. Mac shouted into her mike. “Those are unguided missiles! Take evasive action!”

MISS WASHINGTON swerved left and right, a rocket flew past, and Mac heard rather than saw the resulting explosion. There was no time to think about it as six motorcycles entered the freeway. Each bike carried two riders. A driver and a gunner. The gunners were armed with stubby M320 grenade launchers. They were single-shot weapons—but one hit from a high-explosive round could destroy the fueler.

“Protect the tanker!” Mac ordered. Working as a team, two Strykers pulled forward to shield both sides of the vulnerable fueler. Grenades exploded as they struck the birdcages that protected the trucks. The motorcyclists paid a heavy price as the convoy’s gunners fired on them. Mac saw a bike tip over, slide, and block another machine, which did a complete somersault. The driver landed on his head.

Then, as quickly as they’d entered the trap, the Union soldiers broke free of it. Mac’s thoughts were on the soldiers in Buf one, and their families in Arizona. How many of her Marauders were going to die? It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Sparks… Get Richton on the horn. Tell them that we’re three hours out—and to package the worst casualties for transport in the Strykers. The rest of the Rangers will ride in the trucks. They can bring medical gear, personal weapons, and ammo. Nothing more. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Munroe answered. And as he went to work, Mac’s thoughts turned to the task ahead. The airport was surrounded… How could she break through the Confederates? And do so quickly? What she needed was a club. A big club… But what? Then the answer came to her… Would the brass authorize it for her? No, probably not. But would they do it for the President of the United States? Hell yes, they would. Mac smiled.