Into the Guns

CHAPTER 12

RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

Sloan and those who still had strength enough were enlarging the bunker by hand. It was a team effort. One Ranger would use a pick to break chunks of mud off a wall, another would load them onto a shelter half, and a third would drag the load up the ramp for disposal. There were four teams, and it was hard for them to stay out of each other’s way.

Meanwhile, the rebs continued to probe various sections of the perimeter and drop mortar rounds into the compound. Sloan didn’t wonder if he was going to die in Richton. The question was when. And the sooner, the better. He was swinging a pick when the order went out: “Pull back from the berm! Get into the bunker! Cover your heads!”

Sloan didn’t have to enter the bunker since he was already in it. He turned his back to the wall and sat in the mud. Men crowded in around him as McKinney and his officers sought to pack everyone into the underground retreat. A lieutenant called out a number as each person entered. That was followed by a crisp, “Everyone is present or accounted for, sir!”

“Roger that,” McKinney said, from somewhere nearby. “Incoming! Cover your heads!”

Nothing happened. Ten long seconds dragged by. The chaplain was praying. “‘Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we fear no evil: for thou art with us; thy rod and thy staff they comfort us.’” What was happening up above? Were rebs preparing to enter the compound? Sloan hoped so.

Sloan felt the earth move as the first of what was to be six submarine-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles landed outside the berm. All Sloan could hear was a muted thump as the thousand-pound warhead detonated.

The bunker’s roof consisted of wood salvaged from an outbuilding and covered with two feet of dirt. Some of that soil filtered down to dust the tops of their heads as more missiles left their tubes out in the Gulf of Mexico, arched high into the sky, and fell at a steep angle.

Taken together, the resulting explosions were calculated to create a 360-degree swath of destruction around the firebase, thereby opening a hole for the extraction team. A cheer went up with each additional strike, and after the last impact, McKinney spoke. “Let’s hear it, Rangers! Three cheers for the United States Navy!”

The response was a heartfelt, if not entirely respectful: “Swabbies! Swabbies! Swabbies!”

“All right,” McKinney told them, “the first platoon will go up and reestablish the perimeter. The second platoon will stand by to load casualties. The extraction team is due to arrive five from now. Go!”

Sloan followed a Ranger up onto the surface, where he paused to inhale some moist air. It was pitch-black, so he couldn’t see the destruction the missiles had inflicted, but there was no incoming fire. Not a single shot. That spoke for itself. A distant voice could be heard calling for a medic… And that meant some of the rebs were still alive.

“Here they come!” someone yelled, and Sloan saw headlights approaching from the west. They were taped, to reduce the amount of light they threw, and seemed to wander as the column made its way through what resembled a moonscape. A spotlight came on as a vehicle with a dozer blade hit the berm and pushed its way into the compound. The evacuation had begun.

Sloan took one end of a stretcher and helped carry a badly wounded Ranger toward a large vehicle with eight wheels. A female army captain was directing traffic, and when Sloan tripped, she moved in to support him. “Careful, Private… Watch where you step.”

That was when McKinney appeared out of the gloom. “The private is the President of the United States, Captain Macintyre.”

“Sorry, Mr. President,” the captain said. “But watch where you step.”

Sloan grinned as Macintyre helped load the patient onto GLORY BOY. Once the task was accomplished, they stepped aside to let another stretcher pass. The wash from a cargo light fell across her face. And as Sloan looked at Macintyre, he was struck by the thick mop of brown hair, the officer’s steady eyes, and her softly rounded features. She didn’t look like a warrior—not to him anyway. But her name had been mentioned more than once during the last twenty-four hours, and Sloan realized that he was face-to-face with the officer in command of the extraction team. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Macintyre responded. “I hear they call you ‘the fighting president.’ That’s good, because we’ll have to kick some ass in order to make it home.” And with that, she was gone.

The evacuation was supposed to take thirty minutes, but the better part of an hour had elapsed by the time the last Rangers were pulled back off the berm and loaded into trucks. Mac was standing near the back end of an M35, talking to Sergeant Ralston, when Major McKinney appeared. A taillight threw a reddish glow across McKinney’s face. “There you are,” he said. “I have orders for you.”

Mac felt mixed emotions. She liked being on her own in many ways. And orders, any orders, would limit her freedom. Of course, orders could protect her as well. Especially when the shit hit the fan. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” McKinney said. “Shortly after the column departs, it will split into three elements. Here’s a list of the vehicles in each element—and the routes they’re supposed to follow.

“You’ll be in charge of Element Alpha,” McKinney said, as he gave Ralston a piece of paper. “Your orders are to go back the way you came, hook up with the heavies, and accompany them back to our lines.

“I will lead Element Bravo up Highway 15,” McKinney added, as he turned to Macintyre, “while you take the president north on Highway 45.”

Mac frowned. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Go for it.”

“Does dividing our force by three make sense? Wouldn’t it be better to keep everyone together?”

“Normally, I would say, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “But there’s nothing normal about this situation. Our most important objective is to get the president home in one piece.”

Mac felt a rising sense of anger. “So you’re going to use the Rangers, and most of my command, as decoys.”

“In a word, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “We’re at war, Captain… And the president’s life is worth more than mine, yours, or Sergeant Ralston’s.”

Mac looked at Ralston. She knew his wife and his children. He nodded. “I understand, sir.”

Mac felt a lump form in her throat and struggled to swallow it. “And the president? What does he think of your plan?”

“He doesn’t know about it,” McKinney answered evenly. “And that’s the way it’s going to remain until the elements part company. Then, when you think the time is right, you can tell him.”

“Excuse me, but that’s going to be a problem, sir… According to what I heard, Sloan prides himself on being with the troops. He’ll have you court-martialed.”

McKinney frowned. “Do you think I give a shit? I left the army, and I came back to serve my country. It needs Sloan. Yes, following General Abbott’s advice was a mistake. But that’s how it goes. Lincoln placed his trust in McClellan, and we know how that turned out. Lincoln won the war, though… Besides, who among us hasn’t been fooled by someone?”

Mac thought about Olson. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. You have a talent for war, Macintyre. The fact that you’re here proves that. So I’m counting on you to get Sloan home. For our country. Do you read me?”

Mac was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. “Yes, sir. Five by five.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you up north. And you, too, Sergeant Ralston. I’ll buy the beer.”

They parted company at that point. According to the orders Mac had been given, she was to command MISS WASHINGTON and the BETSY ROSS. And sure enough… She returned to find that neither truck was carrying casualties, their tanks had been topped off, and the President of the United States was chatting with Munroe. It seemed that both of them were worried about the impact the war would have on professional baseball.

Sloan turned to look as Mac entered the cargo bay and the ramp came up. “We meet again… Are we about to leave?”

“Yes, sir,” Mac responded.

“Where’s Major McKinney? And Director Jenkins?”

“In other vehicles, sir. It doesn’t make sense to put all of our senior people in one truck.”

Sloan nodded. “Right. You’ll keep me informed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Mac put her helmet on, stuck her head and shoulders up through the forward hatch, and gave the necessary order. “This is Charlie-Six… You have your orders. Let’s roll.”

Then, sure that Sloan couldn’t hear, Mac spoke to the MISS WASHINGTON’s truck commander via the Stryker’s intercom. “Hey, Fuller… We’re going to split off from the main column when you come up on Highway 42. Follow it to 45 and hang a left. The Betsy Ross will take our six.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fuller replied.

“And keep that to yourself,” Mac said. “Do you read me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Lights on? Or lights off?”

Mac thought about it and decided that it was best to look as normal as possible in hopes that the locals would assume the vehicles were on their side. “Lights on,” she told him. “Thanks for asking.”

MISS WASHINGTON lurched through a series of craters before finding smooth pavement. Mac could hear the parting comments from other vehicles as the convoy split up, but Sloan couldn’t. And she planned to keep him in the dark for as long as possible.

It didn’t take long to hook up with 45 and turn north. The highway took them through Battles, Chicora, and up to Waynesboro, all without incident. Fuller had to pass heavily laden trucks every once in a while, but traffic was light, and the trucks were doing fifty. Everything looked green to Mac, who was wearing night-vision gear.

Their luck continued to hold all the way up to Meridian, where Highway 45 passed the city a few miles to the east. Then they came up on something Mac hadn’t anticipated. A Confederate convoy! It happened so quickly that they couldn’t avoid it, and Mac was trying to formulate a plan, when Munroe tugged on her pant leg. “What’s going on up there?” he wanted to know. “I’ve got a rebel lieutenant on the horn. He wants us to identify ourselves.”

Mac’s mind was racing. “Tell him we’re members of Bravo Company, from the Austin Volunteers, and we’re headed to Columbus. Ask him if this is Highway 15.”

Mac didn’t know if there was such a thing as the Austin Volunteers and figured the lieutenant didn’t either. She ducked down into the cargo bay and removed her helmet. The president was staring at her. “What’s up?”

Mac held up a hand as Munroe said, “Yes, sir… Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the captain. Over.”

Munroe looked from face to face and grinned. “He told me to tell you that we’re on Highway 45, but it will still take us to Columbus, and we’re welcome to tag along.”

“That’s outstanding,” Mac told him. “Talk about lucky… Good job.”

Then she turned to Sloan. “We ran into the tail end of a reb convoy, sir… And they allowed us to join up! All we have to do is follow them to Columbus and find a way to fade.”

Sloan’s grin turned into a frown at the mention of Columbus. He produced a much folded map and began to examine it. “Columbus? What the hell? You came down through Birmingham. Where are we?”

Mac ran fingers through her hair. “We’re on Highway 45, Mr. President. We passed Meridian awhile back.”

Sloan’s anger was plain to see. “That isn’t the route we were supposed to take. Get Major McKinney on the radio! I want to speak with him now.”

“Sorry, sir,” Mac replied. “I can’t do that. The major is in command of Element Bravo. They’re rolling up Highway 15, and I have orders to maintain radio silence.”

Sloan frowned. “McKinney lied to me!”

“Yes, sir… He sure as hell did.”

“I’ll bust him to private.”

Mac shrugged. “He doesn’t care, sir. None of us do.” And, somewhat to Mac’s surprise, she discovered that the statement was true.

Sloan’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, my God! The troops… Element Bravo you said. Tell me what’s going on.”

Mac did so. And when she was finished, Sloan looked away. His voice cracked when he spoke. “He’s using them as decoys.”

Mac nodded. “Yes, sir… And he’s with them. The same way that you’re with us.”

Sloan’s eyes came back to make contact with hers. He forced a smile. “And there’s no place I’d rather be. What happens now?”

“We’ll let the rebs lead us into Columbus,” Mac replied. “At that point, we’ll give them the slip and follow Highway 45 into Tennessee. Somewhere right around Jackson, I think we’ll run into trouble.”

Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because at that point we’ll be about 190 miles away from our lines. Assuming that General Hern has been able to push south, the rebs will have to retreat, forcing us to pass through an area where it will be hard to tell friend from foe.”

Sloan’s face was covered with grime and three days’ worth of beard. He scratched it. “That makes sense, Captain… How do we prepare?”

“I’m not sure that we can,” Mac answered. “Other than to grab some sleep. There’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about.” She pointed at Munroe. Munroe had fallen asleep during their conversation. His headset was on, and he was snoring.

Sloan grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

Mac returned topside after that. Cold air washed around her face, Confederate taillights led the way, and the moon was playing peekaboo through the clouds. She thought about Sloan. The man was sincere… and pleasant. Bit by bit, she was coming to like him.

After a delightfully boring trip to Columbus, the Strykers were able to separate themselves from the convoy with a simple, “Thank you.” Outside of a pit stop just south of Aberdeen, the Strykers drove nonstop up through Tupelo and into Selmer, Tennessee. The trucks were running on fumes by then. When Mac spotted a brightly lit gas station, she ordered the truck commanders to pull over.

Such convenience stores were typical of what she’d seen in the postcatastrophe South. The so-called board of directors was very good at providing their “shareowners” with fuel and keeping the price down. By using oil from the reserves? Possibly. But regardless of that, it was a good way to build support and keep it.

After MISS WASHINGTON came to a stop, Mac jumped to the ground and entered the store to speak with the attendant. No customers were present—and that wasn’t surprising at 0246. The kid behind the counter had an unruly thatch of blond hair and a skin condition. “Activate pumps three and four please,” Mac told him.

The kid pushed some buttons. “Okay, ma’am… I’ll need cash or a government voucher.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Mac replied. “I don’t have enough cash—and I’m out of vouchers. But no problem… I’ll give you an IOU.”

“I can’t take IOUs,” the teen replied, and was going to turn the pumps off when Mac drew her pistol.

“Sorry,” she said. “But I must insist… Come out from behind the counter and lie on the floor.” Munroe had entered by then and helped hogtie the kid with a couple of extension cords. “How ’bout some candy bars?” he inquired.

“No can do,” Mac answered. “That wouldn’t be right.”

Judging from the expression on Munroe’s face, the RTO couldn’t see any difference between stealing fuel and stealing candy bars. But he couldn’t say that and didn’t.

They were back on the road ten minutes later. Would the local police look at the surveillance footage? And try to chase the Strykers down? Mac hoped not. But she was ready to respond if they did.

Fortunately, there was no pursuit. But, consistent with Mac’s fears, the situation on the highway began to change. The southbound lanes of the highway were jammed with cars trying to escape the fighting to the north. The scene was reminiscent of what Mac had seen in Washington State after the meteor impacts.

The northbound lanes were relatively clear by contrast although the Strykers had to pass slow-moving military vehicles from time to time. No one challenged them, however, since they were speeding toward the front lines, not away from them.

As they pulled into Jackson, all of the traffic was forced to leave the freeway and funneled through city streets. There was no obvious reason for the detour—and the incoming vehicles added to the congestion in the city’s streets. Mac was standing in the front hatch when an MP signaled for the MISS WASHINGTON to stop, and Fuller had little choice but to obey. The MP climbed up onto the birdcage so that Mac could hear him. “Good morning, ma’am… Where are you headed?”

“Up to Martin,” Mac answered. “To kill us some Yankees.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the MP agreed. “I’d take 45 east if I was you… Some A-10s caught one of our convoys on 45 west just before sunset yesterday. Kick some ass for me.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “And thanks for the intel.”

The soldier jumped to the ground, and Mac ordered Fuller to proceed. Then she ducked down into the cargo bay, where Sloan was waiting. “We’re close, sir… Only seventy miles out. But here’s the problem. We’re flying a rebel flag, but when the sun comes up, I’ll have to take it down. Either that, or run the risk of taking fire from Union forces. But, because we won’t be broadcasting a reb IFF signal, they might attack us. That’s why I want you to gear up and be ready if we have to bail out.” Mac pointed to the assault rifle propped up next to him. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

Sloan offered a slow smile. “You’ll notice that I’m alive—and that it’s clean.”

Mac grinned. “Point taken, Mr. President. Did you get some sleep?”

“No. Did you?”

Mac laughed. “Hell, no. But Munroe is fully rested. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

It took the better part of an hour for the Strykers to clear the traffic jam, bypass a roadblock, and crash through a fence onto the highway. The northbound lanes were completely empty, and that suited Mac just fine. The Strykers were doing about 50 mph, and every mile they put behind them was a victory.

The southbound lanes were another story, however. They were filled with reb vehicles, trucks loaded with soldiers, and pathetic-looking civilians, many of whom were on foot. What did that imply? The rebs were pulling back, that’s what… And the battle lines were being redrawn back behind them.

That’s what Mac was thinking when the mine went off under MISS WASHINGTON’s armored belly, flipped the Stryker onto its right side, and threw her into the ditch next to the highway. Mac hit hard and struggled to breathe. Finally, after sucking some air into her lungs, Mac managed to stand. The BETSY ROSS came to a stop just short of the wreck. And that was Mac’s impetus to move. The rebs had mined the northbound lanes of the freeway—and would probably do the same with the southbound lanes once their forces turned to fight. That’s why northbound traffic had been forced off the road and into Jackson. Shit, shit, shit!

The sky was starting to glow in the east, which meant there was enough light to see by. As Mac arrived at the wreck, Sloan crawled out of the air-guard hatch. He was clutching his rifle and wearing a fully loaded vest. Once on the ground, he turned to assist MISS WASHINGTON’s gunner.

As Munroe appeared, Mac saw that he had a cut over his right eye. He passed his radio, shotgun, and a bottle of water down before wiggling out. “Fuller?” Mac demanded, as the RTO stood. “Where’s Fuller?”

Gunner Cissy Roper was on her feet by then. Tears were streaming down her face. “He didn’t make it, ma’am… The mine went off under his seat.”

Mac wrapped an arm around Roper’s bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, Cissy… Munroe? Take her to the Betsy Ross. Mr. President, follow me. We’ve got to keep moving.”

The ramp was already down when they arrived at the BETSY ROSS—and the TC took off before the hatch was up and locked in place. Mac took a quick look around. Sloan had applied a dressing to Munroe’s cut—and Roper was hunched on a bench, with her head in her hands.

The TC was a corporal named Anders. Mac went forward to speak with him. “Take it slow, Andy… Watch the surface of the road for anything that looks suspicious. And drive on the shoulder when you can. That’s a gamble, needless to say—but it’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

Anders kept his eyes glued to the LCD screen in front of him. He knew how Fuller had been killed, and he knew that the same thing could happen to him. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac went back to sit on the bench opposite Roper. Her mind was racing. Speed versus safety. That was the calculation. Even though the truck had been forced to go slowly, it was still moving faster than they could walk.

On the other hand, the BETSY ROSS constituted a very visible target. For both the rebs and Union forces. Unless… She turned to Munroe. “Try to get ahold of somebody senior… someone on Hern’s staff.”

Munroe went to work. After a dozen attempts, he shook his head. “I can’t get through… Someone is jamming all the frequencies.”

Mac swore. The “someone” could be working for either side. She turned to find that Sloan was smiling. “Welcome to my world, Captain. A decision has to be made, you’re the one who has to make it, and you have zero intel.”

Mac made a face. “Screw you, sir.”

Sloan laughed.

“Okay,” Mac said, as she glanced around. “Grab anything you need. And don’t forget to bring water. We’re going to bail out.”

Mac passed the word to Anders, he pulled over, and all of them were clear three minutes later. She would have used a demolition charge to destroy the vehicle if one had been available. But there wasn’t, so Mac ordered Roper to drop two thermite grenades in through a hatch. Odds were that the resulting fire would find some ammo and set it off. Then it was time to run.

Mac took the point. She had an M4 carbine acquired from the BETSY ROSS, a fully loaded tac vest, and her pistol. They were off the highway, and crossing the fence next to it, when the Stryker blew. Mac heard the explosion but didn’t turn to look. Thick brush blocked the way, and it was necessary to shoulder her way through it.

A wide-open field lay beyond. It was pockmarked with overlapping shell craters. What remained of a Black Hawk helicopter was sitting in the middle of the field, with bodies sprawled around it. Treetops were visible beyond the crash site. Some had clumps of foliage, but most didn’t, and the rest were jagged stumps. Fingers of smoke probed the sky in the distance—and the rattle of machine-gun fire could be heard. Maybe, if they moved quickly enough, the party could find a way around the fighting. Mac waved the group forward.

She dashed to a crater, went prone, and waited for the others to catch up. Then it was time to do it again. They were coming up on the Black Hawk’s shot-up carcass when Mac heard a grenade go off and saw what might have been fifty soldiers, all backing out of the tree line. They were firing toward the north… And clearly under pressure. Rebs then… Left behind to try to slow the enemy down.

No sooner had that realization sunk in, than the Confederate soldiers turned and charged straight at her. Mac had two choices. She could fight or surrender the President of the United States to the enemy. Mac ran to the helicopter. It was teetering on the edge of a crater as a wisp of black smoke dribbled out of the engine compartment.

Mac had to climb up the blood-slicked deck, and step over a body, to reach the pintle-mounted machine gun. Then, with both hands on the grips, she opened fire.

Bullets kicked up columns of dirt in front of the oncoming soldiers and wove a trail of death in among them. Some appeared to trip, others were snatched off their feet, and one man was forced to perform a macabre dance before falling to the ground.

But there was incoming fire, too… Mac heard dozens of pings and felt something tug at her jacket as Sloan yelled, “Kill those bastards!” He was firing short, well-aimed bursts from his assault rifle, and even more fire lashed out at the rebels as Anders and Roper joined the fight.

Fully half of the enemy soldiers were down by that time, but the survivors were desperate and continued to elbow their way forward. They were getting close, and Mac was about to run out of ammo when some red smoke drifted past the door.

“Don’t fire on the helicopter!” Munroe shouted, and Mac was about to ask, “What helicopter?” when the Black Hawk swooped in and began to circle. Mac gave thanks when she saw the Union markings on the aircraft’s fuselage.

Most of the surviving rebs had taken cover in shell craters. But the helicopter crew could see them—and the door gunners opened fire. A brave reb stood, aimed an AT4 at the helo, and staggered as a stream of heavy bullets put him down.

The Black Hawk circled the area one more time, failed to draw fire, and swooped in for a landing. The rotors continued to turn as black-clad troops jumped out and came rushing forward. “President Sloan!” one of them shouted. “Identify yourself!”

Mac watched Sloan go out to meet them. He was hustled toward the aircraft as six of the heavily armed rescuers stood ready to shoot Mac’s team. “Back away from the machine gun!” one of them ordered. “Place your hands on your head!”

Mac did as she was told while Sloan turned, or tried to, only to be stripped of his carbine and hustled away. Once Sloan was inside the helo, the rest of the rescue team returned to the Black Hawk.

Mac lowered her arms as the engines spooled up, and Army One took to the air. The engine noise began to fade as the Black Hawk flew north. Munroe appeared in the doorway. “I got through,” he said.

“Yeah,” Mac said dryly. “I noticed that. Good job.”

“So what now?” the RTO wanted to know.

“We’ll do what we can for the wounded,” Mac answered. “Put out another call… Maybe we can get some medics in here. And a Mortuary Affairs team as well.”

Munroe nodded, and Mac began to tremble. The mission was over—and she was alive.

As the Black Hawk took off, Sloan ordered the crew to turn around and retrieve the others. “Sorry, Mr. President,” one of the operators said. “Our orders are to bring you back as quickly as possible. Not to mention the fact that there isn’t enough room for them.”

Sloan aimed a cold stare at him. “Give me my rifle.”

The man made no effort to obey. Sloan pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man’s face. “Give me my rifle, or I will blow your fucking brains out!”

“Give the president his rifle,” a familiar voice said. “I taught him to never part with it. And he’s been through a lot.”

Sloan turned to find himself eyeball to eyeball with McKinney. The soldier nodded. “Welcome back, Mr. President… Don’t worry about Captain Macintyre. A second bird is on the way to pick her up.”

Sloan put the pistol away, slumped back in his seat, and accepted the rifle. It was part of him by then—something he could trust. “Good. Captain Macintyre is an amazing woman.”

McKinney raised an eyebrow. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Army One crossed the New Mason-Dixon Line shortly thereafter, and two dozen reporters were waiting when it landed. The attack on Richton had been a monumental failure. But, thanks to Doyle Besom’s efforts, it was being portrayed as a magnificent initiative gone tragically wrong. Or what Besom referred to as, “Part of the brave journey.”

And photos of a dirty, disheveled, but combat-ready president getting off a Black Hawk were worth a thousand words. Maybe the assault had gone poorly… But the battle for the hearts and minds of America’s voters was going well.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

After being flown to a rest area outside Martin, Mac and her soldiers were loaded onto a school bus, which took them to a small town named Union City. It had been the site of a minor battle during the first civil war—and was home to a graveyard full of unknown soldiers.

Forward Operating Base Cleveland occupied about a hundred acres of farmland and included landing pads, a field hospital, and a supply dump. The bus dropped Mac and her people off in front of a tent marked PROCESSING CENTER, and spewed black smoke as it roared away. Thus began three days spent trying to find out where the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion was quartered. But it was an opportunity for them to take hot showers, draw new uniforms, and get some sleep.

Once contact was established, and their orders came through, the group managed to hitch a ride on a southbound helo that took them to a base near Murfreesboro, where the mission had begun. The battalion was headquartered on the grounds of a defunct warehouse complex by then—and Granger was there to meet them as the Chinook landed. “It’s good to have you back,” Granger said warmly as he shook hands with each person.

That was followed by an awkward moment as Granger cleared his throat and looked away. When he turned back to them, his expression was grave. “I have some bad news to share… I’m sorry to say that Element Alpha, the one led by Sergeant Ralston, was attacked by enemy aircraft. There’s the possibility that some of our people survived and were taken prisoner, but there’s been no confirmation of that.”

There were expressions of grief all around, and Roper began to cry. As many as nine of Mac’s people had been killed—along with what? Two dozen Rangers? Probably.

In keeping with the contract the Marauders had with the government, a large payment would be made to each soldier’s family… But nothing could make up for the loss of a husband, father, or lover. “And Element Bravo?” Mac inquired.

“They got lucky,” Granger replied. “They were halfway home when a Chinook swooped in to pick them up.”

“Good,” Mac said. “What about the Strykers?”

“They were destroyed,” Granger replied. “So the enemy couldn’t use them. That’s the bad news.”

“There’s good news?”

“Yes,” Granger replied. “I think so… The government decided to cancel the mercenary program and buy out the balance of your contract. And that means you’ll receive a large lump sum. But,” Granger continued, “another decision was made as well. Effective 1200 hours yesterday, every single one of you was reactivated at your previous ranks. Except for you, Macintyre… Your captaincy was confirmed. Congratulations.”

Mac wasn’t surprised. The mercenary thing had been a stopgap measure… a way to protect what remained of the Union while the federal government got back on its feet. And, after meeting Sloan, she felt glad. He was a good man. And if anyone could put the country back together again, he could. “Thanks, I guess,” Mac said. “So here we are… We have a headquarters company but very little else.”

“True,” Granger agreed. “But not for long… New vehicles are on the way. They’re supposed to arrive in a week or so.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Mac replied. “But I hope you’re right. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Granger replied. “Follow me to my office. I have something for you.”

Mac accompanied Granger across what had been an employee parking lot, to a small outbuilding. The hand-printed sign read, BAT. SCOUT & RECON, HQ.

Mac said, “Hello,” to the unfamiliar sergeant seated behind the reception desk and followed Granger into his office. He closed the door. “The things I’m about to share will be announced tomorrow. First, I’m going to name you as the battalion’s executive officer and Bravo Company’s commanding officer.”

Mac was both surprised and pleased. That in spite of the fact that the XO slot would come with lots of extra work. “Thank you, sir… I’ll do my best.”

Granger smiled. “I know that. And, there’s this.”

Mac accepted a manila envelope, opened the flap, and removed the sheet of paper within. According to the title at the top it was a Presidential Unit Citation for Charlie Company, First Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion, 150th Infantry. Which was to say, her company.

“It’s rare for a unit smaller than a battalion to receive such an honor,” Granger informed her. “But it seems that the president wants to recognize Charlie Company, and I agree with that decision. And there’s something more as well.”

Granger offered her a burgundy-colored case. And when Mac opened it, she saw a Silver Star nestled within. Mac knew it was the country’s third highest decoration for valor… What would General Bo Macintyre think of that? Would he be proud? Of course not… Not so long as she was fighting for the wrong side.

There was something else in the case as well… It was a much-folded piece of paper that, when opened, proved to be a handwritten note.

Mac could read between the lines. The president was afraid that one or both of them would be killed. She continued to read.

Mac could see that Granger was curious, but she chose to tuck the note into her breast pocket without sharing it. “Thank you, sir.”

Granger nodded. “You’ll receive the medal tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The sun threw light but no warmth as Mac left the shack. Her right hand went up as if to touch the note before falling to her side. It was cold, but Mac felt warm, and there were things to hope for.