Into the Guns

CHAPTER 4

OFF THE EAST COAST OF MEXICO

After twenty days spent paddling up Mexico’s east coast, Sloan knew that if he wasn’t in American waters, he’d arrive there soon. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind broken clouds, and there were moments when it looked as if he were dipping his paddle into molten silver.

But the otherworldly moments came to an end when Sloan heard the sound of powerful engines and felt the first stirrings of fear. He didn’t want to have contact with anyone… Especially drug runners. Fortunately, the kayak was so low in the water, it would be difficult to see. When the speedboat passed him, Sloan had to turn into its wake or run the risk of being capsized. As he completed the maneuver, a powerful spot came on, swept the surface of the water, and nailed him. The voice was amplified. “Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!” (“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)

Shit! Shit! Shit! Sloan dug his paddle into the water in a frantic attempt to escape. The light followed, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. Geysers of water shot up all around the kayak. Then there was a thump as a bullet passed through the hull. That left Sloan with no choice but to roll out as cold seawater flooded the kayak. Suddenly, the boat was there, looming above Sloan, as a black silhouette peered down. “Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.” (“Pull the fish in. Let’s see what we have.”)

Sloan had no choice but to cooperate as strong hands reached down to pull him up. Sloan heard one of the men address the helmsman in English. “Hey, Bob… Turn the bow into the waves. She’s rolling like a pig.”

Sloan grabbed onto a seat as his feet hit the deck and the boat lurched. “Are you Americans?”

There was barely enough moonlight to see by. A man looked at him and grinned. “Hell no,” he said. “We’re Texans! Who are you?”

“My name is Sloan… Samuel T. Sloan, the United States Secretary of Energy.”

“Do you have ID to prove that?” the man inquired.

“No,” Sloan admitted. “It was in the kayak.”

“That’s one possibility,” the man agreed. “Or, and this seems more likely, you belong to a drug cartel. Cuff him, Hank.”

Sloan could see their uniforms by that time along with their disk-shaped badges. Texas Rangers perhaps? It didn’t matter. All he could do was allow himself to be chained to an eyebolt and wait for the nightmare to end.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, night surrendered to day—and Sloan spotted a smudge of land. The United States? Yes, he thought so, and felt a renewed sense of hope. After going ashore, the authorities would free him. With that out of the way, he’d contact his staff. Would the president want to speak with him? Probably… Then he’d call the assisted-care facility to check on his mother.

That’s what Sloan was thinking as the gunboat rounded the south end of Padre Island. Sloan had been there numerous times and knew the area well. The boat slowed as they neared the Coast Guard station.

Once the gunboat was moored, Sloan was escorted up a ramp to a one-story building. A woman with two children stared at him. That was when Sloan remembered his bushy beard, ripped clothes, and bare feet. None of which would add to his credibility.

After being led through the scrupulously clean lobby, and past a reception desk, Sloan was escorted down a hallway to the holding cells located in the back of the building. The civilian clerk laughed when Sloan said he was the Secretary of Energy but wrote it down anyway. Then it was time to answer questions pertaining to his criminal record, health, and identifying marks if any.

Once the booking process was complete, and mug shots had been taken, an officer placed Sloan in cell 002. The six-foot-by-six-foot enclosure was equipped with metal bunk beds, a freestanding toilet, and a small sink. What light there was came from the single fixture located over his head—and a narrow gun-slit-style window. He heard a clang as the door closed. “Hey, dude,” the man in the next cell called out. “You got a smoke?”

“No,” Sloan replied. “I don’t.”

“Then fuck you,” the man said. “I hope you die.” Sloan was home.

After a day of questioning by a variety of people, Sloan was given an airline-style personal-hygiene kit and allowed to shower and shave. Then he was required to don orange overalls that had the word PRISONER printed across the back. A pair of canvas slip-ons completed the outfit. After that, he was left in his cell to think and worry. Eventually, Sloan went to sleep. There were dreams… Lots of dreams. And all of them were bad.

When morning came, he received a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, an orange, and some sort of egg McMuffin thing. He couldn’t get it down.

Shortly after breakfast, Sloan was removed from his cell and taken out through the front door. The Coast Guard station had a small helipad. And as Sloan was escorted along a walkway, he saw that the civilian version of a Huey was sitting on the concrete slab, with its rotors turning. Two men were waiting for him. Both wore Glocks, blue polo shirts, and khaki pants. Who were they? There was no way to know, as the man with the flattop and aviator-style shades pointed at the open door. “Get in!” He had to shout in order to be heard over the helo’s engine.

Sloan had no choice but to get in. The interior was set up to transport cargo—but fold-down seats were bolted to the bulkheads. Once he was seated, the second guard was there to secure his seat belt. The helicopter took off two minutes later. There weren’t any doors. That meant that the slipstream could enter the cabin and pummel Sloan’s face. He turned to the man with the flattop. “Where are we going?”

When the man smiled, his lips pulled away from a set of teeth that were shaped like white tombstones. Then he held a finger up to his lips as if to shush a child. That was that.

Time crawled by. Sloan could see out through the starboard door, but there wasn’t much to look at. Just the dull gray water of the gulf, a few fishing boats, and an occasional glimpse of an oil rig in the hazy distance. The monotony combined with the drone of the engine put Sloan to sleep. And when he awoke, it was to see verdant vegetation below. Trees mostly, but marsh grass, too, and lots of water. Freshwater from the looks of it—that filled lakes, ponds, and hundreds of serpentine channels. A swamp! They were flying over a swamp… But where? The southeast corner of Texas seemed most likely since it was only a few hours from Padre Island, and the sun was behind them.

A flock of birds took to the air as the helicopter lost altitude and skimmed the treetops. Sloan couldn’t see what lay directly ahead. But as the helo entered into a wide turn, an oil rig appeared. The blocky superstructure was three stories high and sitting on a steel barge. Though barely legible, the name HUXTON OIL could be read on the side of the rig, and that was interesting—since the Texas-based company was one of the largest in the world. Or had been anyway. Judging from how rusty all the running gear was, the derrick mounted on the bow hadn’t been used in a long time.

Such were Sloan’s thoughts as the Huey settled onto the circular pad affixed to the barge’s stern. “Get out,” Flattop shouted, as he pointed at the door.

Sloan pressed the release on his seat belt and stood. Two women stood waiting on the cluttered deck. Both had black hair, dark skin, and were dressed in blue overalls. One held a Taser barrel up, with her index finger resting on the trigger guard. “Welcome aboard, Secretary Sloan,” she said. “Please follow Molly… Mr. Godbee wants to meet you.”

Sloan took note. They knew his name! Finally… But why was he being held against his will? Out in the middle of a swamp? Hopefully, Godbee would tell him.

Sloan had no choice but to follow Molly under a platform, past a blowout preventer, and up a set of steel stairs to the deck above. A walkway gave access to a large office, which was surprisingly clean and tidy.

A man rose from his desk and came forward to meet Sloan. He had a limp, which forced him to use a tree-root-style cane. His clothing consisted of a tasteful Hawaiian shirt and white slacks. “Welcome to the Belle Marie, Secretary Sloan… It’s a strange name, don’t you think? This rig was never pretty. My name is Walter Godbee, and I’m in charge here. You can remove Mr. Sloan’s cuffs, Molly. Please don’t do anything unpleasant, Mr. Sloan… Lucy doesn’t like troublemakers.” Sloan looked at Lucy. The Taser was still in her hand.

“Understood,” Sloan said, as the cuffs came off. “So why am I here?”

Godbee smiled. “This is a repository of sorts. A place where individuals like yourself can be stored.”

“By Huxton Oil?”

Godbee shrugged. “What difference does it make? You’re here, and you’re going to remain here, and that’s what matters. My staff and I will do what we can to make your stay tolerable. As for you? Well, I suggest that you consider the serenity prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr: ‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ And this, Mr. Sloan, is something that you cannot change. Take Mr. Sloan to his cabin, ladies. I’m sure he’d like to shower after his journey. Oh, and Mr. Sloan… Don’t waste your time trying to seduce Molly or Lucy. They play for the other team.”

Sloan followed Molly out of the office and up another flight of stairs, to the third deck. From there, it was a short trip to the hatch labeled CABIN 3.

The mechanism on the outside surface of the hatch was common to larger vessels that had watertight doors. It consisted of a wheel and four spoke-like “dogs” or rods that could extend to hold the slab of steel firmly in place. The chances of breaking out? Zero.

Molly turned the wheel, waited for the dogs to clear, and pulled the door open. Then she stood to one side, so Sloan could enter. The cabin was nicer than he had expected. The bulkheads were covered with light green paint. The full-sized bed was nicely made and topped with two large pillows. There was an easy chair, too… And a side table. A small bathroom could be seen through an open door.

“Your dinner will arrive at six,” Lucy told him. “I hope you like fish.” And with that, the women withdrew. Sloan heard a series of clanking sounds, followed by near silence.

The cabin boasted a single curtain-covered window. Sloan went over to peer out. He could see bars and mangrove trees beyond. Okay, he thought to himself. I’ll find another way to escape. The next fifteen minutes were spent exploring the nooks and crannies of his cabin. There were two orange jumpsuits in the dresser, both of which had the word PRISONER on the back and would make it that much more difficult to evade capture should he manage to escape. No, when he escaped.

A radio was sitting on the table next to the chair, and it worked! That meant he could listen to the news once he managed to find some. The only station he could get was playing country-western music at the moment. Where were the rest? Off the air as a result of the meteor impacts? Maybe.

A closer inspection of the bathroom turned up a set of toiletries, and that led him into the shower, where he spent ten glorious minutes under a powerful stream of hot water. Sloan felt clean and reinvigorated as he put a fresh jumpsuit on. He was about to fiddle with the radio when the hatch opened.

Molly entered first. She was carrying a linen-covered tray. Lucy came next with the Taser at the ready. She was about five-eight or so, and in good shape. But Sloan had four inches on her and was in tip-top condition after weeks of paddling. So, if he could get behind Lucy, Sloan felt sure that he could take her down. Will take her down, he told himself. And soon, too.

After placing the meal on the table, Molly withdrew. That was Lucy’s cue to back out through the door. There was a metallic clang as the hatch closed.

The catfish dinner was excellent, but it went largely unappreciated because of the newspapers that had been delivered with it. There was a week-old copy of the New York Times, complete with coffee stains, and a two-day-old copy of the Dallas Morning News. Sloan read both of them from front to back as he hoovered up every scrap of information he could get. And that included the ads because the kinds of goods and services being offered made their own statement about postimpact America. Cold-weather clothing was popular… As were Mason jars, tools, and backup generators.

Tears ran down Sloan’s cheeks as he read the latest assessment of what it would take to rebuild Washington, D.C. Had his mother been killed? Probably. And his staffers? Yes… Unless they’d been on vacation or something. And the president! He was dead, along with thousands of other government officials. The vice president had survived though… and, according to the New York Times, was hard at work trying to get the nation back on its feet.

But that’s where things got interesting. After reading the Dallas Morning News, Sloan had the impression that many, if not most, Southern politicians were unhappy with the president’s ambitious reconstruction plans. They objected to “higher taxes,” “big government,” and “too much regulation.”

Sloan was a creature of Washington, D.C., and recognized the rhetoric as being part of the long-standing philosophical divide between conservatives and progressives. Except now there seemed to be some ominous undertones. Prominent civil and business leaders talking about “more self-determination,” “state’s rights,” and “local autonomy.” One even went so far as to raise the possibility of secession! Was it vote-getting rhetoric? Or the real deal? It was impossible to tell from where he was. One thing was for sure, however: The person or persons in charge of Godbee’s “repository” wanted to keep him in the loop. Why?

Sloan put the papers aside to finish his meal. The food was cold by then, but he ate it anyway, and was polishing his plate with a chunk of corn bread when Molly came around to collect it.

The next three days were spent eating his fill, getting a lot of sleep, and watching Godbee’s “ladies” come and go. During that time, Sloan was careful to follow every order they gave him without offering any pushback. The plan was to convince them that he wasn’t a threat. Then, on the fourth day, Sloan made his move. He had chosen to escape at dinnertime, when there would be only a few hours of daylight remaining. That would help him to hide.

That was the theory, anyway. Although Sloan was well aware that the swamp was full of creatures that could find him even if humans couldn’t! Still, he preferred to take that risk rather than sitting around waiting for who knows what.

So there he was, hiding behind the hatch when Molly pushed it open. She was holding the dinner tray with both hands. And as Molly entered the cabin, she could see that the bathroom door was ajar and hear the rush of water in the shower. That was the same scenario she’d seen for the past two days, except that Sloan wasn’t in the bathroom this time.

Lucy followed Molly into the room. She was carrying the Taser barrel up as usual. Sloan brought the toilet seat up and around. It glanced off the side of Lucy’s head, and the force of the impact knocked her down.

One down and one to go! Sloan felt a sudden surge of confidence as he went after Molly. But, as fast as he was, Molly was even faster. The spin kick struck Sloan’s right temple and sent him reeling. He was still trying to recover his balance when a flurry of kicks and blows put him down. So there he was, lying on his back, when Lucy loomed over him. Blood ran down the side of her face—and the Taser was pointed at his chest. “No!” Sloan croaked. “Don’t…”

Lucy smiled as she pulled the trigger. Sloan jerked spasmodically as fifty thousand volts of electricity surged through his nervous system and caused his muscles to lock up. Then, as he lay helpless, the ladies began to kick him. The blows continued even as the effects of the Taser began to wear off. Sloan saw Molly pull her foot back, and saw the boot come at him, but that was all. The world ceased to exist.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

The Concho sanction had been successful if somewhat messy, and there had been little to no blowback thanks to the efforts of a New Order sympathizer inside the Dallas Morning News. Her header read: “Gang-style massacre in Richardson.” And that was enough to point most people in the wrong direction.

Now, as Victoria drove south on Interstate 35, she saw a steady stream of National Guard vehicles going the other way. There were trucks loaded with troops, platoons of Strykers, and tank transporters all headed north where they had orders to “restore law and order.” But, depending on how things went politically, Victoria knew there might be more to it than that. Much more.

After passing through Temple and Killeen, Victoria arrived in Fort Hood. Rather than stop by her condo, she drove straight to the base. The traffic lights were working, which meant that the power was on. And no wonder since the base had a very high priority.

Victoria was dressed in civilian clothes. But, when the corporal on the gate saw the sticker on the BMW’s windshield, he threw Victoria a salute. “Good afternoon, ma’am… ID please.” After comparing the picture on the card to her face, the corporal waved her through.

Victoria had been stationed at Fort Hood for more than a year and knew the base well. The sports car seemed to drive itself to III Corps headquarters. The modernistic building consisted of two squares connected by a central triangle. Victoria drove past it, parked at the rear of the complex, and got out. The sun was an angry-looking disk that was barely visible beyond a brooding mass of low-hanging clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Victoria’s heels made a clicking sound as she entered the building, showed her ID, and made her way through a maze of offices to the one her father occupied. He had two jobs at the moment. The one assigned to him by the Pentagon before it was destroyed and one reflected by the title on the door. That was INTERIM COMMANDING GENERAL. But everyone who was anyone knew that “interim” would disappear if the decision was made to secede and the New Confederacy came into being.

Bo had always been a conservative, and other conservatives knew that. So, when Southern elites began to discuss the possibility of a nation based on conservative principles, they’d been quick to approach him. And his oldest daughter was proud of that. As for Robin? Her views lay on the other side of the political divide.

Victoria entered a large reception area and made her way over to the fortresslike desk that barred the way. Mrs. Walters, Bo’s longtime civilian secretary, looked up from her computer. “Good afternoon, Major Macintyre… The general is in a meeting at the moment. It should be over in ten minutes or so.”

Walters was fortysomething, blond, and well-groomed. She was also efficient and extremely loyal. Was Walters more than a secretary? Victoria assumed so and understood the necessity. Her mother had been dead for a long time. “Thank you, Mrs. Walters… I’ll wait.”

Other officers were waiting as well. Half a dozen of them. And none were very happy when a clutch of colonels left the office, and a civilian was ushered in ahead of them.

General Bo Macintyre was sitting behind his desk as Victoria entered and didn’t bother to get up. True, they were at work, but Victoria knew it wouldn’t make any difference if they weren’t. Hugs, kisses, and all the rest of the emotional claptrap so important to her mother and sister weren’t part of Victoria’s relationship with her father. He nodded. “Nice job in Dallas, Major… Morton Lemaire sends his thanks. It looks like he’ll take over as the New Confederacy’s first CEO if things go that way.”

Victoria sat in one of four guest chairs. “Not Mr. Huxton?”

General Macintyre shook his head. “Huxton is too old and cantankerous. The public wouldn’t like him. But enough politics… We have a problem, and you’re the solution.”

Victoria looked him in the eye just as he had taught her to do when she was three. “Yes, sir. What’s the problem? Another situation like the one in Dallas?”

“No,” her father replied. “Are you familiar with the Space X launch site near Brownsville?”

“No, I didn’t know there was one.”

“Well, there is. It was built to provide the Space Exploration Technologies Corporation with the capacity to launch their Falcon 9 and Falcon Heavy launch vehicles on a moment’s notice.”

“And?”

“And the Zapata drug cartel took control of the facility two days ago. There wasn’t much to stop them, just some rent-a-cops, and they went down in a matter of minutes.”

Victoria frowned. “But why?”

“We aren’t sure,” General Macintyre replied. “But here’s an educated guess. A man named Felipe Cabrera runs the cartel. And if the reports are true, he has plans to reshape it.”

“Into what?”

“Into a narco state,” her father answered. “A narco state with its own communications, weather, and spy satellites. All launched and controlled from Brownsville. According to sources in Mexico, Cabrera sees this as the perfect opportunity to grab what he wants. He captured the port facility as well.”

“Okay,” Victoria said, “that’s a serious problem. But what’s he got? Some gangbangers armed with assault rifles? We’ll throw a battalion of troops at him, send in some gunships, and boom! End of problem.”

“If only it were that easy,” General Macintyre replied as he raised a remote. “Take a look at this.” The video had been captured by a drone. The facility consisted of a circle divided into quadrants by crisscrossing streets. Notable features included clusters of small buildings, fuel tanks, and four spindly com towers.

Judging from what Victoria could see, the Zapatas were equipped with personnel carriers that had once been the property of the Mexican army, a variety of SUVs, and three pieces of towed artillery. Bulldozers and backhoes were being used to construct defensive barriers. And, as Victoria watched from above, a Zapata fired an RPG at the airborne camera. It missed. Then, as the UAV turned east, Victoria saw something that caught her by surprise. “Holy shit… What’s that?”

“That,” her father said, “is the destroyer ARM Netzahualcoyotl D-102, formerly known as the USS Steinaker. She was commissioned on May 26, 1945, and transferred to Mexico on February 24, 1982. And, based on her presence in this video, we can assume that the Zapatas seized control of the ship subsequent to the meteor strikes and intentionally ran her aground.”

The last part was certainly true. As Victoria watched the video, she could see that the destroyer’s bow was way up on the beach—and that put her within a thousand feet of the Space X launchpad. “But why?” she wondered out loud.

“We figure that the Zapatas lack the skills and resources necessary to keep the Netzahualcoyotl at sea,” General Macintyre said. “Maybe they killed too many of the crew or maybe anything. So they ran her ashore. And the reason for that is mounted on the ship’s bow. See that butt-ugly turret? That’s a Russian-made Kashtan antiaircraft weapons system. The Russkies gave it to the Mexican navy a year ago in hopes that they’d buy some.

“It boasts two six-barreled 30mm rotary cannons and 9M311 launchers, equipped with four ready-to-fire missiles. They’re fed by a reloading system that contains thirty-two missiles in ready-to-launch containers. And the whole thing is controlled by an integral scanning and targeting system. The basic idea is to throw so much ordnance into the air that nothing can get through it. And that’s why we aren’t sending any Apaches in to hose the place down. As for long-range artillery and surface-to-surface missiles, they would erase the facility… And we might need it later on.”

As if to illustrate the problem, the Kashtan turret swiveled toward the camera and fired. The screen went black, and as it did, Victoria understood Cabrera’s plan. The destroyer was there to prevent air attacks while work on the fortifications was completed, and the gang leader brought more AA weapons in from the south. It was a brilliant example of guerilla warfare. There was a sardonic smile on his father’s face. “Nifty, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Victoria answered. “And my orders are?”

“Take the launch facility back and hold it until you’re relieved.”

Victoria stood. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” General Macintyre said as he made a steeple with his fingers. “Teach the Zapatas a lesson they’ll remember. It’s only a matter of time until the Northerners attack us. We need to lock the back door now.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Victoria promised, and with that, she left the room.

BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS

Prior to the meteor strikes Brownsville, Texas, had been a major economic hub for shipping, a center of manufacturing, and home to a lot of poor people. The air was heavy with moisture as the task force rolled into town, and Victoria thought it might rain. Two days had passed since the conversation with her father, and most of it had been spent gathering the resources necessary to carry out her mission. The column consisted of two Abrams tanks, some smaller vehicles, and a long line of trucks.

The Zapatas had been using captured artillery to shell the city—and columns of black smoke were rising up ahead. Fortunately, the local National Guard unit, the Brownsville Police Department, and a makeshift army of citizens had managed to hold the northern part of the city. Victoria was counting on her tanks to clear the way to Highway 4, where Task Force Snake would turn east.

Victoria was riding in the back of a specially equipped com truck, sitting elbow to elbow with a tech sergeant as the vic’s tires bumped over the pieces of debris that lay on the pavement. An array of screens were positioned in front of them, and thanks to the video provided by no less than three drones, Victoria could see what lay ahead.

As her convoy pushed through a barricade manned by cheering locals, she saw that the enemy was falling back. They had some RPG-29s and the capacity to call for artillery support, but they didn’t know how to do it effectively. As a result, howitzer shells began to fall around the convoy, but none of them were on target.

Explosions threw dust and debris into the air, and Victoria could hear the rattle of small-arms fire, as the Zapatas tried to slow the juggernaut that was smashing through their lines. Those efforts failed as the tank commanders opened fire with their 105mm guns, and squads of infantry rushed forward to claim contested ground.

Because the effort was going well, Victoria felt free to turn her attention elsewhere. “Snake-Six actual to Sky-Hammer,” she said. “Do you read me? Over.”

“This is Sky-Hammer actual. I read you five by five. Over.”

“Destroy the bridge. Over.” The bridge Victoria was referring to was the B&M Bridge over the Rio Grande river. Without it, the Zapatas couldn’t bring vehicles into Brownsville and would have to retreat on foot if at all.

“Roger that,” Sky-Hammer replied. “Keep your heads down. Over.”

The MGM-140 Army Tactical Missile System was more than sixty miles away when two guided missiles flashed out of the boxy launcher and vanished into the low-hanging clouds. Victoria watched via one of the drones as both rockets hit the B&M Bridge at midspan and exploded. A large gap appeared as the smoke cleared. Mission accomplished.

“We’re coming up on the exit for Highway 4,” the tech sergeant announced.

“Got it,” Victoria replied. “Tell the driver to pull over, so I can switch vehicles. And keep me informed.”

“Yes, ma’am. Watch your six.”

Victoria was wearing a full combat rig as she left the com truck. She was carrying an M4 carbine. A couple of dune buggy–like Desert Patrol Vehicles had been tagging along behind the com truck, and both pulled up alongside it. Sergeant Cora Tarvin was driving one of the buggies, with Private Roy Poston riding shotgun. Corporal Jimmy Gatlin was behind the wheel of the other. A pair of retro goggles protected his eyes. “Good morning, ma’am… Fancy meeting you here.” All three were members of Victoria’s special ops team.

Victoria slid in beside Gatlin. A pintle-mounted 7.62 machine gun was located in front of her. Victoria strapped in, ran a radio check, and held on as the DPV took off. Open country, which was to say tank country, lay to either side of the two-lane highway. There wasn’t much to see other than grass and an occasional bush.

Gatlin could literally run circles around the tanks if he chose to but knew better than to enter their line of fire. That forced him to go more slowly than he would have preferred. It wasn’t long before some obstacles appeared in the distance. Three trucks were positioned to block the highway. Why? So the gringos would drive between the vehicles, or circle around them. But the tank commanders were smarter than that. They fired, cars exploded, and IEDs went off. Debris was thrown high into the air, only to come twirling down again.

Gatlin uttered a personal war cry and stomped on the gas. The DPV surged forward, bumped through the ditch next to the road, and turned, so Victoria could fire on the men who were hidden next to the ambush site. Hot casings flew sideways as she fired the 7.62. Bodies fell, the DPV bounced over one of them, and Victoria felt all powerful until an RPG exploded twenty feet ahead of them. Gatlin swore as a fragment of metal hit his left hand, and blood began to flow.

Then it was time to turn east again and catch up with the tanks. Victoria took a moment to check the screen mounted between them and saw that they were about to enter Bola Chica Village. That was where the Space X control center was located. The Zapatas had control of it but not for long. The plan called for the trucks to drop two platoons of infantry outside the village, and Victoria expected them to take it back in less than an hour. In the meantime, she, along with the rest of the task force, would continue to the launch site. Unfortunately, the Russian Kashtan system would be waiting for them when they arrived.

According to the literature, the turret could engage shore targets. But did the people manning the weapons system know that? And what were they doing? Had the Zapata techs been ordered to sit there and scan the sky for Apaches? If so, they might waste time deciding what to do when ground targets appeared. Time her tanks could use to attack. That was Victoria’s plan, and she was staking lives on it, hers included.

The tanks were rolling east at their top speed of 45 mph, and Victoria wished they could go faster. But that was impossible. So all she could do was hold on as the DPV bounced across open country south of the tanks. The second dune buggy was doing the same up to the north.

As the tanks began to close in on the launch site, Victoria gave orders for the drones to swing wide rather than run head-on into the metal hail that the Kashtan battery could throw up. Then she got on the horn to the captain in command of the trucks following behind. “Snake-Six actual to Bravo-Six. Order your drivers to pull over and unload your troops. Bring them forward but use cover. There’s no telling what that weapons system is going to do. Over.”

The infantry officer already had his orders, but Victoria didn’t know him personally, so she wanted to make sure he understood the need to hang back at first. Because if the people in the turret were prepared to engage shore targets, the 30mm rotary cannons would rip the troops to shreds. “This is Bravo-Six,” the officer replied. “Roger that, over.”

“There it is!” Gatlin shouted over the engine noise, as a thicket of radio towers appeared up ahead. Victoria was thrown against her harness as he turned the wheel to avoid running into a marshy estuary. Victoria spotted the grounded ship as the DPV bounced onto the road, and Gatlin put his foot down. The destroyer’s bow was higher than it should have been because of the upward slope of the beach. And that was a good thing because it meant the 30mm cannons couldn’t be brought to bear on the launch site!

But the feeling of jubilation was short-lived as the Kashtan battery came to life and fired two missiles. They flashed out of their tubes, accelerated away, and were soon lost in the low-lying clouds. They’re gone, Victoria told herself. The tanks are too close for the rockets to hit.

That was when a missile fell from the sky and landed on top of the lead tank’s turret. There was a massive explosion, and the M-1 was transformed into a pile of burning scrap. A series of secondary explosions destroyed what remained of the machine. Victoria had been wrong, terribly wrong, and she felt a sense of shame.

The next missile missed the second tank but not by much. And the near miss blew a storage shed to smithereens. The tank commander was firing by then, and Victoria saw a flash as one of the 105mm shells hit the destroyer’s bow, but it wasn’t enough. Two missiles fell on the Abrams in quick succession, all but obliterating the sixty-ton machine.

Most of Victoria’s offensive capability had been destroyed—and she felt her stomach flip-flop as she shouted into the mike. “Get in close! They won’t be able to put missiles on us there… See the ladders? We’ll do this the hard way.”

Gatlin was driving around the road that circled the facility. Tires screeched as the DPV entered a controlled skid. Then he jerked the wheel to the right and launched the patrol vehicle up and over the dune that lay between the facility and the beach. The DPV took to the air, landed hard, and threw sand as Gatlin stood on the brake.

Victoria hit the harness release as the second dune buggy stopped next to them. “Everybody out!” she ordered. “Follow me!”

Geysers of sand jumped up all around Victoria and Gatlin as they ran, and the men on the destroyer’s main deck fired down on them. But in spite of Victoria’s order, Poston had chosen to stay behind. He brought the vehicle’s pintle-mounted 7.62mm machine gun to bear on the men at the railing and fired a long, sweeping burst. Zapatas fell like tenpins. And that gave Victoria and Gatlin the opportunity to reach the extension ladders that stood against the ship.

More defenders appeared as the threesome began to climb, but the newly arrived Zapatas were forced back, as Poston continued to fire. Victoria felt the ladder tremble under her boots and paused to lob a grenade up onto the deck above. She heard a loud bang, followed by a scream.

Gatlin had made it to the top of his ladder by then, and when Victoria glanced over at him, she saw the bloody bandage on his left hand. He’d been wounded, and she’d forgotten. But there was no time for guilt as he fired his pistol one-handed, and a Zapata fell back out of sight. Then Victoria was up and over, with Tarvin right on her heels as both women arrived on the bloody deck. Bodies lay everywhere… And when one of them moved, Victoria put three bullets into it.

Gatlin was ahead of them at that point, having climbed a ladder closer to the bow. He kept his back to the superstructure as he made his way forward. Rather than step out into the open, he took a peek around the corner. “The turret is all buttoned up,” he announced over the radio.

“Then let’s open it up,” Poston said, as he arrived. “This should do the trick.”

Victoria saw that he was carrying a satchel charge. She watched him set the timer, step up, and sling the pack around the corner. Would the explosion destroy the turret? Or destroy the turret and the ordnance stored below? If so, that would kill them all.

There were two seconds of silence followed by an explosion so powerful that it shook the entire ship and nearly knocked them down. But there were no secondary explosions. And, after congratulating herself on being alive, Victoria went forward, ready to fire. There weren’t any targets. The Kashtan turret was little more than a smoking lump of twisted metal. “She-it,” Gatlin said happily. “That was sweet.”

“This is Snake-Six actual,” Victoria said into her radio. “We need a medic on the ship—and I mean now.”

Gatlin looked at the bloody ball of gauze as if seeing it for the first time. He frowned. “The bastards blew my fuck-you finger off… It’s down in the DPV. God damn it, what’ll I do now?”

It wasn’t funny, not really, but all of them laughed. And they were still laughing when a perplexed medic came up over the rail. It was only later, after the site was secured, that Victoria allowed herself to think about the dead tankers. She felt the need to cry but didn’t… “Good soldiers never cry.” That’s what her father told her the day she fell off her bike… And there hadn’t been any tears since.

SOUTHEAST TEXAS

More than two months had passed since the disastrous escape attempt. The first two weeks had been spent trying to recover from the severe beating that Sloan had received. The doctor who was brought in confirmed that Sloan was suffering from a concussion and had to put in seventy-two stitches to close all of his cuts.

Sloan had been restricted to his cabin during his convalescence. Now, with cuffs on his wrists and chains on his ankles, Sloan was allowed to make ten circuits around the deck each day. Molly led the way, and Lucy brought up the rear, with her Taser at the ready.

Yes, he might be able to vault over the rail, but what then? It would be impossible to swim without the use of his hands and feet. Plus the Belle Marie’s cook had orders to dump the galley slops over the side, a practice guaranteed to keep a cadre of alligators close by.

So each day was nearly identical to the last. Get up. Shave. Eat. Exercise. Eat. Listen to the radio. Eat again. Read the newspapers and go to bed. On and on it went until Sloan settled into a never-ending state of depression.

As for why Sloan was being held, that remained a mystery, as were the fates of the other prisoners who came and went. Sloan rarely caught a glimpse of them but assumed that when the Huey arrived, it was bringing a person in or taking one out.

So when he heard the helicopter arrive on the morning of the sixty-fourth day of his captivity, Sloan assumed it was business as usual and saw no reason to interrupt his push-ups. He was halfway through a set of thirty squats when the hatch opened. But, rather than Molly and Lucy, two men entered the cabin. Sloan recognized Flattop and Short Guy right away. Both were armed. “Grab a jumpsuit,” Flattop ordered, “and put it on. You’re going for a ride.”

Sloan felt a stab of fear. Did that mean he was going for a gangster-style ride? Or a real ride? The kind where you’re alive at the other end.

It took a couple of minutes to put on a fresh jumpsuit and a pair of sneakers. “Hold your hands out,” Flattop instructed. There was a click as the cuffs closed.

“You know the drill,” Short Guy said. “Do what you’re told, or we’ll stomp you. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll lead the way.” Sloan had no choice but to follow Short Guy out of the cabin, down to the main deck, and over to the helicopter pad. Shortly after the passengers climbed aboard the Huey, its rotors began to turn, and the chopper took off. It skimmed the treetops for a while and gradually gained altitude. That was when Sloan allowed himself to relax a little. He hoped that the Huey was taking him somewhere to meet with someone. That would be a whole lot better than a bullet in the back of the head.

Time dragged. But eventually Sloan saw farms through the side doors, soon followed by towns and sprawling suburbs. And then, as the helicopter turned, Sloan caught a glimpse of what he recognized as downtown Houston! And there, off to the right, was the skyscraper called Huxton Tower. His duties as Secretary of Energy had brought him to Houston on a frequent basis, and the building was a very visible element of the skyline. It seemed to grow as the chopper closed in on it. Then the high-rise was below them as the Huey settled onto the roof. Finally, Sloan thought to himself. This will be interesting.

The rotors slowed and came to a stop as Sloan was ordered to get out. A short walk took them over to a cube-shaped structure, where Short Guy led the way into a beautifully furnished lounge. There were two elevator doors, and Short Guy pushed the DOWN button. Thirty seconds passed before the lift arrived, and Flattop gave him a nudge. Sloan took the hint.

The doors closed, and Sloan watched a blunt finger push the button labeled 72. They arrived on the seventy-second floor seconds later. The doors opened onto a tastefully furnished lobby, and as Sloan stepped off, he could see the wide-eyed look on the receptionist’s face. Sloan thought that was odd until he remembered that he was wearing handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit! Not something she saw every day.

The receptionist continued to stare at him as she reached for the phone. Sloan couldn’t hear what was said—but the conversation was short. “Take him in,” the woman said, and Sloan was led to a huge door that was embellished with a hand-carved H.

It opened into a large office. Four people were seated at a conference table made out of some exotic hardwood. Sloan could see an executive-style desk, windows, and the cityscape beyond the glass. All of those present turned to look his way, but only one of them rose to greet him. Matt Rankin had a high forehead and partially hooded eyes. “Hello, Sam… I’m glad you made it back from Mexico.” Rankin turned to the security men. “Remove the cuffs and wait outside.”

Sloan had met Rankin before and knew him to be Huxton Oil’s CFO. So what the hell was going on? The cuffs were removed, and the security men left. “Come over to the table,” Rankin said. “I’ll make the introductions. Let’s start with my boss, Fred Huxton.”

Sloan had seen Huxton’s picture on the cover of Time magazine but never met the tycoon face-to-face. He knew that the legendary oilman had taken the small drilling company left to him by his parents and turned it into a global brand. The oil baron had thinning hair and implacable eyes. A walrus-style mustache hid most of his mouth. He made no attempt to rise or to extend a hand. “Welcome to Houston, Mr. Sloan… Or should I say, ‘Mr. President’?”

Sloan frowned. “‘Mr. President’? What do you mean?”

Huxton laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned… He doesn’t know! The Yankee bastard is President of the United States, and he doesn’t know!”

Rankin cleared his throat. “I guess you haven’t heard… President Wainwright had a heart attack and died yesterday afternoon. And you, believe it or not, are the next person in line for the presidency.”

Sloan struggled to assimilate it. Wainwright dead… Still another blow to the struggling nation. He was still processing what the president’s death meant when a third man came around the table to shake hands. “I’m Morton Lemaire… I don’t believe we’ve met.”

As Sloan shook Lemaire’s hand, he realized that he was talking to the governor of Florida. “I heard you paddled three hundred miles to get home from Mexico,” Lemaire said. “That took balls.”

Then the only woman in the room rose to greet him. “Yes,” she said, “it did. I’m Maria Perez.” She had black hair, brown eyes, and a firm handshake. Sloan was so dazed that it took him a moment to remember that Perez was the governor of Texas.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sloan said. That wasn’t true, of course, since Perez had been very critical of the president’s energy policies. Especially those related to carbon emissions. Maybe he could convince her to… Then Sloan remembered. The president was dead, and carbon emissions were the least of his worries.

“Please,” Perez said as she gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

Sloan sat next to Rankin. His thoughts whirled as his brain struggled to assimilate the information he’d been given—and apply it to the situation that he found himself in. He was still attempting to sort things out when Rankin spoke. “I’m sorry, Sam… Please allow me to explain… After we lost the president, Congress, and what’s estimated to be 30 million people, everything ground to a halt.

“And don’t forget… The Pentagon was destroyed as well… So even though some senior officers survived, they were scattered around the country and lacked a central command structure. That led to disagreements. And while they squabbled, bases like Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Pendleton in California, and JBLM in Washington State were overrun by heavily armed gangs.

“Meanwhile, Vice President Wainwright was sworn in as president. And within a matter of days, she began to put forth reconstruction plans that would not only bankrupt the nation but override state’s rights and restrict personal freedoms.”

“She wanted to implement gun-control laws,” Huxton put in. “She claimed it was a way to combat lawlessness, but that’s ridiculous. You’ve read the papers; you know what’s going on. If citizens don’t defend themselves, no one will.”

Sloan had read the papers and now he knew why he’d been allowed to do so. Huxton and his cronies had been well aware of the fact that he was next in line for the presidency, and had been keeping him on a shelf in case he might come in handy! And in the wake of President Wainwright’s death, they were dusting him off. Not only that, but according to what he’d read, Huxton was correct. For the moment anyway. There was a lot of lawlessness, and millions of people were on their own. So Wainwright’s push for gun control had been premature.

“So,” Huxton continued, “that’s why we, which is to say a group of about thirty people in and out of government, have been trying to assemble a substitute government here in the South. One that is better equipped to deal with things the way they really are. But before we pull the trigger on that effort, we thought it would be a good idea to have a chat with you. Now, I reckon you’re pissed… And I get that. I would be, too. But, if you can put the anger aside, you’ll see that there’s an opportunity here. An opportunity to lead the nation back to greatness. But we need the right man.”

“That’s right,” Governor Perez said. “No offense, Mr. Sloan, but the people haven’t had a chance to vote for you. So, even though you inherited the presidency—you may or may not be the right man for the job.”

There it was. A clear declaration of intent. The people seated at the table were going to vet him. Never mind the fact that they had no legal right to do so. And if they didn’t like what he said? No problem. They were the only people who knew that he was alive. “I see,” Sloan replied. “So tell me about ‘the right man.’ What would he be like?”

“That’s a good question,” Huxton replied. “The right man would take a look around and realize that while the highly centralized federal government crumbled, the corporate infrastructure survived. Why? Because it was more self-sufficient, widely dispersed, and better met the needs of the people. And the right man would not only take inspiration from that—he’d build a new government based on the principles of personal initiative and responsibility. Or, put another way, he would create a new order for a new reality.”

The last phrase would have been perfect on a bumper sticker—and Sloan got the feeling that the planning Rankin had referenced was pretty far along. “I think you’ll agree that the devil is in the details,” Sloan temporized. “How would the new government work?”

“Shareowners would own the country,” Huxton replied. “And each shareowner would express his or her wishes by voting the number of shares they happen to own.”

“Everyone would receive a hundred shares off the top,” Rankin explained, “and could sell them, or buy more in a free market.”

Sloan looked from face to face. “Does that include corporations?”

“Of course it does,” Perez answered. “Corporations are people… The Supreme Court made that clear.”

“I see,” Sloan said. “Aren’t you afraid that corporations, and the oligarchs who own them, will seize control of the new order by acquiring millions of shares?”

Huxton shrugged. “The free market will rule… Everyone who chooses to participate will receive annual dividends they can spend on the services they believe are most important. And by voting their shares in blocks, lesser shareowners can still have a significant impact on what happens.”

Sloan felt a rising sense of anger. Not only was the plan illegal… The conspirators were planning to seize control of the country for their own benefit! “So the right man will serve as a front for the new order?” he demanded. “A democratic face for the largest power grab in history?”

Huxton made a snorting sound as his eyes swung around. “It’s just like I told you… Sloan is one of them. We’re wasting our time.”

“Is that right?” Rankin demanded. “Are we wasting our time?”

Sloan paused to consider it. Maybe they were correct… Maybe some sort of structure was better than none. And, if he was part of the new order, he could work to change it from the inside. But his inner voice refused to go along. What a load of crap! They won’t listen to you… They’ll tell you what to say—and you’ll be forced to say it.

Sloan knew the voice was correct—and knew what had to be said. “Yes, you’re wasting your time. If I’m the president, then it’s my duty to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. And by that I mean the one written in 1787, not a new constitution intended to further the interests of the wealthy.”

Lemaire broke the ensuing silence. “You’re one stupid son of a bitch,” he said contemptuously.

Sloan heard a noise and turned to see the security men enter the room. How they had been summoned wasn’t clear. “Put Mr. Sloan on the chopper,” Huxton ordered, “and take him back to the Belle Marie. We’ll figure out what to do with him later.”

The words had an ominous quality, and Sloan rose from his chair. “Don’t bother,” Flattop said. “Unless you want to feel a lot of pain.”

“Extend your wrists,” Short Guy instructed, and Sloan had no choice but to obey. The cuffs felt cold as they came into contact with his flesh. It would have been a good time to say something cool, but the best he could do was try to keep the fear from showing and resist the temptation to beg. Sloan heard one of the conspirators laugh as he was led away.

Once they were out in the reception area, Sloan was forced to board the same elevator he’d ridden before. And by the time they reached the roof, the Huey was ready to depart.

The helicopter took off, banked away from the skyscraper, and flew east. All Sloan could do was let the slipstream buffet his face as the ground sped by below. The landscape was dry at first. But that began to change roughly twenty minutes later as the aircraft flew over part of the Piney Woods that covered most of east Texas. Eventually, the trees surrendered to the streams, rivers, and bayous that bordered the state of Louisiana. That was when the aircraft began to lose altitude and continued to do so until it was flying just above the treetops. Channels passed by below, as did stagnant ponds and small lakes.

Where was the Belle Marie? Five or ten minutes ahead? Yes, and once aboard, Sloan knew he would never have a chance to escape.

Short Guy hit the release on his seat belt and stood. The reason for that wasn’t clear, but it gave Sloan an idea. What happened next was more the result of an impulse than careful planning. Short Guy was framed in the door as Sloan hit his release and charged forward. The maneuver wouldn’t have been possible with Flattop. He was too tall. But Short Guy was short… And that made it possible for Sloan to bring his handcuffed hands down over the security officer’s head. Then, with Shorty trapped in his arms, Sloan threw himself out through the open door.

A multitude of thoughts flashed through his mind. Hang on to him! He has the key to the cuffs! Pray for water… I don’t have time to pray… Then they hit, and hit hard. The force of the fall drove both men deep under the surface of the water.

Sloan’s eyes were open, but the swamp water was so thick with vegetable matter that he couldn’t see. Short Guy was struggling by then, and no wonder… While Sloan had known what was coming and taken a deep breath, the other man hadn’t. That’s why he was flailing around.

Of course, Sloan needed air, too… How long could he hold out? Long enough to kill the security officer? Sloan pulled the handcuffs tight under Shorty’s chin and pulled back. A sharp elbow connected with Sloan’s gut, and a large gulp of precious air was lost. A man was going to die. But which one?