Into the Guns

CHAPTER 7

BOISE, IDAHO

Mac was standing in the Stryker’s air-guard hatch looking back as the convoy rounded a curve. The column consisted of a Ford pickup with a fifty in back, the Humvee with the UAV launcher in tow, a Stryker, two fuelers, a six-by-six loaded with dependents, a moving van carrying their possessions, a second Stryker, a fueler filled with JP8, a U-Haul loaded with supplies, a second armed pickup, and another U-Haul. A Stryker brought up the rear. Each vehicle had a number, a radio, and two qualified drivers. Radio procedure wasn’t perfect, but it was improving, and Mac figured the entire group would have it down before long.

The unit was just north of Boise. Why? Because the city was on the way to Arizona, that’s why… Although Mac had a secondary motivation, which was to visit the family farm even if that wasn’t fair to the others since they couldn’t direct the column to their homes.

The Macintyres hadn’t lived there full-time. Not during Mac’s lifetime. But her father had been raised on the farm and kept the place after his mother’s death. Most of the land had been sold off by the time he inherited it. But ten acres remained, including the four-bedroom farmhouse that sat perched on a rise. And that’s where most of Mac’s summer vacations were spent.

Her father hadn’t been there much. That bothered her sister but was fine with Mac, who came to dread his unannounced visits. Bo Macintyre liked to sponsor competitions. There were shooting contests, family fishing derbies, and long-distance runs. And, since Victoria won most of them, Mac grew tired of competing. Not just for whatever silly prize her father offered, but for his affection.

Nothing was said. Colonel, and then General, Macintyre was too disciplined for that. But everyone knew. Victoria was his favorite. So Mac formed a close bond with her mother. And that had a downside because Margaret Macintyre had grown tired of military life, and longed for stability. That put pressure on her marriage to Bo. The result was a chasm, with Victoria and her father on one side—and Mac and her mother on the other.

Yet Mac still cared about her father, and her sister, too, for that matter. So if one or both of them were at the farm, she wanted to stop by. Even if it meant granting herself a privilege not available to others. Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice in her ear. “Roller-One to Roller-Six.”

“Roller” was the name Mac had given to the convoy—and “One” was the number assigned to the first vehicle in the column. It was an armed pickup driven by Corporal Garcia. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “Go. Over.”

“There’s a roadblock up ahead and no obvious way around it. Over.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “Hit the brakes. Six to all Roller units… Pull over, but keep your eyes peeled and your engines running. I’m going forward. Over.”

Mac was riding in the Stryker designated as Roller-Three. It pulled out and around the Humvee before coming to a stop next to the pickup. Mac climbed up on top of the Stryker to get a better view. A large construction site was visible in the distance, and her binoculars brought everything closer. Lots of heavy equipment could be seen. What were the locals doing? Working on a highway? No, they were building a wall! A defensive wall, like the ones used to protect ancient cities. Had they been attacked? Or were they preparing for the possibility of an attack?

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as two A-10 Thunderbolts roared overhead and circled the city. So much for her dreams of capturing the Air National Guard assets stationed at Gowen Field. The unit’s aircraft and their supplies were already under someone’s control. She moved to make room for Sparks Munroe. “Get Peters on the horn,” she instructed. “Tell him to lie low… Tell him that a couple of Hogs are circling the city.” Sparks nodded and went to work.

“A delegation is coming out to meet with us,” Garcia announced as he peered up at her.

Mac could see them through the glasses. She nodded before climbing down. Sparks followed. Once on the ground, Mac said, “Okay, time for a chat. But be ready just in case.” Both men checked their weapons.

It was a typical postimpact day, which was to say gray, cold, and windy. Pieces of litter skittered across the highway as Mac and her soldiers went forward to meet the townsfolk. The local delegation included two men armed with AR-16s, and a woman decked out in a white fur coat. That would have been politically incorrect months earlier, but things had changed since then. Staying warm had priority now—and to hell with how a person went about it. A pair of shiny, knee-high boots completed the look. Mac felt dowdy by comparison.

“Good morning,” the woman said, as both groups came to a halt. “My name is Pam Scheemer—and I’m the mayor of Boise.” Scheemer had well-plucked brows and rosy cheeks.

“I’m Lieutenant Robin Macintyre,” Mac replied. “It looks like you’re building a wall. Were you attacked?”

“No,” Scheemer replied. “Not yet. But, with no one to protect us, it’s just a matter of time.”

Mac looked up as one of the A-10s circled to the south. “No one to protect you?”

“We have our local guard unit,” Scheemer acknowledged. “But they live here. Where’s the rest of the military?”

“I’m sorry about the lack of support,” Mac replied. “I wish we could help… But we were cut off from our unit. And the ham operators claim that President Wainwright is dead. So we’re traveling to Arizona.”

Scheemer frowned. “On orders from the army? Or to suit yourselves?”

Mac was formulating a response when Sparks Munroe stepped in. “We call ourselves Mac’s Marauders, ma’am. And we plan to fight for those who need help.”

“For money,” Scheemer said contemptuously.

“To survive,” Mac replied. “You have homes, and we don’t, so we’re looking for a place to live. If you’ll let us through, we’ll be on our way. It’s as simple as that.”

Scheemer was silent for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “But keep your word. The A-10s will eat you for lunch if you don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac replied. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Scheemer nodded and tugged her fur collar up around her face. “I think it’s going to snow,” she said to no one in particular. Then she turned and walked away. Mac looked up, and sure enough, snowflakes were beginning to fall.

The roadblock consisted of two semi-tractor-trailer rigs parked trailer to trailer. Diesel engines rattled, and black smoke jetted up from chromed stacks, as the trucks pulled away from each other. About two dozen locals were there to watch the convoy pass through the resulting gap. A Humvee was stationed on the other side. The FOLLOW ME attached to the back end said it all.

In spite of the agreement with the mayor, Mac knew they might be entering a trap. And since she couldn’t call on the Apache for help, she was blind. Or thought she was until a familiar voice came over her headset. “Roller-Two-One to Roller-Six. The Raven is up and feeding video. The route is clear. Over.”

Mac was standing in the back of Roller-One at that point just forward of the fifty. Sparks was at her side. Even though Esco hadn’t been ordered to launch a drone, he had taken it upon himself to do so. “Well done, Two-One. Over.”

Mac turned to Sparks. “Tell Peters to take off, circle west, and approach the town of Kuna from the south.”

Mac watched the A-10s circle the town one last time before lining up on the airport. Chances were they’d been ordered to land to conserve fuel. “Peters is airborne,” Sparks told her.

“Good. By the way… Where did the Mac’s Marauders stuff come from?”

“That’s what we call ourselves.”

“I didn’t get the memo.”

Munroe grinned. “No, ma’am. You didn’t.”

Both of them laughed.

The pilot vehicle left them half a mile farther on, and once the convoy was south of Boise, Mac ordered Garcia to take a right and head for the town of Kuna. It had been little more than a railroad stop back in the old days. But because of Boise’s growth, Kuna had become a bedroom community.

However, since Kuna was located outside of the new defensive wall, it was certain to be looted and used as a staging area by any force that hoped to conquer Boise. And judging from what looked like dozens of vacant buildings, people understood that.

After entering Kuna, Mac directed Garcia to lead the column east—into the area located just north of the Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area. What would become of the nation’s parks? she wondered. Would people move in, log the trees, and hunt the animals into extinction? There was nothing she could do about it, so Mac pushed the thought away.

She was standing by then, peering over the truck’s cab, as cold air buffeted her face. Everything looked the way it had two years earlier. Her sister had been overseas, but her father was in residence, and Mac had been hoping for some sort of reconciliation.

But Bo Macintyre wanted his younger daughter to attend West Point just as her sister had. And the fact that Mac had been accepted into Officer Candidate School and graduated at the top of her class meant nothing to him. OCS was for second-raters, in Bo Macintyre’s opinion… And being father to the best of the second-raters was nothing to brag about. The long weekend was punctuated by periods of silence—and poisoned by things unsaid.

When Mac left, it was with the conviction that she’d never return. Yet there she was, turning off the blacktop to follow the driveway up and around the farmhouse to park in back. Brown swiveled the fifty around, searching for targets, but there weren’t any.

Everything appeared to be normal at first. But, as Garcia killed the engine, Mac realized that she was wrong. On closer examination she saw that some of the ground-floor windows were shattered, and the back door had been left ajar. So what lay within? Had her father been there when the meteors struck? And if so, was he all right?

There weren’t any vehicles to be seen, but that didn’t mean the house was empty. Mac ordered Sergeant Poole to take his squad in and clear the residence. Once that effort was under way, Mac turned her attention to setting up a defensive perimeter, bringing the Apache in next to the barn, and digging latrines.

That was when Staff Sergeant Emilio Evans approached her. He was second-in-command and, since her platoon had evolved into a company, she should promote him. But how? The army had a process for such things, but that was gone. Mac forced herself to focus on the situation at hand. “Hey, Evans… How’s it going?”

“So far, so good,” he replied. “How did you know about this place?”

Mac felt a pang of guilt. “It belongs to my father.”

Evans looked at her. She had put herself first, and he knew it. All she could do was stare back. “Do you have a question, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evans answered formally. “It’s about the latrines. Rather than dig them by hand each day, how ’bout we look for one of those mini backhoes? Some of them can be towed. Or maybe we can find a trailer.”

“A backhoe would be one more machine to maintain,” Mac cautioned. “And it would make the column that much longer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evans acknowledged. “But it would save time and improve morale.”

Mac nodded. “That makes sense. Let’s be on the lookout for one.”

Evans broke the ensuing moment of silence. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Always.”

“The house is clear. Go in and take a look around. I’ll handle things out here.”

Mac looked away and back again. “Thanks, Emilio. I will.”

Evans nodded, executed a perfect about-face, and walked away.

It felt strange to pull the back door open and hear the usual screech of protest. Where was Mom? She should have been in the kitchen watching CNN as she fixed dinner. Traces of Margaret were still there, however. The walls were a cheerful yellow—and her apron was hanging from a peg. Not even Bo Macintyre had been willing to take it down.

The rest wasn’t pretty. Dishes had been smashed, a swearword was spray-painted on a wall, and the sink was full of trash. Where was Mr. Larson? Mac wondered. Was the part-time caretaker okay? So many people had been displaced. Perhaps he was among them.

When Mac left the kitchen, she entered her father’s part of the house. A Confederate battle flag occupied most of one wall. Pictures of Cadet Bo Macintyre, Lieutenant Bo Macintyre, and Captain Bo Macintyre were everywhere. Sometimes he stood all by himself. But more often than not he was with a group of soldiers. All of the images had one thing in common though—and that was an implacable stare directed at the camera. Or at a little girl should she be so foolish as to make a mistake.

Judging from the mess, it appeared that a number of people had camped in the living room. The mantel over the fireplace was scorched, drug paraphernalia lay scattered about, and Mac saw a photo of herself lying on the floor. She bent to pick it up. The girl in the picture was three or four. And there, kneeling beside her, was a young version of her father. He was smiling! Because of something her mother had said? Or because he was having a good time? Perhaps their relationship had been different then—back before the disappointment took over.

The second floor was very much like the first in terms of the vandalism that had been done. And Victoria’s room was a mess. But the trophies were still there, along with her collection of ribbons, and a graduation photo. The uniform fit Victoria perfectly. Mac could remember the way the hats had flown up into the air, and hung there for a moment, before falling back to Earth.

But things were quite different down the hall in her room. It, too, was littered with trash. But her mementoes were gone. All of the books, wall posters, and knickknacks had disappeared. Why? Because he gave up on you, the voice in her head said. Because you’re the failure that he wants to forget.

A tear trickled down Mac’s cheek as she turned away. What was it her father told her as a child? Soldiers don’t cry? Well, some soldiers did cry… But not in front of the troops. Mac used a sleeve to wipe the moisture away. Then she returned to work.

As the light started to fade, Mac went out to walk the perimeter. Evans and his squad leaders had done well. Fighting positions had been dug as necessary, they were linked to each other, and the machine guns were well sited.

The Strykers were positioned farther back, where they could provide fire support if necessary. The rest of the vehicles were parked at the center of the compound but with enough space between them to prevent collateral damage should one of them take a hit.

As for the civilians, they were safely ensconced in the barn that Mac and Vic played in as little girls. A time so long ago that it no longer seemed real.

Mac gave the go-ahead for off-duty personnel to sleep in the house but chose to put her own bag in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven, referred to as IRON MIKE by its crew. Forward Observer Lin Kho had chosen to spend the night inside the vic as well—and was already asleep when Mac lay down on the bench across from her.

Mac slept well until 0200, when she went on watch. Distant shots were heard shortly thereafter. But other than that, the next two hours were uneventful, and Mac was able to go back to bed for two additional hours.

After getting up at 0600 and taking a sponge bath in the female section of the barn, Mac went to work. All were up by then, civilians included. Breakfast was a haphazard affair in which everyone had to fend for themselves. Except for Mac that is, who would have settled for coffee if Doc Obbie hadn’t shown up with one of her favorite MREs.

“Eat it, ma’am,” Obbie said with a smile, “or I’ll report you to Dr. Hoskins.”

“Anything but that,” Mac replied as she sat on a tailgate. Sparks was nearby, and she waved him over. “Find Esco,” she said. “Tell him to launch the Shadow, and check the highway between here and Mountain Home.”

Sparks nodded and left. Mac could see patches of blue sky through the cloud cover for once. Would the weather be better in Arizona? She hoped so. “I spoke to Esco,” Sparks said, as he returned. “He’s on it.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “I have a job for you. Mountain Home Air Force Base is located about twelve miles from the town itself. Get on the radio and try to make contact.”

Sparks stared at her. “What if I succeed? What then?”

Mac frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They will tell you to come in, and we’ll have to take orders from the person in charge. Regardless of what they’re up to.”

Mac swallowed some coffee. “I have news for you, Soldier… That’s how it works in the army. We don’t get to choose our superiors.”

“I know that, ma’am,” Sparks replied. “But that’s the regular army. And they left us to fend for ourselves.”

“I read you,” Mac said, “but what if the ‘regular’ army is back online? And there’s something else to consider… The base is home to the 366th Fight Wing of the Air Combat Command known as ‘The Gunfighters.’ They fly F-15E Strike Eagles. Guess what will happen if we tell them to fuck off?”

Sparks was silent for a moment. “They’ll grease us.”

“Bingo… So quit exercising your jaw and get to work. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

Mac watched Sparks begin to put out calls. The conversation was interesting in a couple of ways. First, she knew that Sparks was plugged into what the unit’s enlisted people were thinking. And, because he spent every day at her side, he was in an excellent position to feed them tidbits of information. So her comments, or a version of them, would make the rounds during the next hour. A fact of life in the army, and an important reason to keep her guard up.

Second, Sparks wasn’t the only person who was worried about being absorbed into a larger command. She was as well. If the “real” army was out there, then good. The unit should rejoin. But what if it wasn’t? What if her outfit was absorbed by a group of do-nothings? Or a bunch of crazies like the whack jobs in Yakima? Mac felt the need to protect the Marauders from everything, and that included rogue units like her own.

In spite of his best efforts, Sparks hadn’t been able to make contact with the air force by the time the column left half an hour later. Mac was riding in Roller-One. The house seemed to shrink as she looked back. Then it was gone. Along with her childhood.

It took fifteen minutes to reach Interstate 84 and turn south. Most of the traffic consisted of pedestrians, people on bicycles, and motorcycles. Some overloaded farm trucks passed the column as well. Mac figured that enterprising farmers were growing vegetables in hothouses and selling them to folks in Boise. Good for them. People had to eat. “Roller-Two-One to Roller-Six. Over.”

“This is Six actual. Go.”

“The Shadow is fifty miles downrange and circling what was Mountain Home Air Force Base. Over.”

Mac felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream. “Was? Over.”

Esco’s voice was tight. Mac could tell that the UAV operator was battling to control his emotions. “There isn’t much left… Just a crater and a huge field of debris.”

Mac remembered the briefing at JBLM shortly after the meteors struck. What had Wilson told them? Something about Chinese missiles and a subsequent apology. Had Mountain Home been targeted? That was the way it appeared. It took a conscious effort to swallow the lump in her throat. “Roger that. What about the town? Over.”

“It’s still there,” Esco replied. “But it seems to be deserted. A pack of dogs is nosing around. But that’s all. Over.”

Mac remembered Scheemer. The mayor knew, had to know about the air force base, but had chosen to hold that piece of information back. Why?

Why not? The voice in Mac’s head countered. Information is valuable, and Scheemer saw no reason to share. Welcome to postapocalyptic America.

Mac had a decision to make as Roller-One led the convoy south. Although the air force base was twelve miles from town, there could be residual radiation, and that would explain why the area was deserted. Maybe they should bypass Mountain Home. The problem with that was the Marauders needed supplies—and a National Guard armory was located nearby.

There was an alternative, of course. She could send two Strykers to investigate while the rest of the convoy went out and around. Under that scenario, the Strykers would rejoin the unit south of Mountain Home. But dividing her force would entail considerable risk. What if a large force attacked one of the two groups?

With those variables in mind, Mac ordered the column to pull over so she could have a private chat with Dr. Hoskins. He was waiting near the six-by-six and proceeded to clean his wire-rimmed glasses while Mac explained her dilemma. “No problem,” Hoskins told her once she was finished. “Fallout radiation fades rapidly. Given how much time has passed, and all the rain since then, the current level of radiation is probably 1 percent of what it was after the blast. So, while I wouldn’t want to live there, a one- or two-day visit won’t present much risk.”

Mac thanked him and returned to the pickup. They arrived on the outskirts of Mountain Home forty minutes later. The Shadow was still up, and since Esco had nothing new to report, Mac took the unit straight in. The armory was located slightly southwest of Mountain Home on a dead-end road. Parched land could be seen all around, with the blast-leveled remains of buildings in the distance.

A sheet of plywood was propped up in the middle of the road. The words, “Gov. prop. Do not enter,” had been written on the wood with white paint. Garcia braked, and that caused the other vehicles to do likewise. “Go around it,” Mac ordered, and Garcia obeyed.

The ruins of a building could be seen up ahead. It appeared that the structure had been leveled by the blast—and the debris field was pointed north. “I see movement at two o’clock,” Brown announced, as he swiveled the fifty around to point in that direction.

Mac looked in time to see a man emerge from the hut located adjacent to the remains of the building. He was dressed in combat gear and armed with a light machine gun. She spoke into the boom mike. “This is Six actual. I’m going to speak with him. I want everyone except Hadley to stay back. If I raise my right hand above my shoulder, shoot him. Over.”

There was a flurry of clicks as Mac jumped down off the truck. The ground was hard, and ice crystals glittered in the momentary sunlight. The man allowed Mac to approach him. His weapon was pointed at the sky, but Mac knew the barrel could come down in a hurry. Before she could signal Hadley? Yes, quite possibly. She would die, but so would he.

Mac stopped ten feet away. Now she was close enough to see that the man was a major, or some guy pretending to be a major. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre, United States Army. And you are?”

“Major Fitch, United States Air Force.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

Fitch’s face had a gaunt appearance, and his deep-set eyes peered out from what looked like dark caves. But he was clean-shaven… And even though his gear was dirty, it was squared away. “I could ask you the same question,” Fitch replied.

Mac smiled. “Touché. Perhaps we should show each other some ID. But that can wait… May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“I’m guarding the ruins of this building,” Fitch replied stolidly.

“That’s one way to put it,” Mac agreed. “But I think there’s more to it than that. You’re standing in front of a National Guard armory. Or what used to be an armory.”

Fitch stared at her. “That’s why you came? To loot the armory?”

“I wouldn’t call it looting,” Mac temporized. “We’re part of the army, after all.”

“Really?” Fitch demanded. “Who do you report to?”

Mac shrugged. “No one at the moment. We were cut off.”

Fitch looked her up and down. “I outrank you, Lieutenant… So you report to me. If you are what you say you are, that is.”

There it was. The very thing Mac had been dreading. Here was a superior officer who was either a diehard hero, determined to do his duty no matter how steep the cost, or a mental case. Had Fitch been somewhere else when the nuke-tipped missile fell? Was he punishing himself for being alive? There was no way to be sure.

Regardless of that, Mac faced a choice. Should she take orders from Fitch? Or refuse? Was there some middle way? “I suggest that you put the weapon down, sir. Then we’ll talk things over.”

“The military doesn’t work like that, Macintyre. I’m an 04, and you’re an 02.”

Mac was reminded of her conversation with Sparks. “That’s true, sir,” she replied. “But the military you’re referring to doesn’t exist anymore. If it did, you wouldn’t be guarding an armory all by yourself. So put the weapon down.”

“Or?”

“Or my sniper will kill you.”

Fitch stared at her. At least fifteen seconds ticked by. “I will do as you say,” Fitch said finally. “But I’m going to note the date, time, and the nature of our interaction. Then, when the opportunity presents itself… I will bring charges against you.”

Mac sighed. “Yes, sir. That’s your privilege. Please place the machine gun on the ground.”

Fitch complied, and Mac thanked him. She wasn’t concerned about the threat, but a line had been crossed. After refusing a direct order, Mac could no longer claim that the Marauders were part of the United States Army. They were mercenaries.

She allowed Fitch to keep his sidearm but assigned two soldiers to watch him as Evans threw a perimeter around the shattered building, and Esco sent the Raven up to replace the Shadow, which was running low on fuel.

The Apache arrived, and Mac ordered Peters to land two thousand yards away from the vehicles. Maybe the dust the rotors would stir up was radioactive, and maybe it wasn’t. Why take the chance? Mac ordered the pilots to remain in their ship until the air cleared.

Fitch refused to provide the Marauders with any information, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the supplies he’d been guarding were buried under the wreckage. The next four hours were spent removing debris. Hoskins issued surgical masks for the soldiers to wear, and the rest had orders to stay back.

Eventually, the Marauders were able to recover two dozen assault rifles, four machine guns, and ten thousand rounds of assorted ammo. There were other goodies, too… Including crates of grenades, flares, and some pistol ammo. It wasn’t a large haul, but it was better than nothing and enough to put a smile on Sergeant Smith’s face.

As darkness fell, Mac moved the perimeter over to include the helicopter, ordered the unit to dig fighting positions, and told Evans to establish OPs all around. With Strykers on three of the corners and a pickup on the fourth, she felt reasonably secure.

Mac took the first watch, hoping to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep after that. But her plan went to hell in a handcart when a soldier was sent to wake her at 0512. It seemed that Private Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” had dozed off and allowed Fitch to slip away.

Mac was pissed at Wessel since falling asleep constituted a serious dereliction of duty but was secretly glad to rid herself of Fitch. So she told Evans to place Wessel on latrine duty for five days. And being up, she chose to stay up and prepare for the day ahead.

Mac had been looking for a chance to pull her officers and NCOs together for a command conference. And with no immediate threat on the horizon, and relatively good weather, that morning represented a good opportunity.

So Mac put out the word, and all of the people E-5 and above gathered at 0730. Many had mugs of coffee, and some were eating breakfast. The moving van made a good windbreak, and a fire offered some warmth.

The participants included Evans, Company Sergeant Ralston, Supply Sergeant Smith, UAV operator Esco, Medical Officer Hoskins, and both of the Apache pilots. Mac began by saying that the conference was long overdue—and that she planned to hold one a week from that point forward. The purpose of the sessions would be to facilitate communications, identify potential problems, and devise solutions before the shit hit the fan.

“So,” Mac began, “let’s talk about the next segment of our journey. The way I figure it, we’ll get on I-84 and follow it down to Salt Lake City.” Much to her surprise, a hand shot up. Company Sergeant Ralston had joined the unit in Pendleton, and Mac was still getting to know him. “Yes, Sergeant… Do you have a question?”

Ralston was a burly man and famous for the nonreg walrus-style mustache he wore. An affectation that Mac had been careful to ignore. “Not a question so much as a comment, ma’am… Salt Lake City is the obvious way to go, I get that, but it might be best to circle around it.”

Mac felt the first stirrings of annoyance—but knew better than to let her emotions show. “Okay, why would we do that?”

“Because the Mormons run Utah, ma’am,” Ralston replied. “That includes local government, the fire departments, the police departments, and so on. Plus each family has three months’ worth of food on top of what the church has stored away. So while I don’t know this for a fact—it’s reasonable to assume that there weren’t any food riots in Salt Lake City. And by now it’s quite likely that a church-sponsored militia is guarding the city. If I’m correct, they’ll be looking for looters, bandits, and mercenaries.”

Mac felt stupid. Not only was Ralston correct, most of his points were glaringly obvious. Yet she had failed to think of them. Yes, she’d been busy… But that was no excuse. It would have been nice to save face somehow—but Mac couldn’t think of a credible way to do it. “Holy shit, Ralston,” she said. “That didn’t occur to me. Thanks for speaking up… There’s no point in walking into what could be a buzz saw.

“Scratch what I said earlier,” Mac said, as her eyes roamed the crowd. “What we need is a route that will take us around Salt Lake City as efficiently as possible. Fuel being a serious concern.”

Another hand went up. This one belonged to Sergeant Smith. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“I have a suggestion, ma’am. If we follow Highway 93 down to Wells, Nevada, we could do some shopping at the local Caterpillar dealership. Then we could go east and connect with the freeway south of Salt Lake City.”

It took a moment for Mac to catch on. The Strykers were powered by Caterpillar engines. And it was only a matter of time before the unit would need to replace one of them. Plus, a dealer would have lots of spare parts, too.

Were Ralston and Smith double-teaming her? Both were from Pendleton after all. Probably… But that’s what senior NCOs do. Often, but not always, for the betterment of their unit. Savvy officers knew when to listen and when not to. “I like it,” Mac said, “but let’s say we capture some engines. How would we move them?”

Smith didn’t have a ready answer but was quick to improvise. “The dealership will have a forklift,” he predicted. “As for transport, well, we’ll have to liberate a semi from someone.” Mac thought the plan was a bit vague—but what else could he say?

The conference continued for half an hour and covered everything from the need for field showers, to the maintenance issues related to one of the U-Haul trucks, and the need for Vitamin D supplements. “We aren’t getting enough sun,” Hoskins told them. “And that means we can’t make enough of our own Vitamin D to stay healthy. So please be on the lookout for supplies that we can buy, borrow, or steal.”

The convoy was on the road by 0900. After twenty minutes on I-84, they left the freeway for secondary roads that led them around Twin Falls to Highway 93. The surrounding countryside was flat for the most part, unrelievedly brown, and boring.

Thanks to the open terrain, and the fact that the Shadow was out in front of the column, Mac felt she could put Evans on point and ride in Roller-Twelve. The Stryker was the last vic in the convoy, and it was nice to shoot the shit with soldiers from her old platoon.

The first hour passed without incident. Then Esco put out a call for Mac to look at what he said was “some interesting video.”

So Mac ordered the column to pull over, authorized a bio break, and went to visit the Humvee. Esco’s gear was set up in the back. “Take my seat,” he suggested, “and watch the screen. The Shadow is circling Wells.”

The Humvee’s well-worn interior smelled like the men who rode in it, and Mac wrinkled her nose as she sat down and eyed the screen in front of her. Wells was a small town, and the streets were laid out grid-style. As viewed from above, the town’s most prominent features consisted of a well-watered park and adjacent sports field. “Okay,” Mac said. “What’s so interesting?”

“Zoom in,” Esco said. “Tell me what you see.”

Mac was surprised by what she saw. The streets were filled with motorcycles! There were hundreds of them. Some were parked in tidy rows—while others were racing down one of the main arterials. “That’s Sixth,” Esco told her, as he put a grubby finger on it. “See the ramp? Watch what happens.”

The ramp was located in the center of town in front of what might be a café or bar. As Mac watched, two motorcycles raced up the ramp, flew into the air, and landed hard. One wobbled and crashed. The other pulled a wheelie and continued on. “So a motorcycle gang took over the town,” Mac concluded.

“That’s the way it looks,” Esco agreed. “And they aren’t likely to welcome us with open arms. Of course, Peters and Omata could take them out in fifteen minutes.”

Mac could imagine how easy it would be for the Apache to chase the gang members down and grease them. But what if appearances were deceiving? What if the citizens of Wells liked having the gang there? Maybe the bikers were better than whatever the alternative was. She said as much to Esco. “I don’t think that’s the case, ma’am,” he replied. “Aim the camera at the athletic field and zoom in.”

Mac winced as the scene appeared. Rather than shooting down from directly overhead the drone’s camera was at least a mile to the north. That allowed Mac to see the crosses, two rows of them, each with a body tied to it. “It’s my guess that the bikers crucified anyone who objected to their presence,” Esco said.

That put a different light on things. But Mac was still reluctant to use the Apache, knowing how much collateral damage could result. “Where’s the Caterpillar dealership?” she inquired.

“It’s on the main drag,” Esco said, as his index finger landed again. “Two blocks from the ramp.”

“Okay,” Mac said, as she rose. “I’ll give the problem some thought. Thanks for the heads-up. Do me a favor, Sergeant… Keep the Shadow up high, where those scumbags will be less likely to spot it.”

“Roger that,” Esco said.

It felt good to escape the crowded confines of the Humvee and breathe some fresh air. Mac had a lot to think about as she made her way forward. The Marauders were mercenaries, and mercenaries get paid, so why fight the bikers? But Mac couldn’t shake the image of the crosses. Besides, Esco was correct. The gang wouldn’t let them waltz into town and take some Caterpillar engines without putting up a fight.

Mac climbed up onto Roller-One and told Sparks to pass the word. “Let’s get going… We’re headed to Contact, Nevada. Tell Peters to meet us there.”

It took forty-five minutes to reach Contact. It was little more than a house and a clutch of outbuildings on the east side of the road. There was a turnout on the west side of the highway, and that was where Mac told Garcia to stop. The helicopter was on the ground, and the JP8 truck went out to meet it.

Evans took a squad over to secure the house. Could the people who lived there communicate with the folks in Wells? If so, Mac didn’t want them to do so.

Once the area was under control, Mac ordered the unit to hide all of the vehicles with the exception of the Strykers behind the outbuildings. Then, with machine guns positioned to cover the highway and the gun trucks ready to roll, she felt confident the group could defend itself.

Mac still felt qualms, however, since dividing the company in half entailed some risk. But what choice did she have other than to do nothing? Taking civilians and soft-skinned vehicles into Wells would be insane.

Once everything was as good as she could make it, Mac called a meeting. A cold wind whipped her hair around as she explained the necessity of going into Wells, the way the plan was supposed to go down, and contingencies if it didn’t. Once all of the questions had been answered, it was time to mount up.

Mac chose to ride in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven. She was standing in the front air-guard hatch with a light machine gun positioned in front of her as the truck took off. Like the other top gunners, Mac was wearing a brain bucket, sunglasses to keep the airborne grit out of her eyes, and a pair of gloves to keep her hands warm.

It took forty minutes to reach Wells. The ESV was in the lead by then. The vic swayed as it completed a hard right-hand turn, the other Strykers followed, and the column started to accelerate as it hit the straightaway. Mac eyed the scene ahead. There were clumps of trees; low, one-story buildings; and dozens of frozen mud puddles. It would have been better to attack at dawn. But Mac feared that the bikers would get word of the vehicles parked at Contact and have time to prepare.

As Seven followed the ESV into town, the external speakers came to life. Suddenly Mac found herself listening to “The Imperial March” from Star Wars. It struck Mac as corny at first, and she was about to order the truck commander to kill it, when she changed her mind. This is it, Mac thought to herself, this is how Strykers are supposed to fight. We’re going to kick some ass.

The town hadn’t been fortified, and as far as Mac could tell, the bikers didn’t have lookouts. From their perspective, it must have seemed as if the Strykers came out of nowhere. Tires screeched as the ESV led the other vics through a series of turns and onto Sixth. There was a long line of custom bikes parked side by side on the right. Lamm was driving the engineering vehicle and knew what to do. The dozer blade was up and angled to the right. Metal clashed with metal, and the hogs fell like dominoes.

Bikes were parked side by side on the opposite side of the street, too. And that gave the gunners an opportunity for some target practice. Mac fired her machine gun in long, sweeping bursts—and was rewarded by the sight of falling bikes and exploding gas tanks.

Mac felt Roller-Seven slow, swerve to avoid the wooden ramp, and speed up again. The gang had started to react by that time—and bikers opened fire as they poured out of bars, cafés, and other buildings. They were armed with a wild variety of weapons—and Mac could hear the ping, ping, ping of bullets striking armor as she adjusted her aim. A man with white hair and a potbelly aimed an AR-15 at her and jerked spastically as half a dozen 5.56-by-45mm rounds tore his torso to shreds. The chatter of machine guns and the ominous music combined to create a symphony of death and destruction.

But just as Mac was beginning to believe that the battle was over, the situation took a turn for the worse. Not all of the motorcycles were lined up on the main drag. Mac heard a throaty roar and turned to see a trio of hogs accelerate out of a side street and join the fray. Roller-Three was the last Stryker in the column, so they went after it first. But Three was far from helpless. The lead bike went down as a burst of bullets chopped the rider’s left arm off, and sparks flew as the hog slid west.

But bikes two and three managed to avoid the wreck and pull up beside Roller-Three. As Mac looked back, she could see that each motorcycle had a passenger. One of them fired a pistol at the Stryker’s rear gunner, while the other leaned in to slap something onto the vic’s protective birdcage. “Watch out, Three!” Mac yelled into the mike. “They…”

The rest of Mac’s words were lost as the charge went off. The explosion produced a flash of light and a loud boom. The force of the blast was sufficient to lift the wheels on the left side of the Stryker up off the pavement. They came down with a thump, but the driver managed to retain control, and Three trailed smoke.

Mac had to change her focus at that point as more Harleys appeared, and the rear gunner engaged them. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “All units will proceed to the objective and secure it. Talk to me, Three… Can you make it? Over.”

“That’s a roger,” came the reply. “We have casualties, though…”

“Got it,” Mac replied. “One-Eight will respond. Do you copy One-Eight?”

Doc Obbie was riding in the ESV. “Copy,” he replied. “Over.”

The Cat dealership was impossible to miss, thanks to the huge sign on the roof. Seconds after the ESV pulled in, Sergeant Poole’s soldiers surged out to secure the building. Mac’s truck slowed and stopped, with the fifty pointed at the street. It began to chug as half a dozen bikes roared past. Obbie ran forward as Three pulled in.

Mac forced herself to switch focus. “Roller-Seven-Six to Flyby-One… Clean the streets but avoid structures to whatever extent you can. Over.”

Peters’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Roger that, Six… Pop smoke. Commencing gun run. Over.” The Apache came in from the southwest. It was flying just above the rooftops and looked scary as hell. The ship’s 30mm chain gun began to fire as Peters followed Sixth, staying south of the red smoke. The shells blew divots out of the concrete, tore already damaged motorcycles to shreds, and pulped a gang member stupid enough to fire at the helicopter with an M-16.

The Apache ceased firing as it roared over the Caterpillar dealership, only to resume on the far side. About twenty bikers had gathered northwest of town and were preparing to attack. When the gunship appeared, they turned, opened their throttles, and took off. That was a mistake. With no houses to worry about, Omata was free to fire rockets at them. The result was two overlapping explosions. None of the gang members survived. Shredded flesh and metal lay everywhere as Peters turned back.

He was hunting now, cruising each street looking for bad guys, but there were few to be found. Finally, after destroying a pick- up truck loaded with fleeing gang members, he made the call. “Flyby-One to Six… I suspect some of the hostiles are hiding, but the rest are down. Over.”

“Roger that and thanks,” Mac replied. “Return to Contact, rearm, and provide security there. We’ll call if we need you. Over.”

As the helicopter angled away, Mac hurried over to check on the casualties. Like the rest of her Strykers, Roller-Three was protected by slat armor commonly referred to as a “birdcage.” The structure’s purpose was to detonate RPGs and protect the vic within. Even though the explosive charge hadn’t been fired at the Stryker, Mac could see that the steel cage had done its job. The armor was a twisted mess, but the truck’s hull was intact. An excellent trade-off for the extra weight.

But even though the birdcage had been able to protect the soldiers inside the vic, the top gunners hadn’t been so lucky. And as Mac approached the truck, she saw that a half-covered body lay on the ground. Sergeant Poole turned to look as she arrived next to him. “Who is it?” she wanted to know.

“Dinkins,” he replied. “He was leaning out over the side, trying to take a shot with his M4, when the charge went off.”

“Shit. He was a good kid. I heard ‘casualties’ plural. Did someone else get hit?”

“Yeah… Wessel took a bullet from somewhere—but Doc Hoskins says he’s going to be okay. The slug went up into his helmet, circled his head, and fell out! Now Wessel claims that he’s immortal.”

Mac shook her head in amazement. Wessel the Weasel was one lucky son of a bitch. “Sorry to interrupt,” Sparks said, “but we have visitors. Some locals would like to speak with you.”

Mac followed the RTO out to the street, where a three-person delegation stood waiting. A man stepped forward to shake hands. He had a receding hairline, a paunch, and was wearing a Colt .45 six-shooter. “Hello… My name is Henry Wilkins. Carol Tice is on my left—Miranda Ivey is on the right. We’re all that remains of the city council. The rest of them were crucified. Thank God you came! We thought the government had collapsed.”

“I’m sorry to say that it did,” Mac told them. “Our unit was cut off—and we’re operating on our own.”

“Yet you chose to free our town,” Tice said. She had long brown hair and dark circles under her eyes.

“What the bikers did to your town is horrifying,” Mac said. “And I’m glad we were able to help. But we had an ulterior motive as well.”

“And what was that?” Ivey inquired. She had freckles, a pug nose, and green eyes.

“We need Caterpillar parts for our Strykers,” Mac replied. “And we knew there was a dealership in Wells.”

Wilkins pointed a finger at Roller-Three. “Is that a Stryker?”

“Yes, it is,” Mac said. “Who owns this dealership? Could I speak with them?”

Wilkins looked away. “Mr. Vickers owned it. But he and his family were killed early on… Before the crucifixions began.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. “Will you permit us to take what we need from the dealership?”

“I don’t think we could stop you,” Tice said.

“Probably not,” Mac agreed. “But we did take care of the bikers for you… Perhaps you’d be willing to give us some parts by way of a reward.”

“I’m for it,” Ivey said.

“Me, too,” Wilkins put in.

“I guess you’ve got a deal,” Tice said. “So take what you want from the dealership, but nothing more. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Mac replied. “We’ll bring the rest of our vehicles down from Contract if that’s okay… And we’ll put some temporary security in place. I would suggest that you gather up all the weapons that are lying around and organize a militia. Another gang will overrun the town if you don’t.”

“We’ll get to work on it,” Ivey said, “and on burying the dead. Thank you.”

Mac looked over to where the body lay and back again. “We lost one of our soldiers during the fighting. Could we bury him in your cemetery?”

“Of course,” Ivey said. “We’ll make a special place for him.”

“Thank you,” Mac said. “Sergeant Poole will work with you to make the necessary arrangements.”

Once the conversation ended, Mac turned to find that Sergeant Smith was waiting for her. “We’ve got what we came for, ma’am, two Cat engines and a lot of assorted spare parts.”

“Thank God for that,” Mac said. “We paid a high price.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There’s a problem, though.”

“Which is?”

“We need a vehicle to haul everything with. A tractor hooked to a lowboy trailer would be perfect.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I found what we need a few blocks from here.”

“See if you can buy it,” Mac told him. “Offer some of the stuff we found at Mountain Home. After what they’ve been through, these folks might put a pretty high value on a couple of light machine guns and some ammo. Not too much, though… And it wouldn’t be a good idea to deliver the ordnance until we’re ready to leave.”

“And if they say, ‘no’?”

Mac sighed. One of the reasons she’d joined the army was because the people who belonged to it were trying to do the right thing even if they failed occasionally. That’s what her father claimed, anyway. Now she was up to her butt in moral ambiguity. “If you can’t buy it, then call me. We’d better be ready for a fight if we’re going to take it.”

Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he was gone.

It took the better part of two days for the Marauders to bury Dinkins with full honors, buy the tractor-trailer rig, and catch up on deferred maintenance. Then it was time to get back on the road. Their destination was a base called Camp Navajo, which was located just west of Flagstaff, Arizona. Assuming the information Mac had was correct, a wide variety of supplies could be found there, including fuel for the Apache. The latter was of critical importance because the JP8 truck was running low.

They took 93 south. Then, rather than enter Las Vegas, which was said to be under the control of a warlord, the Marauders went east. After three days of zigzagging across northern Arizona, they wound up on I-40 headed for Camp Navajo. Looted cars lined both sides of the highway, there were crosses on the median, and the overpasses were covered with graffiti.

Rather than show up at Camp Navajo hoping for the best, Mac led the convoy off the interstate north of the base and entered the tiny town of Parks. The Flagstaff area was known for its skiing, but there shouldn’t have been any snow this time of year. The evergreens were loaded with the white stuff, however—and there was six inches of it on the ground. That was a disappointment since the Marauders had been hoping for better weather in Arizona. Maybe it will be, Mac told herself, especially at lower elevations.

About a thousand people were supposed to be living in and around Parks. But they were nowhere to be seen as the Marauders rolled into town and took control of a church.

Evans was busy setting up a security perimeter when Mac went to meet with Esco. “Put the Shadow up,” she told him, “and give me all the intel you can. Meanwhile, I’m going to send Brown and Kho out for a ground-level view of what’s going on. If the situation warrants, we’ll go in. Otherwise, we’ll bypass the base and continue south.”

Once the drone was up, and scouts were on the way, all Mac could do was wait. To pass the time, she made the rounds and paused to admire the small track hoe Smith had purchased in Wells. Evans was right… The machine made short work of digging fighting positions and latrines. That was a definite plus.

Esco called for her an hour later. “Take my seat,” Esco said, as Mac entered the Humvee. “Rather than make you sit through the whole mission, I cut some of the footage together.”

The UAV operator crouched behind Mac where he could provide her with a running narration. “So here’s Flagstaff,” Esco said, as the drone circled over the snow-clad city. “Notice the smoke coming out of chimneys… That suggests that the power grid is down. And look at the streets. There’s very little traffic. Why? Because people are afraid to go out, that’s why.”

Esco leaned in to put a finger on the screen. “See this? And this? They’re barricades. It appears that the town has been Balkanized.”

Esco was correct. Mac could see the way cars, RVs, and piles of junk had been used to seal entire neighborhoods off. That seemed to suggest that the local government had collapsed, leaving citizens to fight among themselves.

“And here’s Camp Navajo,” Esco added. “It’s about thirty miles west of Flagstaff. You’ll notice that it’s sealed off as well… You can see vehicles inside the perimeter. That suggests that the Guard is still there, but nothing is moving. So where are the troops? Inside drinking hot chocolate?”

Where indeed? Mac wondered. There should have been lots of activity given the nature of the situation. Maybe the scouts would be able to provide some answers.

A six-hour wait followed the meeting with Esco. Mac knew that Kho and Brown had been able to reach the base, and were okay, because they had orders to report in every thirty minutes. But the frequencies available to them were available to the local Guard unit as well. That made it necessary to keep the transmissions short and cryptic.

At first, Mac killed time by wandering around, sticking her nose in where it wasn’t welcome, and offering unnecessary suggestions. That pissed everyone off. A problem she failed to recognize until Evans told her about it.

The temperature fell as the sun went down and a stygian darkness claimed the land. It was snowing by then—and Mac was worried. Maybe Brown and Kho had been ambushed. Maybe the scouts were lost. Maybe she should send the quick-reaction force out to find them. Maybe… “The scouts are back,” Sparks announced as he appeared at her side. “And they have a prisoner.”

Mac felt a tremendous flood of relief, thanked Munroe, and hurried toward the church. She could see her breath, feel the snow give under her boots, and hear the purring sound the generator made. Half a dozen jury-rigged lights were on inside, it was at least ten degrees warmer, and the odor of cooking hung in the air. Food was another thing they needed more of.

Pews had been moved to make way for rows of sleeping bags—and some of the children were playing a game in the middle of the chapel. All of them were wearing coats. Evans waved her over. “They’re in the office,” he told her. “Both are fine.”

“Good,” Mac said as she followed him through a door and into a room equipped with three mismatched desks, some metal filing cabinets, and a bulletin board filled with childish drawings. There were muddy tracks on the floor—and a pile of gear sat where the scouts had dumped it. Brown was standing off to one side, Kho was perched on the corner of a desk, and a stranger was seated on a plastic chair. He was twentysomething and wearing an Indian-style headband. Long black hair fell to his shoulders. Kho smiled. “We brought you a present.”

“That’s a present?” Mac inquired.

“Yup,” Brown responded. “He sure is. Lieutenant Macintyre, meet Corporal Vickers.” Vickers continued to stare at the floor.

“A corporal?” Mac inquired. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Brown responded. “This piece of shit is a corporal. It says so on his ID card.”

“But he’s also a deserter,” Kho put in. “Which is how we came across him. There we were, scouting the base, when Vickers cut a hole in the wire and walked into our arms.”

“And no one noticed?” Mac inquired.

“Not while we were there,” Brown answered. “That’s because Vickers was on guard duty—and he left through the section of wire he had responsibility for.”

“Wow,” Mac said as she looked Vickers up and down. “You are a piece of shit. So let’s get to it. I want to know everything there is to know about conditions inside the base.”

Vickers looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and arcane symbols were tattooed on his forehead. The letters were uneven and clearly the work of an amateur. “What will you give me?”

“That’s ‘what will you give me, ma’am,’” Evans put in. “As for what we’ll give you, how about a bullet?”

Vickers turned to Mac. “Like I said, ma’am, what’s in it for me?”

Evans was playing bad cop, which left Mac free to be the good cop. “That depends,” she said. “If you cooperate, and if you want a future, there might be a place for you in our unit. Not as an NCO, however. Not yet. You’d have to earn that.”

Vickers glanced at Evans, then back. He shrugged. “Okay, but understand this… Some bad shit went down on base… I didn’t lead it, but I was there, and if you plan to go army on me, let’s finish it now. Shoot me in the face. I want to see it coming.”

Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Some bad shit went down.” What did that mean? It wasn’t her job to play judge and jury, however. “You have my word,” Mac assured him. “Tell us what you know. And so long as you tell the truth, you can join or take a walk.”

It didn’t take much to make Vickers talk. He wanted to get some things off his chest. And they weren’t pretty. The problems began shortly after what Vickers called “the big hit.” It wasn’t long before some of the unit’s junior officers went AWOL, or were MIA, depending on what a person chose to believe.

Meanwhile, one of Flagstaff’s city council members tried to take control of the government, one of his peers shot him six times, and the rest of the survivors divided the city into small fiefdoms. Each neighborhood had its own militia—and each was intent on garnering support from the local Guard unit. Because if a council member could secure that—they’d be able to seize control of Flagstaff.

The XO wanted the company to align itself with the area she lived in, and roughly half of the soldiers agreed. But after the CO refused to go along, he was found dead of what might or might not have been a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. That put the XO in charge.

Her reign came to an abrupt end when troops loyal to the CO shot her and sealed themselves inside a heavily fortified maintenance facility where, according to Vickers, they still were. “So which faction did you belong to?” Mac inquired.

“The CO was a good man,” Vickers replied.

“So what’s with the long hair and all that crap?” Evans demanded.

Vickers shrugged. “Things went tribal. The XO’s people began to dress like cowboys. So we called ourselves the Indians. We let our hair grow, took new names, and went on the warpath every now and then. Some people wanted to leave but had no place to go. Flagstaff is fucked-up, and so is the rest of the country, according to what the ham-radio guys say.”

“But you decided to leave anyway?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” Vickers replied. “There have been a lot of fights lately, conditions are getting worse, and I was sick of it.”

Once the interrogation was over, Vickers was placed under guard, and Mac called her officers and noncoms into the office. After briefing them on the situation at Camp Navajo, she presented her plan. “Based on what Vickers told us, the troops inside the base no longer have unit cohesion, are largely leaderless, and at a low state of readiness. I think we should strike immediately since it’s hard to imagine how the situation could improve.

“Rather than do battle with them, I plan to minimize casualties by pinning both groups down. Then, once they’re under control, we’ll take everything that isn’t nailed down! And if some of these folks want to join, then so much the better, so long as it’s a number we can handle without compromising security.”

Mac’s eyes scanned the faces in front of her. “In order take full advantage of what we find, I’ll ask our civilians to pitch in as loaders and drivers. The children will be left in the care of two adults, with five soldiers to protect them. That’s the plan in a nutshell. Are there any questions, suggestions, or comments?”

There were, but none of them were deal breakers, and after making the necessary adjustments, Mac dismissed the group. There was a lot of work to do before the attack element could depart at 0300, and only four hours to do it in. But, thanks to the processes already in place, they managed to finish on time. The Strykers led the way.

It was snowing heavily by then, which Mac saw as a plus since the white stuff would serve to limit visibility and muffle the sound of the convoy’s engines. Because Kho had traveled through the area earlier, she was able to direct the convoy along back roads to the well-fortified main gate. “There’s a good point of entry west of here,” she told Mac.

And that prediction was borne out. The women were standing in hatches aboard the ESV truck as Kho ordered the driver to stop. “Look to the right,” she told him. “See the fence? Can you break through it?”

“Can a bear shit in the woods?” Lamm replied. “Hang on… We’re going in.”

After backing away a bit, Lamm put his foot to the floor. The dozer blade was raised, and Mac felt nothing more than a slight hesitation as steel sliced through the wire mesh. The vic bucked wildly as it passed over a mound of earth and plowed ahead. At that point, they were inside the base, and not a shot had been fired.

Vickers was riding in the three truck and helped to guide them through a maze of low-lying buildings, vehicle parks, and other obstacles. And it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived at the building where his group was holed up. Mac saw snow-filled craters out front, empty fighting positions, and a façade that was pockmarked with bullet holes. It wasn’t long before automatic weapons began to chatter, and bullets hit the vics.

That was Vickers’s cue to address the defenders over his Stryker’s PA system. “Hey, shitheads, this is Vick… Stop shooting! We aren’t firing on you, but we can… I hooked up with a company-sized force that includes three Strykers and plenty of heavy weapons. You can remain where you are, or you can come out. It’s up to you. And, if you want to join this unit, the CO is looking for some good people. But if you continue to fire, we’ll grease you. You have five seconds to stop.”

There were more shots, but not many, and it wasn’t long before a dozen soldiers came out with their hands over their heads. A squad was sent forward to search and secure them while Mac, Vickers, and two Strykers departed for building two. It belonged to the people who’d been loyal to the XO—and they saw Vickers as a traitor and an enemy combatant.

So Mac spoke to the cowboys over the PA, ordered them to hold their fire, and to remain where they were. It didn’t work as first. But they stopped firing once the Strykers opened up on them.

Despite the fact that she could use more troops, Mac knew it would be dangerous to try to integrate potentially unstable soldiers into the unit, because of how much trouble they could cause. Plus, even if the cowboys were able to get along with the Marauders, it seemed unlikely that they’d manage to make peace with the ex-Indians. So the Strykers remained on station while the rest of the Marauders went to work.

As the snow stopped, and the sickly-looking sun rose in the east, it soon became apparent that the amount of material available to the Marauders was beyond Mac’s wildest dreams. Weapons, ammo, food, fuel, clothing, and much-needed medical supplies were all sitting on pallets waiting to be taken. That was good. But there was more! The haul included four Strykers, two M35 trucks, and half a dozen other vehicles. Not to mention some additional UAVs for Esco.

But wonderful though the wealth of supplies was, they presented a problem as well. That stemmed from the need to distribute critical materials throughout the convoy lest all of a particular item be lost when or if a vehicle was destroyed. Ammo was an excellent example of that. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith was up to the job and was using a laptop to track everything. Still, it took time to bar-code and load the incoming material, which meant that the Marauders would have to stay in Camp Navajo for a couple of days.

Mac made use of the time by setting up a panel of people to interview the ex-Indians. The committee included her, Dr. Hoskins, and Corporal Cassidy. Their job was to determine if the volunteers would be a good fit or not. In the end, nine of the volunteers were accepted—while the rest were placed in temporary detention. “You’ll be freed when we leave,” Mac assured them. “And at that point, you can do whatever you choose.”

By dawn of the third day, the children and their caretakers had been reunited with the rest of the unit, all of the new vehicles had been integrated into the column, and the supplies had been properly allocated. The convoy was longer now—and would be more difficult to protect. But it was also stronger… And better able to defend itself from most criminal gangs.

Mac felt good about that as she stood in the forward air-guard hatch on the lead Stryker and looked back at the convoy. Mac’s Marauders had everything they needed now except for one thing, and that was a home.