Into the Guns

CHAPTER 8

THE NEW MASON-DIXON LINE

It was just after five in the morning when the rain stopped and a cold fog appeared. It hovered just above the ground and shivered as a breeze nudged it. The patriots froze as Sam McKinney raised a fist. It had been three days and four hundred miles since they’d departed the relative safety of the Ouachita National Forest. The group had traveled by car at first. And now, as they neared the Mason-Dixon line, they were on foot.

Sloan saw McKinney push his hand down and knew that was his cue to take a knee. He heard voices as the ground fog rose to envelop him—and his right hand went to the pistol that was holstered under his left arm. A man laughed as dimly seen figures passed off to the right. Sloan counted six of them. “You’ve got to be kidding,” a voice said. “What did you say?”

The patrol was gone before Sloan could learn the answer. He allowed himself to exhale and saw his breath fog the air. Sloan wanted to stand but knew that would be a mistake. McKinney was an ex-Ranger and a harsh taskmaster. He had a sharp tongue and spared no one. “Your other right, Mr. President,” McKinney liked to say, along with “Keep your butt below the skyline, Howell,” and “What the hell’s wrong with you, Allston? My grandmother can shoot better than that.” But painful though the process was, Sloan felt grateful. Like the others, he had no military training and understood the need to learn.

When McKinney stood, that meant the rest of them could as well. And as Sloan looked back over his shoulder, he could see Howell, Allston, and Jenkins in that order. The latter was an ex–deputy sheriff and McKinney’s star pupil.

Sloan turned back to discover that McKinney was already disappearing into the ectoplasm-like fog. He hurried to catch up and position himself fifteen feet behind the ex-soldier. Intervals were important, he knew that now, and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another cutting comment.

Even as Sloan sought to maintain the “situational awareness” that McKinney liked to harp on, he couldn’t help but think about where they were, which was just south of the imaginary boundary separating North from South. Except it wouldn’t be imaginary for long. Huxton and his cronies were building a picket fence–like barrier designed to keep what they called “the takers” from flooding the South and laying waste to it. Nothing of that sort had occurred, but a constant flow of propaganda assured Southerners that it could, unless they threw their support behind the “New Order.”

The ground began to slope up at that point, forcing Sloan to watch his footing. There was a lot of loose rock, and when one of Sloan’s boots sent a chunk bounding downhill, he found himself on the receiving end of a frown from McKinney. Fortunately, the ex-Ranger couldn’t say anything without breaking one of his own rules.

Sloan managed to complete the climb without committing any additional errors. As they approached the top, he knew it was time to get down and crawl. After elbowing his way onto the ridge, Sloan heard the sound of a helicopter engine approaching from behind. He was careful to lie perfectly still as the aircraft passed overhead.

As the Apache continued to descend, Sloan could see where it was going. He’d seen pictures of defense towers by then, but always from a long ways off and in the early stages of construction. This one was different. Though not an expert, Sloan could tell that the roughly three-hundred-foot-tall structure was nearing completion. The central column was thick enough to house a cluster of elevators, including one large enough to accommodate the Apache.

The helicopter flared and put down on one of four circular pads clustered around the central “trunk.” Once the rotors stopped turning, a tractor towed the helo into the column, where an elevator would be waiting. Then the aircraft would be lowered into an underground maintenance facility.

It stood to reason that a lot of dirt had been removed to make the underground complex possible, and Sloan could see that it had been used to create the berm that surrounded the base of the tower. As Sloan raised his binoculars, he could see that gun positions were embedded in the wall.

“Those are Vulcan Air Defense System guns,” McKinney said, as if capable of reading the other man’s mind. “They were designed to fire on aircraft but can be used against ground targets as well. They’re no longer state-of-the-art, but each one can pump out a whole lot of 20mm projectiles in a very short period of time.”

Sloan tried to imagine participating in an infantry assault on such a well-defended wall and couldn’t. “But they can’t fire on aircraft,” he observed. “Not from where they are.”

“That’s true,” McKinney agreed. “But look at the topmost platforms. Those weapons can fire on planes.”

“What’s that boxy thing?” Sloan wanted to know.

“That’s a C-RAM,” McKinney replied. “It’s designed to throw a wall of metal into the air to destroy incoming rockets and mortar rounds before they can hit the tower. The next pod over is a surface-to-surface-missile battery.”

Sloan considered that as he turned the binoculars to the right. The sun had risen by then and was peeking through broken clouds. Only a few wisps of fog still remained. Off to the east, Sloan could make out the faint outline of another tower. “What do you think?” he inquired. “Could a strike force slide in between the towers and break through?”

McKinney looked at Sloan with a look of newfound respect. “Very good! You’re thinking like a soldier… I don’t know. It would depend on the range of the defensive missiles, how good their targeting systems are, and whether the Confederates have been laying mines to prevent such an attack. But never say never.”

Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Major.”

“I was a captain.”

Sloan lowered the binoculars. “Not anymore. You’re a major now, and my military attaché.”

McKinney stared at him. “No offense, Mr. President… But I have no desire to be an REMF.”

“And what,” Sloan inquired, “is an REMF?”

“A rear echelon motherfucker, sir.”

Sloan laughed. “I get that. But consider this… Assuming we succeed in rebuilding the army, I’ll be surrounded by REMFs… Some of them will try to blow smoke up my ass. How will I sort them out without your sage advice?”

McKinney was silent for a moment. Then he produced one of his rare smiles. “That would be me, sir… Major McKinney, smoke detector extraordinaire.”

Both men laughed, pushed themselves away from the ridge, and began the trip down. It was the beginning of a much longer journey that took them up through Branson, Ozark, Springfield, and into the town of Marshfield, Missouri.

After spending some time in the South, Sloan was eager to see how things were going up north. The answer wasn’t good. In a marked contrast with cities like Shreveport, Louisiana, the people who lived above the Mason-Dixon line had to deal with frequent power outages. Or no electricity at all. And while there were places where local governments had stepped up to provide local citizens with a modicum of security, the coordination normally provided at the state level had all but vanished, never mind the federal government—which was MIA.

The result was a patchwork quilt of hamlets, towns, and cities, many of which had to compete with each other for scarce resources. All too often, they had fallen under the control of a strongman or -woman who was more interested in taking care of themselves than the population at large. Other communities were under the sway of a single religion. Never mind the legal strictures regarding the separation of church and state or the wishes of nonbelievers.

Each time Sloan became aware of such a situation, he felt a strong desire to wade in and set it right. But the others held him back. “It’s too early for that,” Allston insisted. “The locals won’t listen to you right now… But that will change soon. Keep your powder dry.”

It was good advice, and Sloan knew that. But it galled him to see so much unnecessary pain, misery, and conflict.

Their ultimate destination was Indianapolis, where, according to ham-radio operators, patriots from all over the nation were starting to gather. But after their car ran out of gas, they’d been forced to hoof it. A mode of transportation that, along with bicycles, was increasingly popular. Even so, it seemed as if there was an unusually large number of people on the highway that day, with more joining from driveways and side roads.

So when they arrived in Lebanon, Sloan expected to see something… An open market perhaps, or a street fair, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, what he saw was a huge banner that was suspended over Commercial Street. It said WELCOME PRESIDENT SLOAN, and as Sloan drew near, a well-dressed Doyle Besom appeared to grab his elbow. “Right this way, Mr. President,” Besom said. “Everything is ready.”

A cheer went up as a band began to play “Hail to the Chief,” and Sloan felt slightly light-headed. When Besom and Cindy Howell had gone ahead to “Get things ready,” Sloan hadn’t thought to question the ex–PR man about what that meant.

A wooden platform loomed ahead, and the crowd surged in to surround it as Besom preceded Sloan up a flight of stairs. A generator was running nearby, and the jury-rigged PA system was on. Besom jerked Sloan’s left arm up into the air. “Here he is!” Besom shouted into the mike. “This is the man who, as Secretary of Energy, was trapped in Mexico when the meteors hit, and paddled hundreds of miles to return home! This is the man who was captured, held prisoner, and refused to be a puppet president! This is the man who escaped, made his way north, and walked into this town on foot. His name is President Samuel T. Sloan… And he’s here to put our country back together!”

At least a thousand people were gathered around the platform, with more arriving every second. As they clapped, and Sloan accepted the mike, he struggled to organize his thoughts. “My fellow Americans,” Sloan began, as the applause died away, “a swarm of meteorites struck Earth, killed millions of people, and brought our great country to its knees.

“But America has been dealt such blows before and never kneels for long. I am passing through Lebanon on my way to Indianapolis, where a new Continental Congress is going to convene. Once that occurs, we will stand, and not just stand, but stand together.

“Meanwhile, the clouds of war have begun to gather. I have been in the South, I have heard the propaganda, and I have seen the military convoys that are rolling north. More than that, I’ve seen the defense towers that are being built to keep us from crossing the New Mason-Dixon Line. Why? Oil, that’s why. Those who control the South have taken control of the oil reserves that rightfully belong to all Americans.”

That produced a chorus of boos, and Sloan nodded. “As the ex–Secretary of Energy, I can tell you that there are approximately 700 million barrels of oil stored in those reserves. That’s enough fuel to run our country for more than two months at pre–May Day levels. Or even longer, assuming we use it wisely. What would that mean? It would mean a jump start while we get shale-oil and natural-gas production back up and running… And that, along with wind power, can put us back on the path to prosperity in spite of the persistent bad weather. But there’s even more to fight for,” Sloan added. “The so-called New Confederacy stole part of our country… And we want it back!”

The resulting roar of approval echoed between the surrounding buildings. Sloan raised both hands in an effort to quiet the crowd. “I hear you… And thank you for your support. But know this… What’s coming is nothing less than a second civil war. Brother will fight brother… Sister will fight sister… And rivers of tears will flow.

“But after the last shot has been fired, and the last body has been buried, our country will rise again. And I want you to be there, standing at my side, as we bear witness to that glorious day. Thank you! And God bless America!”

There was an explosion of applause, which went on and on. Besom had to shout in order to be heard. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Sloan waved to the crowd. “Was it okay?”

“Okay? It was great! I want you to give the same speech in the next town, and the one after that. Word will spread. There is a president—and he has a plan. Now get down there, shake hands, and kiss babies.”

It took hours to get out of town, and Sloan was exhausted by then. He remembered the real president, the one who had died in Washington, D.C., and how good he’d been at pressing the flesh. “The people’s president.” That’s what sympathetic members of the press called him, and Sloan thought it was true.

Even so, the president had never been consumed by a crowd the way Sloan had been. It was exhilarating, and being the center of attention felt good. Too good, Sloan admonished himself. Be careful, or you’ll turn into an egotistical jerk.

The initial thrill was short-lived. After five minutes or so, the press of the crowd began to feel oppressive. And Sloan was extremely vulnerable. The man he thought of as the real president had staff, police officers, and the Secret Service to protect him. So there was a natural desire to wall himself off. But the voice was there to offer contradictory advice. These are early days, and the citizens of the United States need a leader they can reach out and touch. Be that person, and word will spread. You need their approval. More than that, you need their love. Because in order to do what needs to be done, thousands, no, tens of thousands of your followers will die, and that means the bond with them must be strong.

It was a sobering thought… And as the group marched northeast, feelings of self-doubt began to pull Sloan down. There was so much to do. So much to be. Was he up to it? Perhaps someone else would do a better job. That possibility followed him into the town of Rolla, where it haunted his dreams.

The next day began with breakfast at a local restaurant followed by another speech. There were hecklers this time. People who, judging from the Confederate flags they carried, were aligned with the South. The patriots in the crowd drove them away. It was a sobering moment, though, and a potent reminder that the North was far from homogenous.

The group had limited funds. But that didn’t present much of a problem because there were plenty of people who wanted to buy them dinner, put them up for the night, or both. That was nice but exhausting as well. Sloan said as much to Besom, who was quick to push back. “Some of these people are wealthy, Mr. President. Even after the disaster. And you’re going to need donors.”

Sloan frowned. “Donors? Why?”

Besom spoke as if to a child. “The president had served three years when he was killed and replaced by the vice president. That means you’ll have to start campaigning in a few months. By that time, at least two or three people from your party will come forward to oppose you, never mind the New Whigs, who have a pro-Confederate bent. So relationships like the ones you’re developing now will become critical later on.”

Sloan stared at him. “What makes you think that I’ll run?”

“The war will still be under way a year from now,” Besom predicted. “And you won’t want to leave office in the middle of it.”

Sloan hadn’t thought of that—and realized that he should have. He forced a grin. “Point taken. I will be nice to the wealthy donors.”

Dinner was nearly over when a man burst into the restaurant. He was disheveled, as if he’d traveled a long way, and his eyes were darting about. “I’m looking for the president,” he said loudly. “I was told that I could find him here.”

“He’s over there,” a waiter said, and pointed at Sloan.

The man nodded and made his way over. “Are you the president?” he demanded, as he stared at Sloan.

Jenkins stood before Sloan could answer and stepped in between them. “Are you armed?”

The man nodded. “Place your hands on your head,” Jenkins ordered, “and keep them there. I’m going to pat you down. Or, if you don’t like that, you can leave.”

“That’s right,” McKinney said as he held his Glock barrel up.

“I understand,” the man said, and placed his hands on his head.

Jenkins conducted a thorough search. In the process he turned up a .9mm Beretta, a wicked-looking knife, and a derringer. All of which were placed on the table. “He’s clean,” Jenkins declared as he stepped back and out of the way.

“Thank you,” Sloan said. Then, having turned his eyes to the man in front of him, “I’m President Sloan. And you are?”

“Captain Frederick Yancy, of the 213th Ordnance Company, Ohio National Guard. The Secretary of Defense sent me to find you. I have an important message.”

Sloan was mystified. “Secretary of Defense? I don’t have one.”

That was when Marsha Roston spoke up. “Would that be Secretary of Defense Garrison?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yancy replied. “And his message is urgent.”

Sloan wasn’t sure how to react. Garrison had agreed to carry messages to patriot leaders farther east. Now it appeared that the gentleman farmer and part-time stamp collector had named himself Secretary of Defense! “Please,” Sloan said, “have a seat. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Yes, sir,” Yancy responded. “After I deliver the secretary’s message.”

“Understood,” Sloan replied. “Please proceed.”

“It’s about Fort Knox,” Yancy said eagerly. “Secretary Garrison tried to take control of the facility, and the CO, a general named Carol Cox, refused. She believes, or pretends to believe, that the former president is still alive. And she won’t take orders from anyone other than him.”

“Is there reason to believe that General Cox is pretending?” Roston inquired. “Does she want to keep the gold for herself?”

Yancy shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, ma’am… But Secretary Garrison believes that’s the case.”

Sloan was appalled by how much Garrison had taken upon himself. But he understood the stakes, which, to put it simply, were billions of dollars’ worth of gold. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there more?”

“Yes, sir,” Yancy said. “Based on orders from Secretary Garrison, Colonel Foster attacked the fort. But the assault didn’t go well. We lost more than a hundred soldiers.”

Sloan felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of this stomach. A hundred! Casualties taken trying to wrest control of Fort Knox away from the woman assigned to protect it. What a waste. “And?”

“And Secretary Garrison wants you to return with me,” Yancy replied. “He gave me this.” At that point, Yancy removed an envelope from a pocket and gave it over. Sloan used his dinner knife to cut it open.

Sloan continued to stare at the document after he had finished reading it. “We await your arrival.” That sounded like an order rather than a request. And what about Garrison’s advice? Was it genuine? Or was Garrison one of the people who would oppose him during the coming election? No, the voice told him, you’re too paranoid. Besides, even if your worst suspicions turn out to be true, Garrison is right. Here’s an opportunity to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Go there, win the battle, and secure the fort. More than that—prove that you’re worthy to be president.

Sloan stood. “Grab your packs,” he said. “And let’s find some transportation. We’re going to Fort Knox.”

ATHENS, OHIO

After a succession of miserable days, the sun was out. And as Victoria Macintyre eyed the highway ahead, she felt free—or as free as any army officer could feel while on duty. The beat-up BMW wasn’t much to look at—but the big motor ran smoothly as it carried her north. Vic was wearing goggles, but no helmet, and gloried in the way the air pressed against her face. It felt good to be alive.

The mission was simple: Gather intel, check in with some of the Confederacy’s spies, and build relationships with potential allies. Victoria’s journey had begun in Texas and carried her up through Kentucky and into Ohio. As she entered Athens, Victoria knew that the town was situated on the Hocking River and was home to Ohio University.

Vic also knew that Ohio had supplied troops and supplies to the Union Army during the first civil war. Did that mean the state would oppose the New Order if a second civil war began? Or could the people who lived there be convinced to join the nascent Confederacy? Huxton and newly named CEO Lemaire believed, or pretended to believe, that the “Northern rabble” were going to descend on the South like locusts and consume everything in their path. That was possible, of course—but by no means certain.

Victoria believed it was equally possible that the Northerners were too disorganized to attack anyone other than each other. She’d ridden past the devastated farmhouses, seen hamlets that had been savaged by bandits, and circled around towns ruled by warlords. And therein lay what she considered to be the real problem. What if a warlord or an alliance of warlords formed an army? And having harvested the easy pickings up north turned their attention to the South. At that point, the dire predictions voiced by Huxton and others might come true.

But as Victoria entered the outskirts of Athens, there weren’t any signs of combat. The strip malls had been looted, and abandoned cars littered the streets, but that was to be expected. Where were the people? Outside of foraging dogs, the streets were nearly deserted. And that seemed strange in a town of what had been twenty-four thousand people.

At that point, Victoria spotted the column of gray smoke that was pouring up into the sky. Something was burning? But what? And why? Victoria steered the BMW through empty streets to the edge of Ohio University’s campus. The column of smoke was rising from a point on the far side of the building in front of her. Rather than ride the bike into the middle of whatever was going on, Victoria chose to park it behind a dumpster.

A knapsack containing a change of clothes and her personal items was on Victoria’s back, and a Glock 17 was within easy reach under her left arm as she made her way forward. Then, as Victoria caught a whiff of the smoke, she knew what was taking place. The smell was similar to that of burned pork—and once encountered was impossible to forget.

And sure enough… As Victoria rounded the building, she could see fire. It was burning in the middle of a large green, and she could hear the sizzle of burning fat, along with an occasional pop as a skull split open. And when Victoria paused, she could feel the resulting heat.

The fire was already quite large and about to become even larger as a man on a front loader drove the machine forward, raised a bucketful of bodies, and dumped them into the pyre. The force of the impact caused a half-charred leg to roll free of the blaze. The limb continued to smoke as a person in a protective suit stepped in to spear the leg and return it to the fire.

Meanwhile, other people, all clad in white, continued to converge on the scene. They were pushing carts loaded with more bodies—which were taken over to a spot where the front loader could scoop them up. Victoria noticed a figure standing apart from the workers and went over to speak with him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can I ask a question?”

The man was wearing a protective face shield. And when he pushed it up out of the way, she could see the tears on his cheeks. A grubby hand wiped the moisture away. “Sorry… But they were my students, and I feel responsible for what happened to them.”

“You’re an administrator here?”

“The president. Or ex-president. All we can do is burn the bodies to keep the disease from spreading.”

Victoria felt suddenly vulnerable. “Which disease?”

“Cholera. The power went out, the water department’s equipment failed, and a contaminant entered the system.”

Victoria looked around. “And all of the students died?”

“No, but at least five hundred of them did. The rest fled, along with most of the city’s other residents.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes,” the man replied. “It was my duty to do so.”

Victoria understood the concept of duty better than most—and couldn’t help but admire him. “I’m from down south,” she told him. “And I just arrived. Is it like this everywhere?”

“No,” he replied. “I don’t think so. But news reports are spotty, so it’s hard to tell. There’s reason to hope though… We have a president again—and he’s going to pull the country together.”

The statement caught Victoria by surprise. A new president! Someone to replace Wainwright… That was an important piece of information. “Do you know his name?” she inquired.

“Yes, I do,” the administrator responded. “Samuel T. Sloan. He was the Secretary of Energy before the meteorites struck.”

Victoria was surprised to say the least. According to what she’d heard, Sloan had thrown himself out of a helicopter and died in a swamp. “There are lots of rumors floating around,” she said. “Are you sure?”

The man fumbled with a zipper, withdrew a piece of carefully folded paper from an inside pocket, and passed it over. “Here, look at this. Just before the cholera struck, a man in a Revolutionary War costume passed through town. He had thousands of these things in the back of his pickup. I kept mine as a memento.”

When Victoria opened the piece of paper, she saw a skillfully drawn likeness of Uncle Sam pointing a finger at her. “President Samuel T. Sloan needs you!” the cartoon figure proclaimed. “Conserve energy, store food, and help your neighbors. America is rising!”

It was an innocuous message in many ways—but Victoria could see past that to a larger plan. The purpose of the message was to reassure the populace, take the first step toward the restoration of civil law, and pave the way to what? A government in the North? Or an attempt to reunify a broken nation? There was no way to know—but it was valuable information nevertheless. “Can I keep this?” Victoria inquired.

The man hesitated, shrugged, and waved it off. “Sure… I’ll find another one.” Victoria thanked him and returned to the motorcycle. It started with a roar and carried her away from the campus. Feral dogs had been at work, so there weren’t any bodies to be seen. Just widely scattered bones and the occasional empty-eyed skull.

Victoria was no stranger to death, but she had no desire to linger as she went looking for a place to make the necessary call. And when a wide-open soccer field appeared, she rode out to the center of it. A spot well away from tall structures and trees—and one that would give her an 80 percent view of the sky. After parking the bike, she got off and removed the phone from her pack.

The call was encrypted and went through without difficulty. That was a matter of luck in large part but not entirely. The New Order had taken control of all but a few of the country’s satellites a month earlier—and was doing everything in its power to disrupt communications up north. That was difficult to do with any precision, but progress was being made. So telephone, TV, and Internet service were extremely spotty outside of the Confederacy.

Mrs. Walters indicated that Victoria’s father wasn’t available. All Victoria could do was to leave the set on and wait for him to call back. There was food in her knapsack, and Vic took advantage of the opportunity to eat. She was halfway through an apple when the phone rang. “This is Alpha-Four-Niner-Seven.”

“And this is Six,” her father replied. “How’s the boondoggle going? Are you ready to come back yet?”

An image of the funeral pyre blipped through Victoria’s mind, but she made no mention of it. “Nope, I’m still having fun. And I have news for you.”

Bo Macintyre listened in silence as Victoria told him what she’d learned. Then he spoke. “Sloan’s supposed to be dead. So if he’s alive, some very influential people are going to fill their pants. Of course, there is the possibility that the real Sloan is dead, and some bozo took his place. Time will tell. Can you send me a copy of the flyer?”

Victoria scanned the piece of paper with a hand wand and sent it off. “Got it,” Bo said. “Good work. Next, I want you to head over to Indianapolis, where, according to other intelligence assets, the so-called patriots are going to convene a Third Continental Congress in two days’ time. That will provide you with the perfect opportunity to confirm the news regarding Sloan. Plus you’ll be able to determine if the gathering is for real and look for potential assets. All sorts of people will show up for the gathering—and some might prove useful in the future. Don’t hesitate to buy some loyalty if you need to.”

The call ended shortly thereafter. There weren’t any expressions of affection by either party. That was understood, and something neither one of them needed to verbalize. Victoria finished the apple, tossed the core away, and put the phone back in the pack.

Then it was time to consult a much-folded road map prior to throwing a leg over the bike and taking off. Indianapolis was about 250 miles away—but her immediate objective was to find gas. Had the citizens of Athens left any behind? Probably, but it would take forever to find it. So the most efficient thing to do was to steal what she needed.

Victoria had already done so on two occasions and had a system. The first step was to leave the city via one of the secondary roads that led north. Then, once clear of Athens, Victoria would find a spot where she could hide.

It took half an hour to find the right spot, park, and shut the engine off. That meant it would take a little longer to get going. But the other choice was to let the motor idle and suck gas. So Victoria sat behind a thicket of young hazelnut trees with her eyes on the road.

There was traffic but not much. And when vehicles did pass by, they were generally pickup trucks loaded with people who were armed. They might be farmworkers or paying passengers. It didn’t matter. Attacking such a vehicle would be suicidal.

A full hour and a half passed before a likely-looking car appeared. It was an old VW Bug—and coming her way at a relatively low rate of speed. How many people could be in it? Four at the most. But Victoria was hoping for less.

She waited for the car to pass her position before starting the engine. Then she gave chase. Victoria had to keep her right hand on the throttle, so she chose to approach the passenger side of the Bug and fire left-handed. Unfortunately, that would give the driver an opportunity to sideswipe the BMW and send it flying into the ditch.

As Victoria pulled alongside the car, she saw that an elderly woman was behind the wheel—while a man who might have been her husband sat in the passenger seat. Vic pointed the Glock at him, waggled the barrel, and waited for the VW to slow. It didn’t.

The woman with wispy gray hair put her foot down, and the man brought a sawed-off shotgun up off his lap. He was swinging the weapon around when Vic shot him in the head.

As the man slumped forward, the woman threw the wheel over in a desperate attempt to sideswipe the big motorbike. Victoria braked, the V-dub missed, and ran off into the ditch. The car was slumped to the right, which made it hard for the old lady to push the driver’s side door up and open. Did she have the shotgun? Would she use it? Maybe, and maybe not. But why take the chance? Victoria stepped up to the door and fired three shots at it. All efforts to escape the Bug stopped. A peek through the window confirmed what Victoria expected. The woman was dead.

Victoria knew she was supposed to feel something, but she didn’t. Collateral damage was an inevitable side effect of war. And war was a natural part of being human. Bo Macintyre had taught her that, and he was correct. She forced herself to focus. How long before some locals arrived on the scene? Five minutes? Ten? There was no way to tell.

Victoria returned to the bike and rode it forward. She stopped next to the Beetle and got off. The fuel-transfer kit was stored in the BMW’s right-hand pannier. She ran the hose from the motorcycle’s tank to the car’s tank and began to pump. The gas gurgled as it began to flow. The process seemed to take forever—but all Victoria could do was stand there and wait.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the BMW’s tank was full. Victoria hurried to retrieve the transfer kit and stow it away. The bike started with a reassuring roar, and it wasn’t until she was half a mile away that Victoria allowed herself a sigh of relief.

The next hour was spent riding north toward Columbus, Ohio. Then as it began to rain, and the light started to fade, it was time to seek cover. Choosing a place to spend the night was part science and part gut instinct. Victoria knew that any house or outbuilding that looked good to her would look good to everyone else and should be avoided.

But old barns, sheds, and looted strip malls were relatively safe places to hole up. The key was to find a spot where she could take the BMW inside and out of sight. So when Victoria spotted the half-burned house, she was quick to turn off the highway and follow a driveway up to an overgrown yard.

The front door was ajar, which allowed Victoria to bump up over a couple of stairs and ride the BMW into a badly trashed living room, where she killed the engine. The next few minutes were spent checking all of the rooms. They were empty.

In keeping with long-established habits, Victoria went about the process of heating water on her Jetboil. Then she poured some of it into a foil pouch filled with dehydrated mac and cheese before making coffee. Once dinner was over, Victoria cleared a place to lie down.

Rather than sleep on the wooden floor, she made a bed out of funky couch cushions—and laid the supercompact Sparks SP1 sleeping bag on top of it. Then, with her water bottle and the Glock close at hand, it was time to remove her boots and slide in. Victoria didn’t expect to sleep. So when she awoke to see filtered daylight coming through the shattered windows, it came as a surprise.

Victoria dreaded leaving the bag, and even though she was fully dressed, the cold air made her shiver. She went outside to pee before returning to the house for breakfast. It consisted of instant oatmeal and a packet of Starbucks instant coffee. That was hard to obtain, and she was eternally on the lookout for it. The combination of the two was enough to fill her stomach and make her feel warmer.

Once everything was packed away, Victoria put her one-piece Thermo suit on and rode the motorcycle out through the front door. The highway was covered with a thin layer of mostly undisturbed slush. Occasional snowflakes twirled down out of the lead-gray sky as she cruised along. Victoria knew there would be icy spots—so she was careful to keep the speed down.

Had conditions been better, it would have been possible to reach Indianapolis in three or four hours. But the snow, plus the need to circumvent cities like Columbus, made the trip last longer. Eventually, Victoria found her way onto I-70 just east of Springfield, where she had to share the freeway with pedestrians, fellow bikers, and the occasional bus.

But traffic was light, and that made for an easy ride. There was no sign of military traffic—and Victoria made a mental note to include that observation in her next report.

There was a lot of interesting graffiti, however—much of which was prominently displayed on overpasses. Most of the messages had an anti-Confederate bent. “Down with the New Odor,” was one of them, along with “United We Stand,” and “Free the South!”

That was interesting because the tags seemed to suggest that, despite the way that the Northerners were squabbling among themselves, they had a shared distaste for the Confederacy. Could Sloan, or the person who was pretending to be Sloan, harness that energy? Victoria figured the answer was yes.

Traffic grew worse after the first hour as hundreds of people poured onto the freeway. Some rode and some were on foot. Judging from the flags they carried, most of Victoria’s fellow travelers were patriots—and it didn’t take a genius to realize that they were headed for the Third Continental Congress in Indianapolis.

Eventually, the snow stopped, and the temperature rose ten degrees. The procession resembled a parade by then—complete with a bagpiper, a platoon of Civil War reenactors, and a group of high school cheerleaders on a flatbed truck. So when the time came, all Victoria had to do was follow the herd off the freeway, through the streets, and into the Indiana Convention Center’s parking lot. The center’s modernistic buildings were situated next to Lucas Oil Stadium, and the lights were on! That was nothing less than a miracle in the energy-starved North.

Victoria chained the BMW to a lamppost and joined the swirling crowd. There were dozens of food vendors, and the air was filled with tantalizing odors. Victoria bought a paper plate loaded with grilled sausage, corn bread, and coleslaw—all of which she wolfed down while watching the people around her.

With a full stomach, and the pack on her back, Victoria followed a group of rowdy teens through a maze of tents and into an area where a variety of military vehicles were parked. The menagerie included Humvees, some Bradleys, and a brace of tanks.

Victoria thought she was looking at an element of the Northern army at first. Then she realized that she was surrounded by mercenary units. They had names like the Night Stalkers, the Wolverines, and the Red Ball Express. And, judging from the gear most of them were wearing, they’d been active-duty soldiers or Marines before the shit hit the fan.

Victoria spent the next half hour visiting individual units and chatting them up. Once she told them that she’d been a major in the army, quite a few of the mercs offered to hire her on the spot. It seemed that untrained wannabes were easy to come by, but veterans weren’t. And that gave Victoria an excuse to ask lots of questions.

A picture began to emerge. As civil order disintegrated, and military units were fragmented, some soldiers had gone into business for themselves. And with all manner of bandits roaming the land, there were plenty of customers. They were small towns mostly, which would hire a unit or combination of units to protect them, or to attack a neighboring community.

But the people camped in the parking lot knew that change was in the air. What if the North managed to restore the federal government? It would need to defend itself against warlords and the Confederacy. And the new structure wouldn’t be able to rebuild the military overnight. It would take time, giving the mercs an opportunity to cash in. All of which presented Victoria with the perfect chance to assess the players and look for the kind of assets the Confederacy could use.

But where to start? The answer presented itself in the form of an ex–cavalry officer named Captain Ross Olson. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair, a boyishly handsome face, and hazel eyes. Olson had put together a company of scouts. They were equipped with dirt bikes, armed rat rods, and a platoon of M1161 Growlers. The unit was too lightly armed to battle a warlord toe-to-toe—but just right for intelligence gathering and lightning-fast raids. That meant that Olson’s clients would be likely to employ other mercenary units as well.

After some verbal foreplay, Victoria began to probe. They were standing next to the bus-sized RV that served Olson as a mobile command post, drinking coffee laced with rum. “So, what’s your preference?” she inquired. “Are you rooting for the North or the South?”

Olson smiled. “Some of my folks are from the South, and some are from the North, so we swing both ways. It’s about the money so far as we’re concerned.”

“That’s good to hear,” Victoria said. “There are all sorts of opportunities to be had these days.”

“Such as?”

“Things are going to get complicated soon.” Victoria predicted. “I work for a group of people who would like to establish ongoing relationships with outfits like yours.”

Olson took a sip of coffee. “Can you be more explicit?”

“Sure,” Victoria answered. “What if we paid you a fee each month? A retainer, so to speak. In the meantime, you would be free to work for the North.”

“Free to work for the North? Or your employer would like us to work for the North?”

“They would like you to work for the North,” Victoria admitted.

“Okay, I like it so far,” Olson said. “Then what?”

“Then,” Victoria continued, “we’d like to hear from you on a regular basis.”

“You want me to spy for you.”

“That’s part of it,” she admitted, “but there’s more. The time could come when we would ask you to come south and fight for us. In that case, we would pay you what the North paid you, plus the monthly retainer, plus a hefty bonus for every member of your unit.”

Olson produced a low whistle. “That’s a very tempting offer.”

“And?”

“I need to consult with my team.”

“How long will that take?”

“I should know by this evening. We could discuss it over dinner.”

Victoria could tell that Olson was hoping for something more than dinner. She smiled. “Okay, when?”

“There’s a place called Rosa’s a block east of here. Would 1800 work for you?”

Victoria drained the coffee cup and gave it back. “You’re on. I’ll see you there.”

People were filing into the convention center by then, and Victoria followed the crowd. The meeting was scheduled for the largest room that the complex had to offer and every seat was filled by the time Victoria arrived. That forced her to stand in back with the other latecomers while a woman from a little-known rock group sang the national anthem. To her credit, the woman not only got the words right but hit the high notes as well.

That was followed by the Pledge of Allegiance and introductory remarks from the master of ceremonies. He was a state senator and liked to talk. It took him a full fifteen minutes to introduce dozens of dignitaries who were seated in front—and an equal amount of time to explain what the Third Continental Congress was there to do. And that was “to fully restore the United States government, including all the functions thereof, and to put a stop to the second secession.” An initiative that would be of considerable interest to CEO Lemaire and his newly formed cabinet.

“But,” the senator continued, “before we convene the Congress… I have the enormous honor of introducing Reginald Allston, the country’s newly named interim Attorney General!” None of the audience had heard of the man, so the applause was muted.

Victoria watched with considerable interest as a good-looking man in a rumpled suit mounted the stage, shook hands with the senator, and took his place behind the podium. “Good afternoon. As many of you know, the former Secretary of Energy, Samuel T. Sloan, was in Mexico on May 1, and was forced to paddle his way home in a kayak.

“Meanwhile, Vice President Wainwright was sworn in as president. But now, in the wake of her untimely death as well as that of many others, Sloan is the next in line for the presidency. It was his intention to be here today… But, I’m sorry to say that a rogue general has taken control of Fort Knox, which means it was necessary for our new president to go there to reclaim what is rightfully ours.” That statement produced a lot of enthusiastic applause—and Victoria had to join in or look suspicious.

Allston went on to say that other precious resources had been stolen from the country as well, including all of the southern oil reserves, billions of dollars’ worth of infrastructure, and the nation’s future. Those who were sitting stood to applaud, and Victoria had seen enough. The mood in the room plus the news regarding Fort Knox would go into her next report. But she had more “assets” to recruit. So she left the building and ventured out into the cold. Sleet was angling in from the west, and the Thermo suit was a blessing.

During the earlier stroll, she’d seen a six-gun artillery battery and some support vehicles parked near Olson’s unit. What if they went to work for the North? Then, at a critical moment, turned their guns on their employer? Victoria smiled. Her father would love that! She went off to visit them.

With the exception of the convention center and a nearby hospital, the city was dark by the time Victoria finished her last meeting. She returned to the BMW and wiped a layer of slush off the seat before swinging a leg over it. The ride to Rosa’s took less than five minutes. Would Olson be there? Victoria felt pretty certain he would. And that expectation was borne out as she entered the restaurant. It was lit with dozens of candles, and Olson came forward to greet her. “There you are,” he said. “Can I help remove your clothes?”

It was a joke, or a flirtatious comment passed off as a joke, and a clear indication that Olson had more than business on his mind. What about her? What did she want? Victoria wasn’t sure yet.

Once the Thermo suit was off, Olson took her to a table where a bottle of wine and two glasses were waiting. They ordered an appetizer, and rather than go straight to business, Olson inquired about her day. Victoria responded with some generalities regarding the Congress and some deliberately vague comments about the meetings she’d had. The last thing she wanted was for the mercs to collude where fees were concerned.

Then it was time to order dinner. And once that was accomplished, talk turned to business. “So,” Victoria began. “What did your team have to say?”

“Money matters,” Olson replied. “And the devil’s in the details. But, assuming we can agree on a price for each component of the deal, we’re in.”

It took the better part of an hour and most of the meal to pencil out an agreement that was acceptable to both parties. And after Victoria went to the ladies’ room, she returned ready to hand over six of the one-ounce gold wafers she’d been carrying in her money belt. Each had been valued at $1,200.00 on May 1. Now they were worth ten times that amount. “There’s your down payment,” Victoria said. “I’d like a receipt please. Oh, and one more thing…”

Olson made the gold disappear—and was reaching for a leather briefcase. “Yes?”

“If you breach our contract, we will kill you. And not just you—but every person in your unit.”

Olson looked into her eyes. “Understood. We aren’t going to have sex, are we?”

“No,” Victoria answered. “But don’t give up. Try often enough, and you might get lucky.”

Olson laughed and raised his glass. “To the Confederacy, a beautiful woman, and getting lucky.” Victoria sipped her wine. The North didn’t know it yet—but a battle had been fought and won.

EAST OF CENTRAL CITY, KENTUCKY

The only vehicle that the presidential party had been able to borrow was a yellow school bus owned by a local church. In order to fill the tank with gas, the pastor had been forced to ask her congregants for donations. Sloan had been there to personally thank each person who gave a gallon, half a gallon, and in one case a Mason jar filled with carefully hoarded fuel.

Finally, after two dozen such contributions, most of the party was able to set off for Fort Knox. The exceptions were Interim Attorney General Allston and Cindy Howell, who were sent north to represent Sloan at the Congress in Indianapolis.

The trip went smoothly at first. Jenkins was at the wheel and managed to maintain a respectable 40 mph as he wound his way through all manner of slow traffic. Sloan was thinking about the past as he peered through the droplets of rain that covered the window. His father had been a Civil War geek—and passed the affliction along to him. So he knew that Kentucky had been a border state during the last civil war. A state so vital to President Lincoln that he said, “I hope to have God on my side, but I have to have Kentucky.” And eventually, after the Confederates were stupid enough to attack them, the citizens of Kentucky fought for the Union.

Sloan felt the same way Lincoln had. And there was reason for concern. Kentucky had been a so-called “red state” for many years, and that meant the population had a lot in common with people who lived in bastions of the South like Texas and Mississippi.

And the problem was more than theoretical. If the locals chose to support General Cox, and she were to cut some sort of deal with Lemaire, then 130 billion dollars’ worth of gold could fall into Confederate hands! All of which made Sloan feel antsy and irritable as the bus suddenly started to slow. “Uh-oh,” Jenkins said, as a sign appeared on the right. “What’s up with that?”

As Sloan peered through the beads of rain, he read the hand-lettered sign: TOLL BRIDGE AHEAD. Then, in smaller type: YOU WILL PAY… NO EXCEPTIONS. And when Sloan peered through the windshield, he could see that traffic was backed up as people waited to cross. The situation was clear. Bandits, or the equivalent thereof, had taken control of a public bridge and were charging a fee to cross it. Just one of the countless problems the new government would have to cope with. “Let’s pay it,” Sloan proclaimed. “I need to reach Fort Knox as quickly as possible.”

“Maybe we will, and maybe we won’t,” Jenkins said, as he pulled over. “I think we should eyeball the situation before going any farther.”

“He’s right,” McKinney agreed. “No way are we going to drive into a shit show we might not be able to get out of.”

Sloan felt frustrated. “That’s bullshit. I’m the president, and what I say goes.”

“Not necessarily,” Jenkins replied. “Not if what you say is stupid and could get my ass blown off. Thanks to Besom and his people, there are thousands of Samuel T. Sloan photos out there… What if the people who control the bridge recognize you? What if they take you prisoner? And sell you to the rebels? Or shoot you in the head? Sit tight. We’ll take a look.”

Once Jenkins and McKinney were gone, all Sloan could do was sit and fume. They were clearly in a hurry when they returned fifteen minutes later. “We’re out of here,” Jenkins said, as he slipped behind the wheel.

“Damned straight,” McKinney agreed. “Those bastards have a Bradley—and it’s armed with an M242 chain gun. That sucker could kill a light tank, never mind a school bus!”

Sloan knew he owed them an apology. “Sorry guys, I’m glad you ignored me.”

“Anytime, Mr. President,” Jenkins said cheerfully. “It was our pleasure.”

The group had to backtrack in order to reach the last turnoff, and follow a lesser road to the northeast, where they crossed the river unimpeded.

Then Jenkins turned south, and it wasn’t long before they arrived in the town of Rosine, where the bus could get on 62. It led them east to Elizabethtown, the city that Confederate General John Hunt Morgan and three thousand of his men had attacked in 1862. Did the locals remember that? Did they care? Sloan hoped so, as Jenkins took the beltway north and turned onto 31 west.

It was almost dark by the time they passed through Radcliff and ran into a roadblock comprised of two Abrams tanks, half a dozen Bradleys, and a company of troops. A hand-lettered sign ordered them to execute a U-turn and head south. There were two vehicles in front of the bus and both chose to turn back as Jenkins pulled forward. “Stay on the bus,” McKinney ordered. “I’ll find out who these people are. Then, if it’s safe, you can get out.”

Sloan chafed at the increasing number of restrictions that were being placed on him, but he knew it was necessary. So he sat and made conversation with Rostov and Besom until the ex-Ranger returned. “They’re ours,” he announced. “And Garrison gave orders for the company commander to watch for you.”

Sloan got up out of the cramped seat, took his pack off the rack above, and made his way forward. “What’s the roadblock for anyway?”

“To prevent rogue army units or Confederate forces from linking up with General Cox,” McKinney replied. “It appears that Colonel Foster has the area surrounded.”

Sloan didn’t know Colonel Foster. But it was nice to know that at least one senior officer was on his side and willing to take action. It was cold outside, and as Sloan stepped down onto the frozen ground, flashes lit the horizon. What followed sounded like thunder. “That’s artillery,” McKinney volunteered. “It looks as if a full-scale battle is under way.”

An army officer materialized out of the surrounding gloom. “I’m Captain Pierce,” he said. “Colonel Foster’s adjutant. Please follow me.”

The presidential party followed Pierce through the roadblock to the Humvees waiting beyond. A short ride took them past a well-protected vehicle park to what looked like a mound of dirt—but was actually the roof of an underground command post.

Sentries stood at attention, and the visitors had to stop as a sergeant stepped out to block the way. “Please leave your weapons here… They’ll be waiting when you exit.”

“General Cox managed to get an assassin into the bunker three days ago,” Pierce explained. “He shot three officers before an MP gunned him down. That’s why no one is allowed to enter the command post carrying a weapon, and that includes me.”

A clatter was heard as a small arsenal of weapons was placed on the table. “What you described sounds like a suicide mission,” Sloan commented. “I assumed Cox’s troops were in it for the gold.”

“Some of them are,” Pierce admitted. “But General Cox is a very charismatic person. And based on what deserters have told us, a lot of her troops believe the story she fed them. They expect the real president to show up any day now.”

Pierce led the group through a metal detector and down a flight of wooden stairs into the command center below. A map of Fort Knox was displayed on a large flat-screen. Sloan could see that the base was much larger than the depository and hung from the other end of what looked like a lopsided barbell. The “bar”-shaped corridor served to connect the two facilities. “Come on,” Pierce said. “Secretary Garrison is down front.”

Pierce led the group past two rows of soldiers all seated in front of glowing screens. They were wearing headsets, and their overlapping conversations combined to create a low-level buzz. “Good evening, Mr. President,” Garrison said, as he stood. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s good to see you, Frank,” Sloan said, as they shook hands. “Where did the Secretary of Defense stuff come from?”

“It’s interim Secretary,” Garrison replied. “Someone had to step in, and I was handy. Or would you prefer to let the military create policy?”

Sloan knew Garrison was right. Someone had to fill the Secretary of Defense role. And, with no other candidate on the horizon, Garrison would do. “You were right,” Sloan agreed. “Thanks for jumping in. This is a critical situation.”

“That’s for sure,” a basso voice agreed. Sloan turned to find himself face-to-face with an army officer. He had short white hair, a square chin, and a steely gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President, I’m Colonel Foster.” They shook hands.

“I want to thank you, Colonel,” Sloan said. “From what I’ve heard, you were trying to retake Fort Knox when Secretary Garrison came along.”

Foster shrugged. “You’re welcome, sir. It seemed like the right thing to do. We’re going to need that gold to support our currency—and it would be an unmitigated disaster if the Confederates got ahold of it. Unfortunately, my attack failed.”

Sloan looked the other man in the eye and was met with an unblinking stare. “I’m going to ask you a tough question, Colonel. But I need to know the answer. Why did that attack fail?”

“It’s a fair question, sir,” Foster answered. “The first thing you need to know is that my command consisted of the 213th Ordnance Company, the 372nd Missile Maintenance Company, and the 200th Civil Engineering Squadron—along with the Ohio Military Reserve.”

“The what?”

“The Ohio Military Reserve, sir. It’s a lightly armed militia that was formed back in 1803—and serves side by side with the National Guard. And that’s where I was going, sir. We were up against a larger and better-equipped force. General Cox commands half a dozen units including the Fourth Cavalry Brigade. And it consists of infantry, cavalry, and some aircraft.

“That said, the responsibility for the failed attack was mine,” Foster said. “Simply put, I bit off more than we could chew. Cox had a cordon around the base and the depository. I thought we could go in, snatch the general, and end the siege that way.

“Looking back, I realize that I should have focused my attention on capturing the bullion depository. That’s what matters… And once we have it, we can starve the rest of the mutineers out.”

Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Colonel. That analysis was both clear and honest. So, what’s our next step?”

“We’re going to attack the bullion depository at 0500 in the morning,” Foster answered simply.

“Good,” Sloan said. “I plan to join you.”

That set off a round of protests from Jenkins, Rostov, and Besom. “Don’t do it,” Rostov said. “You aren’t a soldier, and even if you were, there’s no one to succeed you.”

“I understand that,” Sloan replied. “But here’s the flip side… We’re outnumbered and outgunned. So it’s my hope that if our soldiers see that I’m there, taking the same chances that they are, they’ll fight all the harder.” Yes, the inner voice agreed, and it will help to build your reputation as well. But you can’t say that… It would sound calculating.

“I agree with the president,” Garrison put in. “And I have a feeling that Major McKinney does, too.”

McKinney nodded. “There’s a lot of risk, I grant you that, but the president is correct. This would be a good time to lead from the front. I’ll do my best to keep him alive.”

Foster looked at him. “And you are?”

“Major McKinney. The president’s military attaché, sir.”

“Excellent. I’ll give you a fire team for support. I’d like to provide a larger force, but we’re short of people.”

“I continue to think that this is a bad idea,” Besom said. “But since we’re going to do it, I suggest that you inform the troops now. Tell them that President Sloan is here… Tell them that he’s going to fight alongside them.”

Foster turned to Pierce. “Make it happen, Captain—and have someone pull a set of gear for the president.”

After eating an MRE, Sloan went to bed. Colonel Foster had a tiny bedroom just off the command and control center, which he insisted that Sloan use. That meant Sloan had the best quarters available. He couldn’t sleep, though… Not knowing that he might be killed the following morning. Was that how Foster’s soldiers felt? Of course it was.

All Sloan could do was toss, turn, and think about the prospect of dying until the alarm next to his cot went off, and it was time to get up. For one brief moment, Sloan considered being sick, or claiming to be sick, but could imagine the contempt that would appear in McKinney’s eyes.

That was enough to get Sloan up and out of bed. He brushed his teeth at a tiny sink, forced himself to shave, and put on the uniform Pierce had given him. It was the first time he’d worn one, and he didn’t want to sully it. Then he ducked under the combat vest, which he fastened into place. He was still making adjustments when McKinney announced himself. “It’s McKinney, sir… May I come in?”

“Please do,” Sloan replied. “How do I look?”

“Not very good, sir,” McKinney said. “Stand still while I tweak some things. There… That’s better. Jump up and down.”

“Why?”

“So the enemy won’t hear you coming,” McKinney said patiently.

Sloan made a face and did as he was told. Gear rattled and McKinney sought it out. Sloan was ready five minutes later. “Take this,” McKinney said, as he gave Sloan a shotgun. “It’s just like the ones you grew up with except that the magazine holds eight rounds. If you need to shoot someone, and come up empty, go for the Glock. You can pull that faster than you can reload the scattergun. Copy?”

“Copy,” Sloan said. “Lead the way.”

General Cox had a number of drones at her disposal, not to mention troops who were equipped with night-vision gear. So the chances of catching the enemy unawares were slim to none. But by sending five Bradleys down Ramey Road and into the base, Foster hoped to divert the general’s attention long enough to cut the link between the base and the depository. Once that was accomplished, the actual attack would begin.

Foster had been moving troops around for the last six hours. Some of the movements were necessary, like positioning the Bradleys to attack and placing soldiers within striking distance of the supply corridor. Other troop movements were random and intended to keep Cox guessing.

As Sloan and McKinney left the command center, Sloan shivered and wished he had a pair of gloves. Trucks were waiting, and when Sloan sought to enter the back of a six-by-six, willing hands reached down to pull him in. “Welcome to Delta Company,” a burly sergeant said. “We’ll show those bastards.”

Sloan smiled as he shook the noncom’s hand but felt mixed emotions. “Those bastards” were his fellow Americans… And the need to kill them ate at him. Yes, some were after the gold, and yes, others had fallen under the spell of what everyone claimed was a charismatic personality. But was there a third group? Soldiers who would fight Cox if they could? There was no way to know. Sloan heard a voice via his headset. “This is Delta-Six actual,” she said. “Stand by… And don’t be surprised when you hear something go boom. Over.”

McKinney was seated next to Sloan. He leaned in to talk. “After the Bradleys launch their attack, three tactical missiles will strike the supply corridor. That will open a hole for our troops. They will split, turn their backs to each other, and dig in. We expect Cox to attack them from two directions in an attempt to close the gap. That’s when we go after the depository. Boom! We’re in.”

That was the first time Sloan had heard about the missile strike. McKinney made it sound so easy. But the enemy was going to fight back, and good people were going to die. Would he be among them? Sloan feared that he would and hoped his death would be quick.

Even though Sloan knew the missiles were coming, he wasn’t prepared for the overlapping explosions that shook the truck and resulted in what seemed like a single flash of light. As the truck jerked forward, he knew that Cox was trying to process the information coming at her. Would she make a mistake? He hoped so.

The trip to the depository didn’t take long, and it seemed as if only a couple of minutes had passed before the noncoms began to shout, “Out! Out! Out!” and all hell broke loose.

Had Sloan chosen to remain in the command center and watch the battle unfold, he would’ve been able to grasp the big picture. But that wasn’t the case. Suddenly, his world consisted of muzzle flashes, a loud boom as a rocket hit the gate, and McKinney’s voice. “Run! Drop! Get up! Run!”

Bullets snapped past, a grenade went off, and a woman screamed. Geysers of dirt flew up all around them as McKinney zigzagged forward, and Sloan followed. There was no cover taller than a blade of grass. Cox was too smart for that. And her machine guns were sited to put the attackers in a lethal cross fire. Soldiers fell like wheat to a harvester. “Get that machine gun!” a noncom shouted. And Sloan saw a flash of light as a rocket struck home.

They were well inside the fence by then but a long way from the depository, as fresh troops surged out to meet them. Sloan tripped and fell. As he got back on his feet, he realized that the defenders were closer. Much closer. McKinney was to the right, firing from one knee. The private to Sloan’s left was shooting at targets to his left. Sloan realized that he had to hold the center as an enemy soldier charged at him!

The shotgun seemed to fire itself, and the load of double-ought buck blew half of the man’s face away. Sloan was thinking about what he’d done, and trying to come to terms with it, when soldiers appeared to either side of him. “We’re pulling back, sir,” one of them said. “The captain wants you to…”

Sloan never got to hear the rest of it as a bullet hit the corporal and turned him around. Sloan caught him and helped the other soldier drag the noncom back to the fence. Bullets buzzed and snapped all around them as McKinney paused to return fire.

The trucks were parked in a line outside the fence—and troops were digging fighting positions behind them. Sloan and the private half carried the corporal around the front of a six-by-six and laid him down. A medic appeared. “I’ve got this,” he said as he went to work.

Sloan was exhausted. He sat down and let his weight rest on a gigantic tire. McKinney came to join him. “What happened?” Sloan demanded.

“We got our asses kicked,” McKinney replied.

“Shit.”

“Yes, sir. You did good though… Word of that will get around.”

Sloan felt a momentary flush of pleasure, followed by sorrow. More people were dead on both sides. And all of them were Americans.

A full six hours passed before Colonel Foster was in a position to report. He, along with Sloan, the presidential party, and senior officers were gathered in the underground command post. Foster’s expression was grave. “I have good news, and I have bad news. Here’s the good news. We cut the base off from the depository. And, in spite of repeated counterattacks, we kept enemy forces from linking up again.

“Secondly, we kept General Cox’s forces bottled up inside their defensive positions. And, since they know we can drop missiles on them whenever we choose to, they’re likely to stay where they are. Thirdly, we were able to push the forces around the depository back, giving us control of the ground up to the fence. It isn’t safe to stroll around in that vicinity mind you… General Cox has some excellent snipers.”

Foster’s eyes swept across the faces in front of him. “Here’s the bad news. Our attempt to take the depository failed—and we lost sixty-two soldiers. Another sixteen were wounded, and two aren’t likely to survive. What we have now is a standoff… One that could last for a long time unless we’re willing to drop bombs on them or use missiles. And even though that might be the logical thing to do, it might be perceived as draconian since Cox and her soldiers are American citizens. The last thing we want to do is create another Alamo that the Confederates can rally around.”

A discussion ensued. But when the meeting came to an end twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, and Sloan felt depressed. He went back to the tiny bedroom to lie down. He was exhausted, and it didn’t take long for sleep to pull him down.

When Sloan woke up four hours later, it was with the sense that he’d been dreaming. But about what? An explosion. He’d been in combat, so that made sense. No, there was more to it than that. Something important.

Sloan lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember. Suddenly he had it. The siege of Petersburg in 1864! Sloan sat bolt upright, swung his feet over onto the pea-gravel floor, and hurried to pull his boots on. He had to tell Foster.

The officer was skeptical to say the least. But Sloan was the commander in chief and, for the very first time since becoming president, chose to assert that authority. Foster was forced to capitulate.

It took three weeks to build a temporary structure, bring the drilling machine in under the cover of darkness, and put the Roadheader to work. In his role as Secretary of Energy, Sloan had gone down into a dozen Kentucky coal mines where he’d met hundreds of workers and seen firsthand what their machines were capable of. And that was to bore tunnels like the one Union forces drove in under the Confederate lines during the Battle of the Crater in 1864.

It was a hand-dug tunnel, the purpose of which was to place explosives under the enemy troops and kill as many of them as possible. That would open the way for an infantry assault and bring the siege of Petersburg to an end.

Unfortunately, the follow-up attack was a complete disaster, which caused the deaths of 504 Union soldiers and left 1,881 wounded. Some were captured as well.

But Sloan’s plan was different. After driving a tunnel in past the enemy’s outer defenses, handpicked troops would surge up out of the ground and attack the enemy from the rear.

At that point, the defenders located in, and on top of, the flat-roofed depository would be able to fire at them… But not without hitting their comrades as well. In the meantime, they would be taking heavy fire from .50 caliber machine guns and AT4 rockets. A combination that was guaranteed to keep their heads down.

The plan should work. Nevertheless, Sloan felt something akin to a lead weight in the pit of his stomach as the appointed hour arrived, and the Roadheader was withdrawn. A tremendous amount of effort had gone into smuggling timbers in to support the tunnel’s ceiling. But there was always the chance of a cave-in that would not only kill the coal miners who were running the Roadheader, but reveal the tunnel’s existence. Either possibility would be disastrous. So it was important to use the passageway immediately.

At 0427, Sloan was standing at the back of the command center watching and listening. It had been his hope to go in with the troops, but Foster was opposed, as were the rest of them. Sloan might have dismissed their objections had it not been for McKinney. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “But you’re not good enough for this mission. And if you screw up, it could cost lives. Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t what Sloan wanted. So all he could do was stand there and hope for the best as the feint went in, a platoon of Foster’s best boiled up out of the ground, and a short battle ensued.

The defenders were caught flat-footed, took heavy casualties, and couldn’t withdraw. When the survivors surrendered, that opened the way for one of Foster’s Bradleys to roll up the driveway and fire on the heavily armored door with its chain gun. Sloan could see greenish footage of the action on the main screen and could hear the vehicle commander’s voice. She said, “Open Sesame,” as her gunner blew the doors open.

Shouts of jubilation were heard in the command center—and Besom was there to congratulate Sloan. “Good work, Mr. President,” he said. “Here’s what I’m going to send out: ‘The fighting president strikes again! Based on a plan conceived by President Samuel T. Sloan, the army of the North recaptured Fort Knox, and the 130 billion dollars’ worth of gold bullion stored inside.’”

“You might want to wait until the battle is over before you send that out,” Sloan cautioned. “And don’t forget to give credit to Colonel Foster, his officers, and their troops.”

Besom looked resentful. “Of course… What do you take me for?” Then he ran off. To add the missing text? Probably.

Sloan wasn’t allowed to enter the depository until after sunup. By that time, General Cox had been found with a pistol near her hand and a single bullet wound in her temple.

More than seventy soldiers were imprisoned in underground vaults. Among them were individuals from each unit that Cox commanded, all being held to ensure the loyalty of their comrades, some of whom would have rebelled otherwise.

Once the hostages were freed, and sent into the neighboring base, Sloan figured that their comrades would surrender. Especially if they were offered amnesty, which they would be, so long as they swore allegiance to the North. It was what he believed Lincoln would do, had done, via his Proclamation of Amnesty and Reconstruction. And news of the North’s even-handedness would help prevent the Southern propaganda machine from turning Cox into some sort of a hero.

As for the gold, it was interesting to look at but held no allure for Sloan. The prize, the real prize, was to restore what had been taken. And that included the 700 million barrels of so-called black gold stored down south. A battle had been won. But the war had just begun.