Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 9

NEAR SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI

Rain tapped on the van’s roof as Victoria and two members of her team sat and waited. What was it? Day three? Yeah, day three. And the man who called himself Nathan Hale had yet to show. But he will show, Victoria assured herself. He’s a busy man. But he’ll come by. It’s just a matter of time.

After being outsmarted, and very nearly killed inside the Metrocenter Mall, Victoria felt a wide range of emotions including sorrow, shame, and embarrassment. And her commanding officer’s scathing critique of the operation added to her misery. Because, even though she didn’t like or respect Colonel Oxley, she’d been raised to respect authority figures, so his opinion mattered.

The strength of some emotions had started to fade, but one burned bright. And that was an intense anger directed toward Nathan Hale. The anger could have been corrosive. But for Victoria, it was like the oxygen a fire requires in order to burn.

Every day was a workday. Not just for Victoria, but for her team, including the soldiers brought in to replace Post and Tarvin. Thanks to the photos Tarvin had taken during the minutes prior to her death, investigators had something to work with. Hale was disguised as a woman. But, by subjecting the images to computer analysis, Victoria’s techs had been able to render an image that they believed to be a good match to Hale’s actual appearance.

So far, so good. But what was Hale’s actual identity? Victoria had a theory about that. Rather than the home-grown resistance fighter he claimed to be, Victoria thought Hale was a member of the Union’s military-intelligence apparatus. An army officer? Quite possibly.

The next step was to use facial-recognition software to compare the new image with prewar photos of the country’s military officers. All of which were available thanks to a predisaster Department of Defense database that both sides had copies of.

It took the computer two minutes and forty-two seconds to produce seven possibles, each graded according to the degree of match. It was tempting to focus on the top three at the expense of the others, but Victoria demanded that the team be more systematic than that.

The evaluation consumed three days. According to articles from northern publications, three of the possibles had been killed in action. That didn’t mean they were actually dead, however, since the Union’s Intel people could have planted the articles in hopes that the Confederacy would believe them.

Still, odds were that the reports were accurate. And, since one of the men was being held in a Confederate POW camp and another was African-American, only two candidates remained. One was a captain named Gregory Salazar. The other was a major named Thomas Toby. Both had dark hair, green eyes, and even features. But Victoria had a hunch that Salazar and Hale were one and the same.

That was a subjective judgment, to say the least, and one she didn’t share. Rather than do so, Victoria ordered the team to look for factors that would help to narrow the choice. And after days of hard work, they found it. Two years earlier, while attending staff college, Salazar had written a paper titled: “The Role of Military Intelligence During a Civil Insurrection.”

According to the scenario that Salazar and his classmates had been ordered to address, a loosely linked alliance of right-wing hate groups, religious fanatics, and gun nuts had taken control of Texas and Oklahoma, producing a conflict similar to the one that was under way. And the tactics that Salazar put forward bore a strong resemblance to those that Hale was using. That included the creation of a unit designed to target teams like hers!

Once the focus was on Salazar, the effort to find him began. It turned out that Salazar had been raised in Wichita. And some of his relatives, including his sister, were placed under surveillance. Would Salazar visit her? All they could do was wait and see. But, when the break finally came, it was more a matter of luck than skill.

There had been a burglary two doors down from what proved to be a Union safe house. And as the police went door to door looking for witnesses, they asked neighbors to provide footage from their security cameras, footage that was dumped into a police database and scanned with facial-recognition software. The computer contained wants and warrants on thousands of people, including one Gregory Salazar. Military intelligence was notified of the “hit,” and that led Victoria’s team to the safe house.

“Heads up,” Sergeant Fray said. “We have a possible.” Fray was an experienced operative and Tarvin’s replacement. He was sitting behind the steering wheel staring out through the rain-smeared glass.

Victoria leaned forward. “What have you got?”

“A car circled the block twice,” Fray answered. “And now it’s back.”

Victoria felt her pulse quicken. That’s how a pro would play it. Even though Salazar might feel reasonably safe, he’d be wary. So, rather than pull into the driveway right away, he would circle the block, looking for anything out of the ordinary. And Victoria felt confident that there was nothing about the van that would trigger his suspicions. Victoria opened her mike as the car slowed. “Cooper? Do you read me? Over.”

“Five by five.”

“He’s about to pull in. Get ready.”

“Roger that. Over.”

Cooper and two other operatives had been living in the house for five days, waiting for this moment. Victoria watched the garage door open as the car backed in. A small detail but one that was consistent with her hypothesis. Who, other than a pro, would back in? Thereby making ready to depart in a hurry.

The headlights went off as the door closed. Victoria held her breath as light appeared in the windows. The interior of the house was lousy with security cameras. Cameras that Salazar could check prior to visiting the house. What the Union operators didn’t realize was that their outgoing feed had been hijacked and replaced with a loop.

Victoria heard a burb of static, followed by Cooper’s voice. “We have him.”

Victoria felt a flood of relief. “Search him for weapons, suicide paraphernalia, and trackers. And look everywhere.”

Cooper sounded hurt. “Of course. We’re on it.”

Victoria turned to Fray. “Keep a sharp lookout. If you see anything even remotely suspicious, let me know. I’m going in.”

Corporal Hamad opened the front door for her. According to the official records, the house belonged to a woman named Deborah Lee, although Victoria figured that the safe house was actually the property of the Union government.

The interior was decorated fifties style, with sixties lamps and brightly colored plastic chairs. Salazar had been stripped and taped into one of them. He sat with his legs spread. It was a psychological ploy for the most part, a way to make him feel vulnerable, but it had practical value as well since there was the possibility that something was hidden in Salazar’s groin. A tech was running her fingers over the surface of his skin, searching for subdural implants.

“Victoria,” Salazar said conversationally. “This is a surprise. Please excuse me if I don’t get up.”

Salazar was frightened. Victoria could see it in his eyes. She was about to reply when the tech beat her to it. “Hmm… What’s this? An implant, if I’m not mistaken. It’s high up on the inside surface of his left thigh.”

“Cut it out,” Victoria ordered. “Let’s see what we have.”

Salazar winced, and blood dripped onto the white rug as the tech made the necessary incision. “Here we go,” the tech said, as she applied pressure to both sides of the cut.

Victoria watched with interest as a bloody blob popped out and knew that it was either a suicide capsule or a distress beacon. The kind Salazar could activate by squeezing it. But Salazar hadn’t had an opportunity to do so, which meant he was on his own. “Good work,” she said. “Keep looking. There could be a backup.”

The search continued for another five minutes but with no success. “Patch him up,” Victoria ordered, “and get him dressed. We’re leaving.”

It took half an hour to transfer Salazar to a Confederate safe house. Three days of interrogation followed. Who did he work for? Who did he work with? And what operations were currently under way? On and on it went but with only limited success. First, because Salazar was one tough cookie. Second, because he answered most of their questions with lies… And third, because the Union Underground was highly compartmentalized. Odds were that Salazar didn’t know who he was working for, and the only operations Salazar had knowledge of were his own.

Still, there were bits and pieces that, when combined with other intelligence, might add up to something. Now, as the van drove out into the countryside, Salazar was passed out in his seat. Or was he? It didn’t matter. The shackles on his wrists and ankles would prevent a surprise attack.

The van cleared the suburbs, passed between green fields, and crossed a bridge. A graveled road led up onto the summit of a hill topped with a cell-phone tower and a scattering of beer cans. A well-known spot, then, a place where the locals could party.

The persistent cloud cover prevented the air from being warm—but it was a pleasant day by postimpact standards. Cooper got out of the van first. He was wearing a black hood and armed with a suppressed assault rifle. The agent brought the weapon up and fired a burst at the cell tower’s security camera. Maybe the phone company would notify the police, and maybe they wouldn’t. Victoria didn’t care. They’d be gone by the time someone arrived to investigate.

Victoria got out of the van and made her way over to the east side of the hill. A farmhouse was visible below, and a party was under way. Two dozen adults and four children could be seen. They looked like ants viewed from above.

Victoria sensed movement and turned to find that Salazar had arrived. His face was bruised, one eye was swollen shut, and his upper lip was swollen. Torture doesn’t work. That’s what the experts claimed, but Victoria wasn’t so sure. So the beatings had been part of the overall mix, along with sleep deprivation and loud music.

Salazar’s head was hanging low, so Victoria forced it up. “Look downhill, turd blossom… Do you recognize the house?”

“It’s my sister’s house,” Salazar said thickly.

“Very good,” Victoria said. “And the people? Who are they?”

Salazar frowned, winced, and swallowed. “My family.”

“That’s right… We tapped your sister’s phone. Today is your niece’s birthday.”

A look of horror appeared on Salazar’s face. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would. You killed my family… My military family. So I’m going to kill yours. Fair is fair. Look up into the sky. See the drone? It’s armed with a Hellfire missile.”

“No, please,” Salazar said desperately. “Don’t do it!”

“Too late,” Victoria said, as the missile struck. A loud boom was heard as the house was transformed into a ball of yellow-orange fire. Pieces of debris soared high into the air, a car performed a backflip, and black smoke billowed up to stain the sky.

Salazar attacked her then… or tried to. But Cooper was ready and kicked the agent behind a knee. Salazar fell into a sobbing heap.

Victoria felt better. Much better. Her honor had been restored. She smiled. “Load him into the van. Maybe the people in Houston can sweat some more information out of him. Oh, and call 911… Tell them that a house went boom.”

THE MIDWEST JOINT REGIONAL CORRECTION FACILITY

FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

Mac’s feet were on her bunk, her hands were on the cement floor, and she was doing push-ups. She counted them out. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.” A full set. The first of what would be six sets by the end of the day. To stay in shape? No. To get in better shape. Why? To make progress. To control something if only by a little. Because the JRCF’s jailers dictated everything else, including what Mac ate, when she showered, and with whom she could mix, which was to say no one. Mac had been told that social privileges would come later, after the induction process was over.

She stood. Her cell consisted of eighty square feet, thirty-five of which were classified as “usable.” The rest was occupied by the bunk, a desk/seat combo, and storage space. There was a window, too, with a magnificent view of a parking lot. Mac sighed. Three weeks down and 205 left to go.

Mac knew she shouldn’t dwell on the length of her sentence. So to avoid that, she spent a lot of mental time elsewhere. And reading books was a good way to accomplish that. Not just as a means to escape, but as a way to exert control over what would and would not be allowed to enter her head.

Sit-ups came next. Six hundred a day, and Mac was busy working her way through the first set when the guards came for her. There were two MPs, and both had their game faces on. “Get up,” the tall one ordered. “You’re going for a stroll.”

Mac got up off the floor. “Where to?”

“The multi,” the short MP answered. “Multi” being shorthand for the prison’s multipurpose building.

“What for?”

“Who the hell knows?” the taller of the two replied. “Maybe they need a hero to mop the floor.”

That produced a guffaw from the short soldier. “That’s a good one, Hawkins, you’re funny.”

Mac had heard such comments before and was careful to maintain a straight face. Pushback, no matter how minor, could trigger a hundred subtle forms of revenge. “You know the drill,” Shorty added. “Let’s get on with it.”

Mac backed up to the bars, stuck her hands through the waist-high hole, and waited for the cuffs to go on. Once she heard the telltale click, Mac took two steps forward. A clanking sound was heard as the door slid open. “Okay,” the tall MP said. “Turn around and step out.”

With an MP on either side of her, Mac was escorted outside for the short walk to the multi. It housed food service, medical/dental, and the prison’s administrative offices. Mac figured she had been summoned for inoculations or something. But that theory went out the window as the MPs led her into the administrative area of the building. Her attorney was still fighting to get her sentence reduced. Or so he claimed. Had something gone wrong? Were they going to tell her that? Mac felt the first stirrings of fear.

They hadn’t gone far when Mac was handed off to a couple of men in civilian clothes. Criminal investigators? That was her best guess. They led Mac to a door marked COMMANDER. Holy shit! She was going in front of the man… or the woman, as the case might be. And that was a bad thing.

One of the agents opened the door for her, and the other one told Mac to enter. No words were spoken as they hustled her through an empty waiting room and past a middle-aged receptionist. The door to the office was open, and the room was empty. “Have a seat,” one of the agents said. “You might have to wait for a while.”

The comment proved to be prophetic. Fifteen interminable minutes passed as Mac sat and waited for what? There was no way to know. But eventually she heard the sound of voices, followed by a commotion out in the hall, and movement behind her. “Remove her cuffs,” a female voice ordered. “And wait outside.”

Mac felt the handcuffs come off and turned to see that a lieutenant colonel was standing a few feet away. The woman nodded. “I’m Commander Omada… It was nice to meet you.” And with that, she was gone.

Mac was still trying to make sense of the comment when President Samuel Sloan entered the office. He grinned. “Hi, Mac… It’s good to see you.”

Mac was both dumbfounded and embarrassed by the prison outfit. She came to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to deliver the news myself,” Sloan told her. “I pardoned you.”

Mac couldn’t believe her ears. “You what?”

“I pardoned you effective 0800 this morning, and I promoted you to major.”

“No,” Mac said. “You can’t! You shouldn’t. Don’t you understand? People will believe that the gossip is true! The scandal will bring you down.”

Sloan smiled. “You look pretty when you’re worried. Of course, you look pretty the rest of the time, too.”

“It’s not a joke,” Mac said emphatically. “The country needs you.”

“And they need you,” Sloan countered. “Putting one of our most promising officers in the slammer for refusing an order from a man with severe PTSD was just plain stupid. And that’s what I’ll tell the press. A version of it, anyway. More than that, I’m going to announce the creation of a new cavalry battalion called Mac’s Marauders! It will consist of military prisoners chosen by you. There will be a tremendous ruckus at first… But after the dust settles, people will love it! You’ll have to deliver, though, or it could bring me down.”

Mac’s head was spinning. “But what about the rumors?”

Sloan’s expression hardened. “I will challenge the press to produce a single photo, or a credible individual, who witnessed any sort of romantic activity between us—and tell them to shut the hell up until they do. Unfortunately, that means I won’t be able to take you to dinner, ply you with alcohol, and seduce you as quickly as I had hoped to.”

Mac smiled in spite of herself. “That’s how it was going to play out?”

“Of course,” Sloan replied. “I’m irresistible.”

Mac laughed. “We’ll see about that… After you leave office.”

Sloan’s eyes were locked with hers. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

Sloan forced a smile. “Good. That’s settled then. A supply sergeant has a full set of uniforms waiting for you. Put one on and get ready… You and General Brady will join me at the press conference.”

Sloan left after that, and Mac was led to a nearby office, where a supply sergeant was waiting for her. She was fortysomething and sporting a buzz cut. “Good morning, ma’am. Please remove what you’re wearing—and put your camos on. Let’s see how you look.”

Mac did as she was told. She’d lost a couple of pounds while in prison, but the camos fit well. So well that she knew they’d been tailored. Someone wanted her to look sharp. Sloan? Or one of his handlers? None of whom were likely to support the president’s initiative.

Mac could imagine the kind of objections they’d have. Why buy trouble? Don’t you have enough of it already? And the obvious answer was yes, he sure as hell did.

A full-length mirror had been brought in… And when Mac stood in front of it, a major looked back at her. Could she be dreaming? Was Sloan really risking his presidency to free her from prison? Yes. And that was both good and bad. Good because she would be back on active duty and bad because now she owed him. But how awful can that be? her inner voice wanted to know. It isn’t as though you dislike him.

“It’s time to put this on,” the sergeant said, as she gave Mac a black beret. Mac saw that an emblem bearing a silver skull and crossed lightning bolts was pinned to the front of it. The design was unique insofar as Mac knew, and clearly had been created to make her unit stand out. Mac put the beret on her head and tilted it to the right. Own it, she told herself. Don’t let him down.

The press weren’t sure what to expect when they were bused onto the base and herded into position. A platform had been set up with the JRCF in the background. Rumors flew, the most popular of which had to do with a North-South prisoner exchange.

The cynics in the crowd said no and pointed to the fact that none of the Confederate POWs were being held at Fort Leavenworth. So the discussion was still going on when General Teddy Brock stepped up onto the stage. President Sloan arrived next, followed by a female army officer. That was when a correspondent recognized Mac. “Look!” he said. “That’s Captain Macintyre! The officer who was court-martialed!”

“You mean Major Macintyre,” Brock said sternly. “Please hold your questions. I promise that they will be answered after the president makes an important announcement. Mr. President?”

Sloan stepped forward. “Thank you, General, and good morning. As you know, the United States of America was, and will be once again, the land of second chances. A place where a long list of famous names made mistakes and, by dint of hard work, were allowed to climb back up. President Clinton comes to mind. And it’s in that spirit that I announce the new Military Reintegration Program.

“The purpose of this initiative is to remove nonviolent offenders from our military prisons and put them back on the battlefield. A new cavalry battalion has been created for that purpose. It will consist of three companies of soldiers under the command of Major Robin Macintyre who, as one of you correctly pointed out, was court-martialed for disobeying a direct order. There’s no question that she was guilty, but it’s important to remember that when Lieutenant Macintyre disobeyed that order, the chain of command was in tatters—and it was difficult for a junior officer to know from whom to take orders.

“In light of that fact, as well as her well-documented acts of valor, I granted Captain Macintyre a full pardon as of 0800 this morning—and promoted her to major two minutes later. She, along with officers selected by her, will choose the individuals permitted to join the new battalion. All of those appointments will be reviewed and approved by General Brock.

“Furthermore, a zero-tolerance policy will be in effect. That means that a single infraction of the Uniform Code of Military Justice will be sufficient to send a soldier back to prison where they will have to complete their original sentence.

“But,” Sloan added, “those soldiers who serve twenty-four months without disciplinary problems will receive full pardons. Now, I suspect you have some questions.”

The press did have questions. The first of which had to do with the rumored love affair between Sloan and Macintyre. Sloan tackled the subject head-on. “I admire Major Macintyre for her many acts of bravery in service to our country, and more than that, will be eternally grateful for the lives she saved during our retreat from Richton, Mississippi. And that includes my own.

“But that’s the full extent of our relationship, and I challenge you to produce a single photo or credible witness who says otherwise. The major will report through Colonel Lassiter to General Brock without any involvement by me. This story is about redemption, ladies and gentlemen… And the opportunity to return trained soldiers to the battlefield.”

“Is the Union Army in such desperate straits that it needs to recruit soldiers from prisons?” a television correspondent demanded. “Are the rebs winning?”

“No,” Brock put in. “The rebs aren’t winning. But the Military Reintegration Program represents an opportunity to put even more trained troops into the field and lighten the load on our prison system.”

There was more, much more. And even though the questions became increasingly repetitive, Sloan addressed each and every one of them until the newspeople became visibly weary of hearing the same answers over and over again.

So one of the reporters turned his attention to Macintyre, and the whole thing started over. Did she have a personal relationship with Sloan? When did she learn about the pardon? How did she feel about it? What was prison life like? And had she been in touch with her father, General Bo Macintyre?

Mac did the best she could to imitate Sloan’s slow, methodical style with the same result. Eventually, having run out of questions, the press became less contentious. That was when Brock stepped forward to bring the conference to a close. “A final note, ladies and gentlemen. The new battalion will be called Mac’s Marauders, and those who join will fight under the motto: Optima pessima. The best of the worst. That will be all.”

Sloan left the moment the press conference was over. There were no waves, no good-bye, and no opportunity to thank him. Mac knew that to be a good thing because a picture of them talking to each other might be used to suggest some sort of clandestine relationship. She regretted the suddenness of the parting, however—and was looking forward to seeing him again someday.

The events that followed took place with neck-snapping speed. Mac and two bags of newly issued gear were loaded aboard a Black Hawk for the short flight to the field where the reserve element of General Brock’s division was quartered. Once on the ground, Brock accompanied Mac to brigade headquarters, where she was introduced to her new CO.

Colonel Marvin Lassiter was a lot of things—including a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, an avid runner, and a well-known hard-ass. He had a hawk-like nose and a mouth that rarely smiled. And when they shook hands, Mac felt as if his laser-blue eyes could see right through her. “Have a seat, Major, and welcome to the 31st.”

Mac sat on the chair next to Brock’s. “Thank you, sir.”

Rather than circle his desk, Lassiter chose to perch on one corner of it. “I’m not one for small talk, or for beating around the bush,” he told her. “So I’ll give it to you straight. When General Brock told me what the president was going to do, and that your so-called Reintegration Battalion was going to be part of the 31st, I gave serious consideration to resigning.”

“Except that he can’t resign,” Brock put in, “not unless I sign off… Which I won’t.”

Lassiter made a face. “That means I have to put up with you and your battalion of losers. But understand this… I am not Major Fitch. If you refuse one of my orders, I will shoot you in the face, make up a story to explain it, and grab a good night’s sleep.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Brock said.

“Of course you didn’t,” Lassiter agreed. “Because I never said it. So, Major Macintyre… do we understand each other?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Now here’s how this is going to work. Under no circumstances will you or your pet criminals mix with the fine men and women of the 31st except during a battle. Your convicts will be quartered on a civilian airstrip called Peavey Field. It’s located adjacent to the division, but separated from it by an eight-foot-high fence. And to ensure that your jackoffs behave themselves, I’m going to place one of my officers on your staff. The so-what is that I’ll get a report every time you pass gas. Do you read me?”

Mac swallowed. “Five by five, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lassiter said. “Now get your ass out there and go to work! You have thirty days to build a battalion. Not a second more.”

Mac knew a dismissal when she heard one. She stood, came to attention, and popped a salute. Lassiter gave one in return. “And Macintyre…”

“Sir?”

“You did a good job up in Wyoming. Dismissed.”

The parting comment left Mac with a sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could win Lassiter over. Not with bullshit… But by creating the best battalion in his brigade.

Mac exited the building to discover that a captain was waiting for her… A skull-and-lightning pin was affixed to his beret. He came to attention and rendered a salute. “Good morning, Major… Captain Roy Quick reporting for duty.”

Quick had dark skin, a round face, and a boyish demeanor. Mac returned the salute. “Reporting for duty as what?”

“I’m your XO, ma’am.”

Mac remembered what Lassiter had said. “Are you the spy?”

Quick grinned. “Yes, ma’am… The colonel told me to keep a close eye on you.”

“And you intend to do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Fair enough… Tell him the truth, and we’ll get along just fine. So, Roy… The colonel mentioned a base. Have you been there?”

“I have,” Quick replied. “It isn’t fancy, but it’ll do. Here’s the problem, though… Someone in the chain of command has been sending supplies there. And we don’t have anyone to receive, inventory, and track them.”

“So we need some supply people.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay… I’ll go shopping for people in the morning. In the meantime, I’d like to see what the battalion is entitled to. Do you have a table of organization?”

Quick did. And a Humvee as well. They chatted as he drove them out through the main gate, and along a fence, to Peavey Field. It seemed that Quick had seen action in the Middle East, as well as the opening battles of the Second Civil War. That was good news from Mac’s point of view, and a sure sign that, while Lassiter didn’t approve of the reintegration concept, he wasn’t trying to sabotage it by assigning a second-rate XO to her battalion.

A pair of MPs were guarding the gate to Peavey Field. They knew Quick and hurried to let the officers in. The situation inside the wire was what Mac expected it to be. With the exception of a wingless Cessna, the rest of the civilian planes had been removed, leaving two rows of hangars behind. “I figure we can park two Strykers under each roof,” Quick said. “That will make it more difficult for the rebs to count them from above—and the wrench turners will be able to get in out of the weather.”

Mac was impressed by her XO’s interest in strategic matters and the well-being of the battalion’s troops. “That’s a good idea, Roy. What about barracks? Are there any buildings that could serve?”

Quick shook his head as the Humvee came to a stop in front of a small building. The sun-faded sign read: TERMINAL. “No, ma’am,” Quick replied. “But I took the liberty of requisitioning two modular tent systems from the division. I figured we could set them up on the east side of the runway with porta potties along the fence.”

“You the man,” Mac said approvingly. She gestured toward the terminal building. “And what about that?”

“Battalion HQ,” Quick replied. “Assuming you approve. Plus the three Conex loads of the supplies that I mentioned earlier.”

Mac got out to take a look around. Quick was correct. The empty terminal would function as her headquarters, and the supplies were a pressing problem. What if someone came in and stole them? She’d be in deep shit, that’s what. She had to “recruit” some troops and do it fast.

Mac spent the night in the division’s BOQ, and hoped that doing so wouldn’t violate Lassiter’s prohibition against mixing with “the fine men and women of the 31st.” There was so much to think about that she had difficulty getting to sleep at first. But once fatigue overcame her, it was like falling off the edge of a cliff. Mac awoke rested and eager to get going.

A hurried breakfast was followed by a short helo ride to Fort Leavenworth. Something she wouldn’t have been able to arrange without assistance from Quick. Mac wished she could bring him along. But with thirty, no, twenty-nine days left to work with—someone had to stay behind and manage the paperwork that went with commissioning a new battalion.

The flight went smoothly, and it felt strange to land near the building where she’d been imprisoned the day before. She recognized some of the soldiers on the gate and could tell that they recognized her. A corporal grinned as Mac flashed her new ID card. “Welcome back, ma’am… And congratulations.”

Once inside, Mac went straight to the multi, where she was given access to all of the prisoner records. There were about five hundred in all, which represented about a third of the military’s prisoner population. Not that many, really… A fact that critics could use against Sloan if they chose to, and maybe they would.

It would have been nice to visit all of the army’s detention facilities, but there wasn’t enough time, so Mac would have to settle for what she could source locally. Later, once the outfit was up and running, she could look farther afield.

After reviewing the records, Mac saw that only twelve 03-level officers were being held in the prison, and of those, two had been convicted of violent crimes, making them ineligible for the program. Mac was camped in a spartan conference room, where she spent the next hour studying the ten remaining candidates. Her goal was to identify people who had combat experience and been convicted of crimes that weren’t representative of their past performance.

Once that process was over, the “candidates” were brought in one at a time and invited to sit across from Mac, while an MP stood guard. Having been a prisoner herself, Mac wasn’t surprised to learn that they knew all about the Military Reintegration Program and her role in it. News like that was bound to travel quickly in the JRCF’s closed universe. And some, like Captain Patrick Rowley, were eager to join. “I’m your man,” he assured her. “You were a mercenary before the war, right? What a great gig.”

Mac frowned. “As I understand it, you and two of your soldiers put on Confederate uniforms and robbed a bank.”

“Yeah,” Rowley admitted. “No one was hurt, and we got away clean… But Solby got drunk and spilled his guts.”

“You know my battalion will be part of the regular army, right? And not a criminal gang.”

“Sure,” Rowley said with a wink. “I know that.”

Mac turned to look at the guard. “Take this man back to his cell and show the next candidate in.”

“Wait!” Rowley said, as he was led away. “That was a joke! I’m your man!”

The next prisoner was a supply officer, Amy Wu. She had short black hair and severe bangs. Mac could see a wariness in Wu’s almond-shaped eyes. “So,” Mac began, “you’re doing time for stealing government property.”

“No,” Wu said flatly. “I’m in prison for stealing rebel property.”

“What had been rebel property,” Mac countered. “Until it was captured and became Union property.”

Wu’s prison-issue clothes were too large for her tiny frame. Her shirt barely moved when she shrugged. “Technically, yes.”

“And you did it because?”

“I did it for the money,” Wu said defiantly.

Mac frowned. “I’m looking for a supply officer… More than that, a person who can run my headquarters company. You’re qualified, on paper at least, but what about the fuck-you attitude? Is that who you are? Or is that prison bravado?”

Mac saw something change in the other woman’s eyes. She looked down at her lap. “I made a mistake, Major. I regret it. I’d like a second chance.”

“If I choose you, and you steal so much as a pencil, you’ll be back here the next day. You understand that?”

Wu looked up. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay… I’ll think about it. Next.”

The next officer was a drug trafficker who had been selling speed to his troops and using it himself. He was sober now and swore that he would stay that way. But Mac had doubts. It was difficult for the man to make eye contact, and he had a tendency to mumble. She wasn’t impressed.

The pusher was followed by an officer who, after discovering that his CO was having an affair with a subordinate’s husband, took the opportunity to blackmail her. He was handsome, smooth, and subtly flirtatious. None of which would be useful on a battlefield. He had led a platoon of Strykers however, and that was relevant. Mac placed him on the maybe list.

The next candidate was Captain Avery Howell who, according to his file, was a decorated company commander and inveterate gambler. A habit that was his undoing when he borrowed money from a mob boss, lost it playing poker, and was ordered to make good on his debt by stealing a tank. He’d been caught in the act and sentenced to eight years. He had an honest straightforward manner, however—and Mac liked him from the start. But could he part with his addiction? She asked him that.

“I think I can,” Howell answered. “I want to… And the busier I am, the better it will be.”

“No problem there,” Mac assured him. “If I choose you, you’ll work your ass off.”

Mac took a lunch break at that point and discovered that the food served in the staff cafeteria was just as bad as what they fed her in the prison! Then it was time to return to the conference room.

The next four candidates were unacceptable. The first was thirty pounds overweight, the second wanted to know if she could go on leave prior to joining the battalion, the third wanted to wait until the results of his appeal came in. As for the fourth… she claimed to be the Virgin Mary… and was clearly looking for some sort of medical discharge.

That left Captain Irwin Overman. He had a buzz cut and a pair of fierce eyes that stared out from bony caves. According to Overman’s file, he was serving a six-year sentence for desertion. Not in the face of the enemy, but after 60 percent of his company had been killed in a single battle, leaving him untouched. After three days on the run, Overman turned himself in.

“Why?” Mac wanted to know. “Why run, and come back? I’ve read the reports. The high casualty rate wasn’t your fault. Your outfit was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Overman shrugged. “That’s what the shrinks tell me.”

“And the voices? What do they tell you?”

Overman looked surprised. “How do you know about the voices? I never told anyone.”

“I hear voices of my own,” Mac said.

“Then you know what they say. They want to know why they’re dead and you’re alive.”

“I know,” Mac said. “But what is, is. The fact is that you survived… And you can save other troops by providing them with good leadership. I need officers who won’t run from the enemy but won’t waste lives either. How about it? The rebs killed your soldiers. Would you like to get even?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“Yes, I am… For a cause. A good cause.”

The eyes stared at her. Thirty long seconds passed. He nodded. “If you want me, I’m in.”

“I want you,” Mac acknowledged, and she made the decision on the spot. “Welcome to Mac’s Marauders.”