Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 10

PORT ST. JOE, FLORIDA

The two-story house sat atop stilts and was located well back from the glittering water. Victoria was wearing a black two-piece and gloried in the feel of the sun on her skin. Such moments were rare now that the postimpact haze obscured so much of the sky. Victoria heard movement and turned to look as her father stepped onto the deck. He offered her an ice-cold beer. “Here… This will wet your whistle.”

General Bo Macintyre was in good shape for a man in his early sixties. But his skin was a bit looser than it had been a few years earlier, and he had an incipient paunch, both of which frightened Victoria. What would she do when he died? Her life was organized around the never-ending task of earning his approval. She knew that wasn’t healthy yet couldn’t stop.

They talked about fishing for a while, then golf, then the war. “How are we doing?” Victoria wanted to know.

Bo took a sip of beer and stared at the sea. “That depends on how you choose to measure it. We’re holding the bastards off, but that won’t lead to victory. To accomplish that, we’ve got to push them back across the New Mason-Dixon Line, destroy their industrial base, and sap their will to fight.”

Victoria stared at him. “Can we do those things?”

Bo’s eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses. “We can… But we’ve got to be willing to use all of the weapons at our disposal.”

Victoria took a moment to consider that. “Do you mean nukes?”

“Yes. The present situation reminds me of what they called mutually assured destruction, or MAD, during the Cold War. Both side had nukes, and both sides were afraid to use them.”

Victoria frowned. “So, what are you saying? That we should use nukes?”

Bo turned to look at her. Victoria could see reflections of herself in his glasses. “You tell me, Victoria… Let’s say you’re facing a grizzly, and you’re carrying a .22 and a .338 Weatherby. Which rifle would you choose?”

“The .338,” Victoria replied. “But that’s a false analogy. In this case, the griz has a . 338, too.”

“True,” her father replied. “But a series of well-targeted preemptive strikes would solve that problem.”

“And destroy a lot of what we’re fighting for.”

“Victory always comes at a cost,” Bo replied. “And I think we should pay that price before the Union can grow any stronger. Or,” he continued, “we should make peace. But Lemaire took a run at that, and Sloan refused to listen. What happens next is up to the politicos in Houston.”

The fact that Lemaire had attempted to negotiate with Sloan was news to Victoria. And it served to put her father’s comments in a different light. If Sloan wasn’t willing to negotiate, then he, and the idiots who backed him, deserved what came their way. And that included nukes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Victoria said.

“You didn’t hear it,” Bo said, as his gaze returned to the water. “Any of it.”

“No, of course not.”

Bo’s secretary appeared at that point. Victoria knew her as Mrs. Walters, even though her husband had been dead for many years, and her first name was Kathy. She had carefully arranged blond hair, a nice figure, and made the summery outfit look good.

Victoria had been aware of the love affair for a long time and approved of it. Her mother was dead after all—and there was no reason why her father shouldn’t have some companionship. But this was the first time that the twosome had been so open about their relationship. Kathy was carrying a glass of iced tea, which she placed on a side table prior to sitting down under an umbrella. Bo removed his glasses and produced a rare smile. “There you are… and just in time, too. We were talking shop.”

“Shame on you,” Kathy replied. “You came here to escape that.”

“And to be with the two of you,” Bo replied gallantly. “Which reminds me,” Bo said, as he turned to look at Victoria. “Kathy and I have some news to share… We’re going to get married.”

Victoria felt a surge of jealousy and hurried to suppress it. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m so happy for you! Have you chosen a date?”

“Not yet,” Kathy replied. “Your father’s calendar is pretty full at the moment, but you’ll be the first to know when we nail it down.”

“I don’t think Robin will be able to attend,” Victoria said. It was meant to be a joke but didn’t come across that way.

Bo scowled. “I guess you haven’t heard… Your sister was charged with disobeying a direct order, found guilty, and sentenced to four years in Leavenworth.”

Victoria felt a sense of triumph. The contest was over! “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said sweetly. “But not surprised. Would you like another beer?”

PEAVEY FIELD, KANSAS

Dark gray clouds had massed in the north and were preparing to roll south. The temperature was starting to drop, causing Mac to shove her hands into her pockets. Fifteen days had passed since President Sloan had signed her pardon, and Mac was standing in the airport’s two-man control tower, looking out across the airstrip. The battalion’s troops were lined up for PT, and Sergeant Major Price was putting them through their paces. The noncom wasn’t using a bullhorn—but Mac could hear him anyway.

Price had been serving six months for “borrowing” a Bradley while intoxicated and doing doughnuts in a city park prior to joining the Marauders. He’d been chosen by Quick, who had served with Price in the past and swore by him. Was Price’s crusty persona for real? Or part of an elaborate act? It didn’t matter. The noncom’s hard-ass manner was perfect for a battalion comprised of ex-criminals.

Later, once PT was over, Price would form the troops into companies and march them up and down the runway like ROTC kids on parade. Not to train them… All of the battalion’s soldiers had been through basic. No, the purpose of the exercise was to forge them into a team. A process Quick likened to “herding cats.”

But while Price worked to turn prisoners back into soldiers, Mac had to find the means to house, feed, and arm them. The latter was especially difficult since supplies of every sort were in high demand. Fortunately, Mac had a secret weapon in the person of Captain Amy Wu, who had already proven herself to have the combined skills of a street hustler, a beady-eyed accountant, and a thief. Not the outright thievery that had landed her in prison, but the sort of borderline shenanigans that were often a bit sketchy.

The recent delivery of three wrecked Strykers served as a case in point. The vics were sitting in the division’s junkyard, where they were slated for shipment to a reconditioning center in Michigan, when Wu came across them. It wasn’t clear how the transaction had gone down. But somehow the vehicles were reclassified as “available for reassignment” and trucked to Mac’s Marauders. Within a matter of days, Wu’s mechanics had been able to create two fighting machines by using parts from the third. And that was nothing short of a miracle.

But not everything had gone so smoothly. Because the battalion’s soldiers weren’t allowed to mix with the 31st, they couldn’t use the brigade’s chow hall. That meant they were living on a steady diet of MREs. It was a problem that was starting to take a toll on the unit’s morale.

Such were Mac’s thoughts when she heard movement and turned to see Quick poke his head up through the hatch. “Good news, boss… They found Private Arley! He was at his mother’s house, eating cookies.”

Arley had gone AWOL three hours after being released from prison. Mac said, “Good… At least he didn’t rob a gas station or something. Put him in front of the troops, remind them why desertion constitutes a serious crime, and send his ass back to the slammer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m supposed to attend a meeting at brigade HQ. Keep an eye on Wu, and everyone else for that matter.”

Quick grinned. “Will do.” Then he was gone.

Rather than keep a private from spending time with Sergeant Major Price, Mac chose to drive herself. An MP saluted as she left the base. The presence of so many soldiers was a boon to the civilians who did business out of the colorfully painted trucks that were parked along the fence. There were barbers, tailors, and food vendors.

Mac passed them and took a left. There was a line to get into the base. After a short wait, she entered the checkpoint. A sharp-looking MP threw a salute, checked her ID, and waved her through. Mac was early for the meeting, and there was a reason for that.

The 31st was camped on the campus of what had been a technical school. After asking a pedestrian for directions, Mac found the two-story building with the HEADQUARTERS COMPANY sign out front and went inside. A corporal looked up from her computer. “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak with Major Kroll.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Which command are you part of?”

“I’m the commanding officer of the 2nd battalion, AKA Mac’s Marauders.”

Mac saw the corporal’s eyes widen. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what the Marauders were. Which was to say a battalion of fire-breathing ax murderers. The soldier behind the desk was no exception. “I’ll let Major Kroll know that you’re here. Please have a seat.”

Mac didn’t want to sit, so she continued to stand, and was staring out of a window when she heard a polite cough. Mac turned to find that Kroll was waiting for her. She had a steely-eyed demeanor and the blocky body of an amateur weight lifter. “I’m Major Kroll… You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “Thank you.”

“Let’s take this to my office,” Kroll said. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

Mac followed Kroll into a box furnished with three chairs, a messy worktable, and twin computer screens. “So,” Kroll said, once they were seated. “What can I do for you?”

“My battalion is quartered at Peavey Field,” Mac began. “And, according to verbal orders from Colonel Lassiter, my soldiers aren’t allowed to enter this area. That means they can’t use the chow hall. Yet, according to army regs, soldiers who are unable to access a chow hall are entitled to a subsistence allowance of roughly $300 a month. So I’m here to request that they receive the money they’re entitled to.”

Kroll’s eyebrows met as she frowned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Major, but there aren’t any food vendors at Peavey Field. That means there’s nothing to spend money on.”

“That’s true,” Mac agreed. “But I have a solution for that. I assume you’re familiar with the civilian food trucks lined up the road adjacent to the main gate. As soon as my soldiers begin to receive their subsistence allowances, some of those vendors will migrate to Peavey Field. Or the 31st could establish a field kitchen at our location. That would be acceptable as well.”

Kroll allowed her annoyance to show. “It would, would it? How nice! Well, I can think of a third possibility… I could reclassify your battalion as deployed, thereby making your personnel ineligible for a subsistence allowance, and ship you another pallet of MREs.”

“You could do that,” Mac said tightly. “But if you did, I would leak a story to the press about the way that my battalion is being treated. What would the general think of that? Or the president, for that matter?”

There was anger in Kroll’s eyes. “I don’t like threats.”

“And I don’t like eating MREs three times a day.”

A chilly silence followed. Kroll spoke first. “I will discuss the matter with Colonel Lassiter.”

“Give him my best,” Mac said as she stood. “And don’t stall. That would really piss me off.” Then she left.

Mac’s body was trembling as she left the building. Had she overplayed her hand? Would Lassiter put her back in prison? Maybe… But how dare they! Her troops were entitled to food or the means to buy it—and what could be more basic than that?

Mac circled the block twice in an effort to calm down before getting back in the Humvee and driving to the headquarters building. It was a two-story affair topped with all manner of antennas and a Phalanx Close-In Weapon System.

Mac was expected inside and followed a staff sergeant into the auditorium where General Brock, Colonel Lassiter, and his direct reports were scheduled to meet. Most of her peers were polite but standoffish. The single exception was the lieutenant colonel in command of the brigade’s cavalry squadron. His name was Connors, and he was built like a fireplug. “Welcome aboard, Macintyre,” he said. “Don’t mind our friends here, they’ll come around after a while. I read the after-action report on the withdrawal from Richton, and you can join my outfit anytime!”

A lot of people were seated, but most of the front row was open. Connors led her down to the centermost seats. “Lead from the front. The legs will follow.” Mac knew that “legs” was a not-altogether-complimentary term for the army’s infantry units and couldn’t help but laugh.

The meeting began right on time. As Colonel Lassiter took the stage, Mac wondered if Kroll had spoken to him yet. “Good morning,” Lassiter said. “And welcome to the command briefing for Operation Iron Shield. If that name sounds familiar, it’s because of the Iron Dome mobile all-weather air-defense system deployed in Israel sometime ago.”

Lassiter’s eyes swept the room. “Not to belabor the obvious, but I can assure you that the rebs would love to use the latest version of Iron Dome, which Boeing was working on prior to the May Day impacts. Fortunately, we’re the ones who will benefit from those efforts. And here, to talk about our role in Iron Shield, is Secretary of Defense Garrison.”

There was a round of enthusiastic applause as Garrison entered the auditorium. And for good reason. Although Frank Garrison had been a gentleman farmer prior to the war, with no military experience, he’d proven himself to be a capable Secretary of Defense. Garrison had wispy hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Energy seemed to crackle around him as he took center stage. True to his personal style, Garrison wasted no time getting to the point.

“Between 2000 and 2008, an estimated eight thousand projectiles rained down on Israeli population centers,” Garrison said. “But, after the Iron Dome system went operational in March of 2011, roughly 90 percent of incoming missiles were intercepted. That was an amazing accomplishment and one we should seek to emulate.

“As I speak to you, cities like Springfield, Tulsa, and Nashville are being pounded by mortars and surface-to-surface missiles. Never mind the fact that two of those cities belonged to rebs until recently and are home to people who considered themselves to be Confederate citizens. That says a lot, doesn’t it? These people don’t care whom they kill… Here’s what an Iron Dome battery looks like.”

Mac looked up at a large screen as a series of images appeared. “The batteries are mobile, and each one of them incorporates a radar unit, missile-control unit, and several launchers,” Garrison told them. “And since each battery is armed with twenty interceptors, it can protect about ninety square miles of territory! That means that a single unit could protect Louisville, Cleveland, or Baltimore.”

Garrison pressed a button, and the screen went dark. “But that’s the old system… And, if the rebs put enough missiles into the air all at once, they could overwhelm it. That’s why Iron Shield will incorporate lasers that can converge on incoming targets and destroy them. But because weather conditions can interfere with laser technology, we’ll have a backup capability that includes directed-energy weapons and conventional interceptors.”

Mac could see the importance of not only protecting cities, but also what had been reb cities, as Sloan attempted to reunite the country. The scale of what he was trying to accomplish was enormous—and she hoped he’d be able to pull it off.

“So,” Garrison said, “your job will be to protect the batteries from ground attacks, including commando raids. Our greatest moment of vulnerability is now, before the units deploy and come online. That suggests the need for considerable speed. We must put this system in place quickly. Are there any questions?”

The urgency in Garrison’s voice triggered Mac’s imagination. Rockets and artillery shells could be lethal and often were… But were they the only reason for concern? Or was there something more behind the sudden push? “Yes, sir,” Mac said as she stood. “Is there any reason to believe that the rebs might throw short-range nukes at us?”

All eyes swiveled from Mac to Garrison. His face looked drawn. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” he admitted. “That possibility exists. Do we believe that such an attack is imminent? No… But there’s no way to be sure. That’s why it’s important to act quickly. And not just along the line of conflict… but up and down the East Coast, too! I would remind you that the rebs have nuclear subs, and the capability to launch missiles from the Atlantic. That puts cities like Boston, Chicago, and Indianapolis inside the kill zone.”

There was total silence in the room. Odds were that most of the officers had friends and/or family in one or more of the cities Garrison had mentioned. The Secretary of Defense took a seat as Colonel Lassiter returned to the stage. “Everything you heard is top secret, and for your ears only. Tasking orders will come your way by 1800 hours this evening. Dismissed. Major Macintyre will remain.”

Mac felt a profound emptiness in the pit of her stomach as the other officers filed out. Once they were gone, and Garrison had departed, Lassiter stepped down off the platform. Mac stood. “So, Major… It didn’t take you long, did it?” he inquired.

“Is this in regards to my conversation with Major Kroll, sir?”

“You know it is.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Lassiter stepped in close. Their faces were only a foot apart. Mac had to summon every bit of her willpower in order to stand fast. She could smell his aftershave. “Don’t ever threaten one of my officers again,” Lassiter growled.

Mac wanted to say something along the lines of, “I shouldn’t have to,” but knew that would be a big mistake. “I won’t, sir.”

Lassiter took a step back. “Good. As for the chow problem, that was my fault, not Kroll’s. I should have anticipated the issue, and I failed to do so. That said, I still don’t want to have your whack jobs running around my base. So from this point on, hot meals will be delivered to your battalion three times a day. Are you satisfied?”

It was an honest admission, as well as a good-faith solution to the problem. Mac’s respect for Lassiter increased exponentially. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Good. By the way… you won’t receive any orders this evening. There are two reasons for that. Your people are in a training cycle—and it looks like a special job might be coming your way. The kind of thing your unit should be perfect for. That’s as much as I can say right now.”

Mac came to attention. “We’ll be ready sir.”

Lassiter nodded. “Go back to Peavey Field and whip your outfit into shape. I’ll let you know when more information becomes available. Dismissed.”

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan was in a budget meeting when news arrived that a rebel tank column had pushed its way up from southeast New Mexico and captured the city of Albuquerque. The president learned of the loss when his Chief of Staff, Wendy Chow, arrived to pull him out into the hall. Secret Service agents tagged along as they walked to the underground situation room. Many of Sloan’s National Security Council members were present—including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Herman Jones, the Director of National Intelligence Martha Kip, and National Security Advisor Toby Hall. “So what the hell happened?” Sloan inquired as he took his seat. He was pissed. “How could the Confederates assemble a tank brigade and move it north without being spotted?”

“We’re looking into that,” Jones said. “It’s too early to say for sure. But the preliminary reports suggest that the rebs sent the tanks and their support vehicles into the Roswell area aboard trucks, hid them at separate locations, and assembled the unit at the last moment.”

Sloan frowned. “Roswell as in UFO Roswell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. The press will love that. So, how long until we push them back out?”

“That depends,” Jones said cautiously.

“On what?”

“On what we choose to do,” Jones said equably. “Should we pull a brigade off the line in Oklahoma City or Little Rock? And send it west?”

“That would weaken the line,” Sloan replied. “And create an opportunity for the rebs to break through.”

“Precisely,” Jones said. “And that might be what the Confederates are hoping for.”

Sloan swore under his breath. “What would you recommend, then? We can’t let them remain in Albuquerque.”

“Actually, we could,” Jones said. “Not forever… Just until the strategic situation shifts our way.”

“You must be joking! The rebs take control of a Union city, and we allow them to stay! Try explaining that to an insurance agent in Cleveland… Never mind the people who live in Albuquerque.”

Jones smiled tightly. “I don’t have to. That’s your job, Mr. President.”

“You’re a dickhead, Herman. You know that?”

“Yes, sir… So they tell me.”

Sloan laughed. “Seriously… If we allow the rebs to stay in Albuquerque, what then? Could they break out? And take more territory?”

“I don’t think so,” Jones replied. “At this point, the rebs have stretched their supply chain as far as it can go without breaking. I believe that capturing Albuquerque was an inexpensive way to score a victory and make Southern voters feel good. And, if we’re stupid enough to pull a brigade off the line, then so much the better.”

Sloan was thinking. And as he did so, an uneasy silence settled over the room. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll let the rebs have Albuquerque for a while. But, while they’re sitting there snacking on sopaipillas, we’ll attack their supply line. They can defend it, or allow it to be cut. The choice will be up to them.”

Martha Kip raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “If we don’t plan to pull a brigade off the line, then what will we use to attack them?”

“We’ll use our secret weapon,” Sloan said mysteriously. “Notify the press… I’m going to Albuquerque, or as close as I can get. I need to show the country that I care. Oh, and find Major McKinney. I have a job for him.”

PEAVEY FIELD, KANSAS

A four-engined transport was parked on the runway. But the rain was falling so hard that Mac could barely see the airplane as she stepped out of the headquarters building and prepared to make the mad dash across the tarmac to Shelter Five. Her poncho was equipped with a hood, which she pulled up over the black beret. Then she began to run.

The rain pattered on her poncho and water splashed away from her boots as Mac passed the C-130 and crossed the final stretch of pavement. Captain Roy Quick was there to welcome her as she entered the shelter. “I’m sorry to bring you out in the rain, boss,” he said. “But we have a grade-A fuck-up on our hands, and I thought you’d like to see the problem firsthand.”

Rain rattled on the metal roof as Mac threw the hood back and shook water off the poncho. Most of what had been a hangar was occupied by a Stryker M1126A2. The vic was equipped with slat armor, generally referred to as a birdcage, and was partially lit by a roll-around work light. “How come you never call me over to celebrate something that went well?” Mac inquired.

“Because nothing ever goes well,” Quick replied with a grin.

“All right, what’s the problem?”

“That’s the problem,” Quick said, as he pointed at the truck’s slat armor. “According to the list of mission requirements issued yesterday, we’re supposed to load two vics onto C-130s. And, since Strykers were designed with that possibility in mind, it should be easy. But, with slat armor on, each truck is two feet wider than a Herc’s cargo bay. Fortunately, Sergeant Rico was smart enough to check.”

Mac groaned. “Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. The so-what is that we’ve got to remove the cages from two vehicles.”

“You’d better make that three,” Mac replied. “In case one of the primaries develops engine trouble prior to takeoff.”

“Roger that.”

“How long will it take to remove the armor?”

“At least a day.”

“We’re supposed to be combat-ready on six hours’ notice,” Mac said. “What if we get a call twenty minutes from now?”

“Then we’re screwed.”

“Put three teams on it,” Mac suggested. “One for each vic. And tell the wrench turners they have four hours to get the job done.”

Quick made a face. “That means we’ll have to cut the armor off. And that will make it difficult to put it back on later.”

“Do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How about Alpha Company? Are they ready?”

“Overman is working them hard. They’re running the perimeter.”

“Okay… Stay on ’em. I have no idea what sort of fricking mission the brass have in mind, but whatever it is will have hair all over it. And some of our jailbirds have been sitting on their asses for years.”

Quick produced one of his trademark grins. “Duly noted, boss. I’m on it.”

Mac nodded. “I know you are, Roy… And thank God for that.”

Mac returned to the little headquarters building where a long list of tasks awaited her attention. Wu and her staff had been busy. That meant there were requisitions to approve, personnel matters to attend to, and dozens of bulletins, memos, and briefing papers to read. And that’s what she was doing when a sergeant yelled, “Atten-hut!”

Mac came to attention along with the rest of the headquarters staff as Colonel Lassiter and two companions entered the office. One was an aide and the other was a civilian in rumpled clothing. Lassiter wasn’t wearing a poncho, so his beret was soaked, and his shoulders were wet. He paused to look around. “As you were.”

Wu and her people went back to work, or pretended to, as Lassiter made his way over to Mac’s desk. It consisted of a sheet of raw plywood resting on two sawhorses. She tossed him a salute, and he returned it. “Good afternoon, Major… I’m glad to see that you and your pirates are hard at work.”

Mac was intensely aware of the fact that the people in the room could hear everything that was said and knew that some version of Lassiter’s comments would make the rounds the moment he left. Rather than object to the pirate remark, she chose to ignore it. “Welcome to the 2nd, sir. Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, I would,” Lassiter replied. Then he turned to the soldier seated to his right. She was busy entering data into a computer. “What’s your responsibility, Corporal?”

Mac held her breath. What would Kobo say? She’d been in the slammer for faking records calculated to get her boyfriend a promotion. Kobo stood. “I’m a soldier, sir… My first job is to fight! But I’m a human-resources specialist, too—and responsible for the battalion’s personnel records.”

Mac suppressed a smile. Kobo was playing the colonel like a pro. Lassiter nodded. “Well said, soldier. As you were. All right, let’s find out if the rest of the battalion is as sharp as Corporal Kobo is. Lead the way, Major.”

Mac considered grabbing her poncho on the way out but feared that Lassiter would perceive that as a sign of weakness. So after putting her beret on, Mac led the other officers out into a steady drizzle. The tour took more than an hour. Lassiter spent most of his time talking to the troops. A process that was both nerve-wracking and instructive. Officers might try to bullshit him, but the enlisted folks had a tendency to tell the truth, and Lassiter was paying close attention. Mac filed the process away for future use.

The surprise inspection went well until Lassiter entered Shelter Five, where weary techs were busy using cutting torches to remove OLD BOY’s slat armor. That was when the colonel demanded to know what the hell was going on.

The lighting was poor, so maybe Sergeant Hernandez didn’t realize who he was talking to, although Mac believed he did. It had been a long day, and the noncom was pissed. “What does it look like we’re doing? We’re cutting the fucking slat armor off this fucking vic, so it will fit into a fucking C-130.”

The comment was followed by an ominous silence as Lassiter absorbed the information. Then he laughed and slapped Hernandez on the back. “Well said, Sergeant. Carry on.”

But there was a look of concern on Lassiter’s face as he turned to Mac. He had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the background noise. “Will your Strykers be ready to load by 2100 hours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Your mission is a go… Assemble your officers. I’ll brief them.”

It took fifteen minutes to clear the HQ building and bring all the battalion’s officers in. Except that some of the platoon leaders weren’t officers. They were senior noncoms. A compromise Mac had been forced to accept when it turned out that Leavenworth wasn’t holding enough 01 and 02 officers to meet the battalion’s needs. Just one of the many problems yet to be resolved.

“Okay,” Lassiter said, once all of them were packed into the small room. “Here’s the skinny… Your battalion has been chosen to carry out a top secret mission. Security is extremely important, and that’s why this base is on lockdown. My MPs are on the gate and stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter. No one can enter, and no one can leave until the mission is over. Any questions about that? No? Good.

“Thanks to the information included in your pretasking orders, you already know that it will be necessary to transport a company of infantry and two combat-ready Strykers over a considerable distance. That will require three C-130s. From this point forward, the transports will be referred to as Yankee One, Two, and Three.” The battalion’s officers and noncoms were scribbling notes, and Mac was no exception.

“Yankee One is already on the ground,” Lassiter told them. “And Yankee Two and Three are slated to arrive at 2100 hours. Two will be carrying a nine-person special ops team. They will be split into two groups—one for each of the Strykers.

“Yankee One will depart first and land at Pyote Air Base near Odessa, Texas. The strip hasn’t been used for a long time. And, based on an aerial reconnaissance carried out five days ago, we know that it’s deserted. The runways and taxiways, hardstands and flight-line apron are usable but overgrown.”

Mac took it in. Texas! Holy shit, right in the heart of Dixie! And she wasn’t the only one to take note of the fact. Glances were exchanged, and someone said, “Oh, goody.”

Lassiter nodded. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen… You are going to land inside enemy territory. Alpha Company will land and secure the base. Once that’s accomplished, Yankee Two and Three will put down and off-load. Then the Strykers, with special ops personnel aboard, will haul ass for Odessa. The trip will take approximately forty-five minutes. The package will be asleep in the Tarlo Hotel when the operators enter and take him prisoner. Once he’s in custody, the Strykers will take him to Pyote Airfield, where he will be loaded onto a C-21A Learjet for an all-expenses-paid trip up north.

“At that point, assuming the tactical situation allows, you will load the Strykers onto their respective planes. The moment they are wheels up, Alpha Company will board Yankee One for the return trip. The enemy won’t be expecting us, and there aren’t any military bases located nearby. So it’s possible that you’ll be able to go in and get out without a shot being fired. Do you have any questions?”

Captain Overman raised his hand. “Yes, sir. What about air cover?”

“That’s a good question,” Lassiter said. “The decision was made to bring the Hercs in low and slow in an effort to evade detection. And if we were to send fighters in high enough to protect the C-130s, they’ll light up every radar screen in Texas. So some zoomies will be on standby with an estimated response time of fifteen minutes.”

Mac suppressed a groan. Fifteen minutes would be an eternity in the midst of a firefight. And she’d been wearing a uniform too long to believe that the special ops people would be able to get in and out without firing a shot. But what was, was.

Once Mac’s people had been dismissed, Lassiter and his companions made their way over to where she was standing. “What did you think?” Lassiter inquired. “Did I cover everything?”

“Yes, sir. I believe you did.”

“Good. You may have noticed the civilian in our midst. This is Cory Olinger. Cory is a war correspondent for the New York Times, and he’s going to accompany you on the mission.”

Mac opened her mouth to speak but stopped when Lassiter raised a hand. “Don’t waste your time, Major… The decision to bring Cory along was made at the very highest levels.”

Mac wondered what “the very highest levels” meant. Had Sloan been involved? Was he trying to justify the Military Reintegration Program? He was rolling the dice if so, because the battalion would look bad if the mission went poorly.

But Lassiter expected the mission to go well. He’d said as much. So maybe the mission was a no-brainer that was calculated to make everybody look good. If so, the reporter would tell readers how good Mac’s Marauders were. Olinger extended a pudgy hand. It was soft and damp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Major… Maybe you could answer a question for me… Will they have barf bags on the plane? I tend to get airsick.”

Mac looked at Lassiter, who rolled his eyes. “I have to get back to my office. Take care, Major… And make me proud.” Then he was gone.

Olinger looked lost. “I’ll check on the air bag thing,” she assured him. “But I won’t be able to spend much time with you during the next few hours. I have a lot to do.”

“That’s okay,” Olinger said. “I’ll tag along.”

Mac’s attention shifted to the multitude of details that could spell the difference between success and failure. What was it that President Carter had said when asked if he had regrets? “I wish I’d sent one more helicopter…” But he didn’t, and the mission to rescue the hostages in Iran failed. Mac was determined to avoid that kind of mistake.

So she made her way from place to place, checking and rechecking. Were the soldiers in Overman’s company carrying extra water? There wouldn’t be any at the airfield in Texas, and what if they had to fight the following day? Each soldier could need eight or nine bottles of water. Then there was the question of ammo. Should the Strykers carry more than they usually did? Hell yes, they should.

And what if the so-called “package” was wounded? Or a special operator for that matter? Mac ordered Quick to identify the best medic in the battalion and assign him or her to the ops team. On and on it went until Yankee Two arrived. It was completely dark by that time, but the runway lights were on as the cargo plane touched down. Sheets of rainwater flew to the right and left as the C-130 came her way. Olinger was standing at Mac’s side, holding a small recorder. “What’s so special about that kind of plane?” he wanted to know.

“They have a range in excess of two thousand miles loaded,” Mac replied, “and they can cruise at something like 360 mph. But their real claim to fame is that they can land on an unprepared field like the one in Pyote.”

If Olinger said something, his words were lost in the roar as the C-130’s pilots put all four engines into reverse, and the plane slowed dramatically. As soon as Yankee Two cleared the runway, Three came in for an equally noisy landing. It was still taxiing away when someone touched her arm. “Hey, Mac, we meet again.”

Mac turned to find that Thomas Lyle was standing beside her. But now, rather than a butter bar, he was a first lieutenant. “Thomas! Are you running the special ops team?”

“Cory Olinger,” the reporter interjected. “New York Times. Could I have your full name please?”

“No, you can’t,” Lyle replied. “Nor can you name any of the people on my team. Not unless you want to wind up in some deep shit. Tom will have to do.”

“Tom?” Olinger inquired. “Not Thomas?”

“My mother is the only person who calls me Thomas,” Lyle replied. “My mother and the major here.”

“So the two of you have served together before?”

“That’s classified,” Mac said. “Turn the recorder off, Mr. Olinger. Or I’ll have one of my men confiscate it.”

Olinger looked hurt. “I’m just doing my job.”

“So are we. Turn it off.” Olinger obeyed.

Mac took Lyle aside. “So, Tom, what do you think?”

“The mission looks good on paper,” Lyle replied cautiously.

Mac smiled. “So you’re worried.”

“Exactly.”

“Me too.” They laughed.

“I suggest we run this like the Revell snatch,” Lyle said. “I’ll handle the grab… The rest of it belongs to you.”

“That works for me,” Mac replied. “I’m giving you my best medic. Please make her feel welcome.”

“We will,” Lyle promised. “Are you coming with us?”

“Of course I am… Somebody has to keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks, Mom. If anyone can get us in and out, you can.”

“I’ll do my best. Who’s the target?”

“The Confederacy’s Secretary of Energy. Some dude named Oliver Sanders. He’s the one they put in charge of siphoning oil out of the petroleum reserves and selling it.”

Sloan, Mac thought to herself. This has Sloan written all over it. Does he know that I’ll be part of the team that’s going after Sanders? And if so, how does he feel about that?

The question, like so many others, went unanswered. “Come on,” Mac said. “We have work to do.” The rain continued to fall.