Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 11

NORTH OF TIJERAS, NEW MEXICO

The long, cold night was coming to a close, and the President of the United States was sore. He’d been riding for the better part of two days by then, and even though his parents had horses, he hadn’t ridden in years.

His mount was a huge but good-natured brute named Kenny. He had only one fault, and that was to veer off the trail every once in a while, in hopes of nibbling on whatever greenery was available. Fortunately for Sloan, the horse didn’t get many opportunities because of New Mexico’s semiarid countryside.

The presidential party consisted of six people, including a Navajo named Joe Akalii (Cowboy) who led the way, Major Sam McKinney in the two slot, Sloan, and three Green Beret bodyguards, all of whom were suffering silently.

But even though the group was small, it could call on a lot of firepower. A Predator drone was circling high above, two A-10 Warthogs were flying lazy eights fifty miles north of their position, and a Black Hawk helicopter was parked on a mesa twenty miles away.

The purpose of the trip was to free Albuquerque from the Confederates. Sloan couldn’t bring in troops to capture the city without weakening the line elsewhere. But what he could do was sponsor a resistance movement aimed at cutting the rebel supply line, which ran up from Texas and into Albuquerque.

He couldn’t phone the request in, however. Not according to people who knew the area. No, if Sloan wanted to bring the Navajos on board, he’d have to show some nation-to-nation respect. And that meant a meeting with Chief Natonaba, a much-respected leader, who could cut a deal if he thought it was in the tribe’s best interest.

But would he? According to Congressman Velasquez, who represented Albuquerque, Natonaba had a very Navajo-centric view of the world. “Don’t promise anything you can’t deliver,” Velasquez had cautioned. “Natonaba has a long memory. He talks about the Scorched Earth Campaign of 1863 as if it took place yesterday.”

After looking it up, Sloan discovered that 1863 was the year Kit Carson’s troops forced Navajo captives to march 350 miles to Fort Sumner. Many of them died along the way.

Sloan’s train of thought was interrupted as the horse in front of Kenny came to an abrupt halt causing his mount to do likewise. And when Sloan saw McKinney dismount, he was quick to do likewise. His butt was sore, and so were his knees. “Joe will take care of the horses,” McKinney said. “We’ll go forward on foot. Bring your rifle just in case.”

Sloan was wearing a tac vest, his tac vest, meaning the one he’d worn in Richton. And he was carrying the same M4. He nodded as Joe went about the business of leading the horses in under a rocky outcropping, where they would be less visible from above.

Once the horses were secure, McKinney led the rest of the group forward. As the trail wound its way around the side of a hill, a sickly-looking yellow blob rose in the east. It was barely visible through a veil of particulate matter. But by the time the presidential party arrived on a flat area on the south side of the hill, there was enough light to see by.

A large water tank occupied the center of the site. Sloan could tell that the name TIJERAS had been painted on it even though the E and the R had been obliterated by a jagged hole. An artillery shell perhaps? Something like that.

Gravel crunched under their boots as the men advanced. When they were about fifty feet away from the tank, a man stepped out into the wan sunlight. He was wearing a flat-brimmed hat, a sheepskin coat, and a pair of ancient chaps. The M16 was barrel up and resting on his right shoulder. His eyes were focused on McKinney. “President Sloan, I presume?”

“Nope,” McKinney replied. “That would be the gentleman behind me. Please place the assault weapon on the ground and take a step back. Are you carrying a pistol? If so, place that on the ground as well.”

There was a twenty-second pause while the man considered the order. “Maybe you should do the same.”

McKinney shrugged. “This isn’t personal, sir. There are a lot of people who want to kill the president, and we don’t know you.”

Another five seconds passed before the man placed the M16 on the ground and took a step back. McKinney was about to follow up regarding the pistol when Sloan took three paces forward. Slowly, almost reverently, he laid the M4 next to the M16. Then he straightened. “Yá’át’ééh.” (Good morning.)

The other man smiled. “Yá’át’ééh, Mr. President. You did your homework. I’m Chief Natonaba. Welcome to the Navajo Nation.”

The challenge was there, since the Navajo Nation didn’t qualify as a nation in the true sense, even though Natonaba wanted people to think of it that way. But Sloan chose to sidestep the issue for the moment. “Thank you, Chief Natonaba. I wish the circumstances of our meeting were different. We’re in enemy-held territory.”

“Yes,” Natonaba agreed. “Yet you came to Tijeras. Why?”

“Come with me,” Sloan said. “I’ll show you.”

Together they walked out to the point where they could look down onto the devastated town of Tijeras. I-40 cut through it like an ugly scar. Sloan had seen the community from above. But the aerial photographs had a clinical quality. These images were real. And the fire-blackened buildings, the shot-up vehicles, and the haphazard grave markers had the emotional weight that a picture couldn’t convey.

Sloan felt a rising sense of sorrow knowing that 257 soldiers and civilians had died trying to keep the Confederate Army out of Albuquerque. Natonaba must have been experiencing similar emotions. “The Navajo Nation lost thirty-two warriors in the fight,” he said tightly. “Together with the army, they held this pass for two days.”

“That’s a terrible loss, and I’m very sorry,” Sloan said. “Unfortunately, I’m here to ask you and your people to make even greater sacrifices. My generals tell me that the Confederates are using two routes to funnel supplies into Albuquerque. One follows Highway 285 north through Vaughn, New Mexico, then west through Mountainair to I-25 north. And that takes them into the city.

“The other involves taking convoys north to I-40 before turning west and driving to Albuquerque. That means they have to pass through Tijeras.”

“Yes,” Natonaba agreed. “It always works the same way. They send attack helicopters through first. The gunships arrive during the hours of darkness. They attack anything with a heat signature, and that includes cattle. Once that’s over mine-protected vehicles lead the convoy in. They are nearly impervious to mines and IEDS. Stryker vehicles follow, each carrying a squad of infantry. The supply trucks are behind them.”

Sloan nodded. “That matches what I’ve been told. And that’s why I came. I want you and your warriors to seal off both supply routes. We’ll provide you with the military-grade weapons required to do so. In a month, two at the most, the rebs will be forced to withdraw.”

Natonaba frowned. “Why don’t you bring a brigade of troops in?”

“I don’t have any to spare,” Sloan told him. “If we pull a brigade off the line back East, the Confederates could break through.”

“So you care more about the cities of Springfield and Clarkesville than you do about Albuquerque.”

There it was… the sort of challenge that Sloan had been expecting. “No, that isn’t true. We believe the attack on Albuquerque was a feint designed to boost morale in the South and pull troops away from the main line of battle. So we have three choices. We can do what the rebs want us to do, we can let Albuquerque remain under enemy control until the strategic situation improves, or we can cut their supply lines and take the city back in sixty days or so. Which course of action do you like the most?”

Sloan was playing hardball and could see the anger in Natonaba’s eyes. “Hundreds, even thousands of my people could die,” the chief objected.

“Yes,” Sloan agreed. “Tens of thousands of Americans on both sides will die before the war is over. But remember… your people are Navajos, but they are Americans, too, with a heritage of valor. More than three hundred code talkers received Congressional Silver Medals for saving thousands of lives during World War II.”

Natonaba’s expression softened. “You are a manipulative son of a bitch.”

Sloan nodded. “That’s part of the job. Will you fight?”

“We’ll fight.”

They shook hands.

IN THE AIR OVER NORTHERN TEXAS

Major Robin Macintyre was trying to look cool as the C-130 called Yankee Two flew low over Texas. Looking cool was important because it sent the right sort of message. “There she was,” some private would say, “sitting there reading a magazine while we flew over enemy-held territory!”

And it was true. Mac was staring at a magazine even though the words were a blur, and her thoughts were elsewhere. She stole a look at her watch. It was 0036. Yankee One was supposed to land in ten minutes. What would Overman and his company encounter? A deserted airport? Or a whole shitload of trouble? Not knowing was driving her crazy.

Mac looked across the cargo bay to see that Lieutenant Lyle was asleep. Or was he? Were the closed eyes part of an act? She wouldn’t put it past him.

As for New York Times correspondent Cory Olinger, he was hunched over an airsick bag, staring at the deck. The faint odor of vomit hung in the air. Mac wrinkled her nose. Still, the reporter was there, even if flying was difficult for him. And he deserved credit for that.

A crewperson appeared at Mac’s side. Her flight suit was so large it made her look like a kid. “Yankee One is on the ground,” she announced. “And there is no resistance so far.”

“That’s good news,” Mac said. “What’s our ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes, ma’am.”

Mac looked at Lyle. The Green Beret was awake now… Or maybe he had been all along. “It’s time to load the team,” Mac said.

Lyle nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Three special operators were slated to travel aboard CALIFORNIA GIRL, in addition to Lyle, Mac, Olinger, and the Stryker’s two-person crew. The other vic, a Stryker called LUCKY LOU, was riding on Yankee Three.

CALIFORNIA GIRL had been loaded ass in, so she could roll straight out the moment that the ramp was down. And as Mac entered the cargo compartment, it felt like walking into a coffin. She didn’t like being cooped up inside a metal box even if it was safer there.

Once the special operators were strapped in, the bullshit began. They were teasing a member of the team about the size of his nose, and he was bragging about all of the many things he could do with it. But Mac knew it was an act… a way to conceal the fear they felt. The fear she felt… Fear of dying, yes. But the greatest fear was that she would fuck up, and in doing so, cost other people their lives.

“We’re thirty seconds out,” the copilot announced over the team’s radio network. “Yankee One is off the runway, Alpha Company has deployed, and Yankee Three is fifteen minutes out. Have fun out there.”

Mac waited for the thump as the plane’s wheels made contact with the runway, followed by a series of bumps as the C-130 rolled through potholes and over pieces of debris. Engines roared as they went into reverse, and the passengers were thrown sideways.

As the transport jerked to a stop Mac knew that crew people were hurrying to free the Stryker from its tie-downs. The moment that process was complete, Kona started the vic’s engine and drove it down the ramp. There was a bump as the rear wheels came off. A Green Beret named Anders had agreed to serve as Mac’s RTO. He was holding a handset to his ear. “Captain Overman is on the east side of the field,” Anders said.

“Good,” Mac replied. “Tell him we’re on our way.”

The trip across the field took no more than three minutes. After the truck came to a stop, Mac had to wait for the ramp to go down. It bounced under her boots. Overman was waiting to receive her. He produced a grimace, which Mac knew to be his version of a smile. “Good morning, Major… Here’s your coffee.” Mac watched Overman pour the steaming-hot liquid into a mug. “The cream and sugar is already in there,” he added.

“I would promote you to colonel if I could,” Mac said as she took a sip. “So things went well?”

“We own this dump,” Overman replied confidently.

“How long can we hold it?”

“That depends on what the rebs throw at us,” Overman said cautiously. “But, assuming we have air cover, we could hold the field for twelve hours. Then we’ll run out of supplies.”

Mac noticed that Olinger was standing a couple of feet away, recording the conversation. What had Lassiter told her? It would take the zoomies fifteen minutes to arrive on scene. That was a long time. And what if the rebel air force was waiting to intercept them? Would the brass send more planes? Or write the Marauders off? “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Mac replied.

“Here comes Yankee Three,” Lyle said. And sure enough… Mac could hear the C-130’s engines. Flares had been placed along both sides of the strip, which meant that Three’s pilots had it easy compared to their counterparts in planes One and Two.

It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the C-130 to land, and disgorge the LUCKY LOU before taxiing off the runway. “Okay,” Mac said, as she met Overman’s gaze. “Hold the fort… Assuming things go well, we’ll return within two hours. But if the wheels come off, you are to pull out immediately. Do you read me?”

“Five by five.”

“Good. Mr. Olinger will remain here… Please support his efforts to the extent your duties allow. Let’s do this thing.”

After returning to the CALIFORNIA GIRL, Mac made her way through the cargo bay and up into the forward air-guard hatch. Then it was time to don her brain bucket, complete with night-vision gear, and a pair of gloves. It was damned cold in the desert at night, and the windchill would make it worse. Maps had been downloaded onto the Strykers’ nav systems, and the TCs had hard copies just in case. “This is Boomer Six,” Mac said into her mike. “Let’s haul ass.”

Mac had to hang on as Corky Kona put her boot down. Then they were off. Roughly fifty miles separated the tiny town of Pyote from Odessa. And Mac hoped to make the trip in forty minutes. She looked back, saw the LUCKY LOU’s lights, and turned forward again. The lights weren’t really necessary since both drivers had night-vision gear, but civilians would notice if they were off. Especially on the freeway.

Soldiers waved as the vics passed through the perimeter and onto the access road beyond. Kona turned left onto a paved road minutes later and followed that south toward the on-ramp to I-20 east. Once on the freeway, Mac saw that the land around them was mostly flat, and the road was mostly straight, both of which made it easy for the Strykers to hit their top speed of 60 mph.

There were other vehicles on the road, but not many, and none of the civilian drivers had reason to question the presence of military vehicles on I-20. Not with a war raging up north. It wasn’t long before the Strykers passed the towns of Thortonville and Monahans. Things were going well so far, or so it seemed to Mac, until she heard Overman’s voice on the radio. “Boomer Four to Six. Over.”

“This is Six. Go. Over.”

“According to Big Bird, two Confederate aircraft left Lackland Air Force Base and are headed this way. Over.”

Mac felt a sinking sensation. Big Bird was the airborne early-warning and control aircraft flying lazy eights to the north. Thanks to the kind of gear the plane carried, the crew could monitor activity taking place within a 120,000-square-mile radius. “Why? We came in low… Too low to detect. Or that’s what they told us. Any theories? Over.”

“They think the rebs spotted us from orbit. Over.”

Mac knew that Confederate sympathizers had taken control of NASA’s Mission Control Center in Houston, and the 20th Space Control Squadron at Elgin Air Force Base, just prior to secession. So maybe they had the capacity to monitor air traffic from space. Or had developed it during the last few months. Shit, shit, shit. The worst part was that Mac couldn’t do anything about it except hurry and worry. “What’s their ETA? Over.”

“That depends… Transports would take an hour to get here, but fighters would arrive a lot faster. Over.”

Mac considered that. Should she request air support? No, it was too early. What if the rebs didn’t know about the landing? What if the airplanes in question were going somewhere else? The sudden arrival of some F-15s would tip them and draw an immediate response. “Okay, thanks. Dig in… And I mean deep! And tell the Zoomies that we may need them soon.”

“I’m on it,” Overman replied, which was a nice way of saying: “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

Mac laughed. “Sorry, Four… That was stupid. Keep me informed. Over.”

Mac heard two clicks by way of a reply. They were passing through Penwell by then, which meant Odessa was coming up. Even though a partial blackout was in effect, a scattering of lights could be seen on both sides of the freeway. And, as the CALIFORNIA GIRL slowed, Kona took an off-ramp. Mac glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the LUCKY LOU was still there. It was.

Kona drove through Odessa’s streets at a sedate 35 mph in order to avoid attracting attention. Mac left the hatch for the cargo bay below. She could tell that the green beanies were amped and ready to go. Mac looked at Lyle. “I assume you heard what Overman told me.”

Lyle nodded. “Yeah… The rebs might be coming our way.”

“Exactly. So don’t linger in the hotel’s bar.”

It wasn’t the funniest joke the operators had ever heard but garnered a laugh nonetheless. Lyle grinned. “No worries, Major. We’ll be on our best behavior.”

Mac felt the Stryker make a turn and heard Kona’s voice. “We’re pulling in… Stand by.”

The CALIFORNIA GIRL came to a halt, and cold air flooded into the compartment as the ramp fell. And there, a couple of hundred feet away, was the dimly lit Tarlo Hotel. Lyle waited for his team to exit before tossing Mac a salute. Then he was gone.

Mac left the Stryker in time to see the operators who’d been aboard the LUCKY LOU fall in behind the others as all of them ran toward the hotel. It was six stories tall, and Mac had an unobstructed view of the walkways that fronted the rooms. She wished she could accompany the team… But that wasn’t possible. All she could do was wait. Mac keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Four… We’re in position. Over.”

“This is Four,” Overman replied. “Roger that. Six planes are coming our way now… And, according to Big Bird, two are transports. The rest are fighters. ETA thirty minutes. Over.”

Overman’s tone was calm and clinical. Like a doctor delivering a potentially fatal diagnosis. And there he was… Preparing to fight overwhelming odds all over again, wondering how many of his people, her people—would die this time. Could Overman keep it together? Mac prayed that he would. “Roger that, Four. Are the zoomies on the way? Over.”

“That’s affirmative. Over.”

“Good. I saw a flagpole there… Run an American flag up it, and hang on. This isn’t over until it’s over.”

Mac heard two clicks followed by silence. She could see figures moving along the fourth-floor walkway. There was a flash, a bang, and some incomprehensible yelling. The snatch was in progress.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

The situation room was almost full by the time Sloan arrived. Secretary of Defense Garrison was there, as was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Jones, Director of National Intelligence Kip, National Security Advisor Hall, Chief of Staff Chow, and Press Secretary Besom. They came to their feet as the president entered, and he waved them back into their chairs. “Sorry I’m late… How’s it going?”

All eyes turned to General Jones. “The Marauders arrived safely, sir… And the snatch is under way. But the rebs are responding.”

Sloan frowned. “Responding to what? The landing? The raid on the hotel? Or both?”

“The landing,” Jones replied. “The C-130s went in low, but we believe the enemy spotted them from orbit and ran a check. Once all of their planes were accounted for, they knew the transports belonged to us. Four Confederate fighters are inbound to Pyote Airfield, plus two larger planes, which are probably loaded with troops. ETA twenty-five minutes.”

“So there’s no way our people can get out of there without a fight.”

“No, sir.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have fighters on the way?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sloan sat down. His eyes flitted from screen to screen but his thoughts were elsewhere. Mac was there… Where the shit was going to hit the fan. Why? Because of him, that’s why. Because of orders he’d given. And why did you give those orders? Sloan demanded of himself. Because you’re a cold-blooded, calculating bastard. That’s why.

And it was true. Or mostly true. The decision to send Mac’s Marauders rather than another outfit had been based on a number of factors, first and foremost of which was the fact that Mac had a proven ability to pull off missions that other people couldn’t, regardless of how difficult the circumstances might be. That made her a logical choice.

Ah, the voice said, but there was more to it than that… You hoped to prove that the Military Reintegration Program was more than a strategy to get Mac out of prison. And you wanted to prove that you weren’t playing favorites even though you were playing favorites because you’d been led to believe that the mission would go off without a hitch.

“Here’s the latest,” Jones said. “Our fighters are in contact with their fighters south of Odessa. Both sides are sending more planes.” The Battle of Pyote Field had been joined.

ODESSA, TEXAS

“Here comes trouble.” The voice belonged to the LUCKY LOU’s gunner, Private Nathan Bostick. Mac was crouched next to an enormous tire, with her M4 at the ready. It was the moment she’d been dreading. Someone was sure to call the cops after the special ops team blew the door open… And here they were. The police car entered the parking lot with lights flashing and screeched to a halt. When the driver’s side door opened, a lone cop got out. Her pistol was drawn and tilted upward.

“Talk to her,” Mac ordered. “But be ready to fire.”

“This is a military security operation,” Bostic announced over the LUCKY LOU’s loudspeaker. “Please holster your weapon and stand by. We’ll let you know if we need assistance.”

That was the approach the team had agreed on while planning the mission. None of the soldiers wanted to kill members of Odessa’s police force. But would the policewoman buy Bostic’s story? Mac allowed herself a sigh of relief as the pistol went into its holster. She went forward to stall. “Good morning, Officer… It looks like somebody screwed up! We have a deserter corralled in the hotel. Our people were supposed to notify your people.”

The twentysomething cop was clearly angry. “Well, they didn’t, not that I know of, and the chief is going to raise hell.”

Mac nodded sympathetically. “Of course… I get that.”

The conversation was interrupted as two members of the special ops team showed up holding their prisoner between them. The man had a hood over his head—and was nude except for a pair of wet boxers. Had he peed himself? That’s the way it looked. Lyle nodded to Mac, and she turned to the police officer. “We have our man. Thanks for the assist.”

“Wait!” the cop said, as Mac followed Lyle into CALIFORNIA GIRL’s bay. “I need to see your ID! I need to—”

The policewoman’s words were cut off as the hatch closed. And once the soldiers were inside the Stryker, there was nothing the cop could do but call dispatch and complain as the vics left the parking lot. Mac didn’t have to tell Kona to step on it. The TC was well aware of the need for speed. Tires screeched as the vic turned a corner and sped up the ramp onto I-20 west.

As Mac returned to her perch in the air-guard hatch, she heard a sonic boom and knew that planes were fighting overhead. She keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Four… We have the package, and we’re leaving Odessa… What’s the situation there? Over.”

“This is Four,” Overman replied. “The zoomies are all over the sky… They’ve been able to keep the reb fighters off us so far. Over.”

“What about the transports? Don’t let the bastards land.”

“Hold one,” Overman replied, and Mac could hear the sound of firing in the background before he spoke again. “Sorry, it’s kind of hectic here. The transports made no attempt to land. But it’s raining Rangers right now… And some of the bastards landed inside the perimeter. Over.”

Someone in the Confederate chain of command had been smart enough to send airborne troops! Mac cursed her own stupidity. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Maybe it was because Lassiter thought the mission would come off without a hitch… Whatever the reason, she should have anticipated the possibility and taken steps to deal with it. But what could she have done differently? That wasn’t immediately apparent to Mac but would bear consideration later on. Assuming there was a later on. “Roger that,” Mac said. “What about the C-21? Over.”

The original plan had been for an Air Force C-21 Learjet to land and collect Secretary Sanders for a quick trip north. But now, with dogfights taking place in the sky above Pyote Field, an unarmed plane would be extremely vulnerable. So Overman’s response didn’t surprise her. “The C-21 was told to turn back,” he told her. “We have orders to bring the package out on one of the Hercs. Over.”

Mac could imagine the three C-130s sitting there, ready to take hits. One thing was glaringly obvious. Because it would take at least half an hour to load the Strykers, she’d have to leave them behind. “Got it,” Mac said. “Get ready to load WIAs and KIAs, and pull our people back to defend the transports. Over.”

“Roger that,” Overman replied. “Over.”

Mac clicked the mike key twice by way of a reply. She saw a flash of light in the western sky and heard what sounded like thunder. A fighter had been destroyed. But whose? All to capture the piece of shit in the blue boxer shorts. I hope the bastard is worth it, Mac thought to herself. But such considerations were above her pay grade.

The Strykers rolled past Penwell, Monahans, and Thortonville. And it wasn’t long before the Pyote exit came up. Mac could hear the persistent rattle of automatic weapons by then, the occasional thump as a grenade detonated, and the roar of jet engines overhead. “Get ready,” she told the team. “We’ll have to fight our way in.”

Then Mac put in a call to Overman. “This is Six… We’re coming in. Warn the troops. Over.” If Overman said something in reply, it was lost as a flash of light strobed the countryside, and a thunderous boom was heard. A C-130? Yes! At least one of the planes had been destroyed.

Mac was still in the process of absorbing that as the CALIFORNIA GIRL rolled up on an army Humvee. A Confederate Humvee. It was parked just outside Pyote Field and bristling with aerials. A command vehicle, then, which had arrived under a parachute, just like the rebel soldiers had. “Kill it,” Mac ordered, and the vic’s gunner opened fire.

The CALIFORNIA GIRL was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher, and the rebs didn’t know that Union forces had armor on the ground. So instead of firing on the lead Stryker, the soldiers grouped next to the Humvee were staring at it, when the first round exploded. Bodies were torn asunder as successive grenades hit the vehicle itself and triggered a secondary explosion.

A pillar of orange-red flame shot up through the roof and sent sparks into the sky as the Strykers rolled past. Had the Confederate CO been killed? Mac hoped so. A disruption in the chain of command could slow the rebs down.

A vicious firefight was under way as the Strykers entered the field. Both sides of the engagement were firing machine guns, and since all of them had been members of the same army months earlier, they were using similar tactics. Every fifth round was a so-called “dim” tracer… Meaning tracer rounds that could be seen using night-vision gear but were less likely to reveal where they were coming from.

Streams of such tracers were crisscrossing the airfield as the rebels sought to overrun the C-130s, and the Union soldiers battled to keep them at bay. Mac heard the persistent ping, ping, ping sound of bullets striking CALIFORNIA GIRL’s armor and realized that the vic’s lights were on! She ordered Kona to turn them off and keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Boomer Four… It looks like the enemy is dug in along the west side of the field. Please confirm. Over.”

“That’s correct,” Overman answered. “Over.”

“How many Hercs do we have at this point?”

“Two,” Overman replied.

“Roger that… Start loading now, and get both planes positioned for takeoff. We will suppress enemy fire until you call for us to come in. Over.”

“Got it,” Overman said. “Over.”

“Boomer Six to Boomer Two-One and Two-Two… We’re going to take a run down the west side of the field. Fire at will. Lieutenant Lyle… we need gunners in the rear hatches of both vics. Please order some volunteers to man those LMGs.”

That got a chuckle, and Mac saw a Green Beret surface behind her as Kona began the run. The Stryker was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher, and it began to chug. Explosions marched down the edge of the airfield. The LUCKY LOU was equipped with a .50 caliber machine gun, and that was firing, too. Meanwhile, Mac and a couple of Green Berets used the pintle-mounted M-249s to keep the enemy pinned down.

But as Kona turned, and the CALIFORNIA GIRL began a run back to the south, a rocket fired from an AT4 hit the lead plane just forward of the starboard wing. There was a flash, followed by a dull thud, and a ball of flame. It floated up to pop like a balloon. Lives had been lost, the wreckage was blocking the runway, and only one plane remained.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

The situation room was so quiet that Sloan could hear the blood pounding in his head. Slowly, but surely, the mission was coming apart. And for all he knew, Mac was dead. Meanwhile, he had to pretend he wasn’t thinking about her and keep his cool for the benefit of those around him. “God damn it,” Sloan said after Yankee One was hit. “Can they use Yankee Three?”

“Yes,” Jones confirmed. “After it taxis out and around the wreckage.”

“What about the package? Where is he?”

“He was inside one of the Strykers,” Jones answered. “And both Strykers are intact so far as we know.”

Sloan thought about that. Mac was with Secretary Sanders. So if he was okay, she might be okay. It was something to hope for. Then he realized how selfish that was and felt guilty. People were dead, and all of them were his responsibility, even those fighting for the South. The torture continued.

PYOTE FIELD, TEXAS

“We’re ready,” Overman told her, “and circling the wreckage. Come to Papa. Over.”

Mac was proud of Overman and the way he’d been able to keep his company together in the face of unexpected resistance. “We’re on the way,” Mac assured him, as the Strykers sped across the airfield. Kona braked as the plane loomed ahead and the CALIFORNIA GIRL came to a stop. Mac ducked down into the cargo bay. “Everyone out! We’re next to Yankee Three. Take the prisoner and get aboard.”

Once the ramp was down, two Green Berets took hold of Sanders’s arms and carried the official away. He was shorter than they were, which meant his feet never touched the ground. Mac waited for Kona and her gunner to get clear before throwing a thermite grenade into the bay. It was stupid to feel sentimental about a machine, but she did, and would feel better knowing the enemy wouldn’t be able to use it.

Together with Lyle, Mac ran to the LUCKY LOU. Everyone was out of the vehicle by then, and Mac saw a flash as a second thermite grenade went off. She knew the resulting fire would find some of the Stryker’s backup ammo. And when that happened, a secondary explosion would destroy the Stryker. “Follow me!” Mac shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

The C-130’s rear ramp was bouncing just inches off the ground as the plane continued to pick up speed. Mac jogged next to it as she urged people forward. “Get the lead out, damn it… Is everyone here?”

“We are five people short of a full load,” a green hat shouted from inside the plane.

Mac swore. Five soldiers. Dead? Maybe. That would be bad enough. “We leave no man behind.” That was the motto. But did it make sense to sacrifice more lives, perhaps all of their lives, to retrieve dead bodies? No, not to Robin’s way of thinking.

But what if one or more of the MIAs were alive? Lying in a ditch, watching the last plane take off? How would that feel? Mac knew how it would feel. But she also knew that fifty-plus lives were at stake. She looked at Lyle and knew that he knew. Here was the cost of command. “We’re out of here,” Mac said, as both she and Lyle made the jump. Hands reached out to pull them up as a soldier yelled, “Look out! Here comes a vehicle!”

The Humvee was behind them, and catching up quickly. It was armed with a .50, which began to fire three-round bursts. “Throw your grenades!” Lyle shouted. “All of them!”

Half a dozen soldiers threw whatever they had left. That included a dozen fragmentation grenades, a canister of red smoke, and an illumination device. They bounced into the air and went off right in front of the Humvee. It swerved, hit a pothole, and flipped.

The Herc was airborne by then… And as the nose came up, Mac had to grab onto a metal support or be thrown back into the still-rising ramp. As the hatch closed, Mac took the opportunity to look around. That was when she realized that the plane was only half full! And that made sense. The rest of her troops had been on Yankee One.

Overman came back to greet her. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head. “You made it. Thank God for that.”

Mac’s throat felt tight. It was difficult to speak. “How many? How many did we lose?”

Overman looked away. “Fifty-six, including the air crews.”

That was something like half of the people who’d gone on the mission. Mac wanted to cry but couldn’t because she was the CO. And COs have to suck it up. Mac struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “And the wounded?”

“Just about everyone,” Overman replied. “Nine of them are serious.”

“Shit. And Olinger?”

“Follow me,” Overman said, and led her forward.

And there, kneeling next to a wounded soldier, was New York Times correspondent Cory Olinger. His clothes were covered in blood, and he was helping a medic. “Olinger is okay for a fucking reporter,” Overman said. And that, Mac knew, was high praise.

A pilot spoke over the intercom. “We’re flying at thirty thousand feet with an F-15 Strike Eagle off each wingtip. Oh, and one more thing… General Jones sent you a message: ‘Well done. Take the rest of the day off.’”

That produced laughter, and Mac managed a smile. Mac’s Marauders. Her Marauders. A great deal had been lost… But something had been gained as well.