Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 12

HOUSTON, TEXAS

After carving a path of destruction across Mexico, what remained of Hurricane Gloria was about to strike Texas. And, as the black SUV wound its way through the streets of Houston, General Bo Macintyre caught occasional glimpses of the low-hanging clouds that were sweeping north from the Gulf. Drops of rain appeared on the windshield, only to be obliterated as the wipers squeaked back and forth. I wish I could get rid of my problems that easily, Bo thought to himself.

And there were problems… lots of them. Not the least of which was dealing with self-obsessed, weak-kneed, poll-driven politicians. But that’s how he had to spend his day. So be it. He would use the opportunity to fight for more of everything. Because that’s what he needed in order to win: more soldiers, more weapons, and more time. And if the past was a guide to the future, he would get at least some of what he wanted.

The Hotel Americas was shaped like a huge cube and boasted more than a thousand rooms. The building seemed to swallow the SUV as the vehicle followed a ramp down to the formal entryway below. A doorman hurried to open the door and, since Bo was dressed in civilian clothes, was unlikely to recognize the stern-looking general who appeared on TV at least once a week.

Other people did, however… including two of Bo’s aides, who were dressed in mufti. They fell in behind Bo as a very solicitous assistant manager led the party to a private elevator. It took them to the fourth floor, where many of the hotel’s meeting rooms were located.

Another assistant manager was waiting to greet Bo as he stepped out. And he was “thrilled” to have such a distinguished guest in the hotel.

Bo felt nothing but contempt for suck-ups and men of military age who weren’t in uniform. So he didn’t bother to acknowledge the manager’s comments as he was shown into a medium-sized meeting room. And that was when Bo felt the first stirrings of concern. The tables were facing each other, and one was a good deal longer than the other. Five chairs were arranged behind it, while there was only one at the small table. Why? Had a mistake been made? Or was he about to be grilled?

There was some milling around, a good deal of glad-handing, and plenty of fake conviviality as a gaggle of civilians entered from an adjoining room. Had they been in a meeting? To discuss him? Bo sensed the answer was yes.

Finally, as the bullshit storm began to subside, staffers were asked to leave. And that included Bo’s aides. He knew what that meant… The civilians were going to kick his ass but planned to do it privately, to prevent leaks.

After taking his seat, Bo found himself facing a panel that consisted of President Morton Lemaire, Secretary of Defense Harmon Gill, Secretary of the Army Orson Selock, National Security Advisor Mary Chaffin, and the Director of the Confederate Intelligence Agency Anthony Vale. Lemaire opened the meeting. “First, please allow me to thank you for coming, General Macintyre… We know how busy you are.”

That was bullshit, of course, since Bo had no choice. But, like all generals, Bo was part politician. “You’re welcome, Mr. President. And thank you for inviting me… I’d rather be here than working on the budget.” That produced the predictable laugh.

“So,” Lemaire began, “I’d like to congratulate you, your staff, and your soldiers on the capture of Albuquerque! It was the sort of lightning strike that General Patton would have approved of.”

For some reason, Bo’s superiors were obsessed with World War II generals, and rarely made mention of men like Harold G. Moore, Norman Schwarzkopf, and Stanley Allen McChrystal. Probably because they’d never heard of them. “Thank you, sir.”

“And your people did a helluva job down in Brownsville,” Gill added. “They kicked Cabrera’s ass.”

Victoria had been in charge of that mission, and Bo felt a momentary flush of pride. “Thank you, sir.”

“Plus, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the commando raid on Norfolk,” Lemaire added. “Three ships sunk. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

They’re warming me up, Bo thought to himself. “I hate to admit it, but the navy might have had something to do with that one,” Bo replied. The joke produced a round of chuckles, but Bo knew that an avalanche of shit was coming his way.

“But,” Gill said, “in spite of our considerable success, I would describe the present state of the war as a stalemate. Would you disagree with that assessment?”

Gill’s father was a well-known conservative politician, and Gill had been the CEO of a large defense contractor prior to the war. The man was likeable in many ways, and a dyed-in-the wool Libertarian, which Bo perceived as a good thing. But what Gill wasn’t was a soldier… And like so many civilians, Gill had a simplistic view of war.

Still, Gill was the boss, and Bo understood the need to choose his words with care. “I agree in the broadest sense, sir. Although the specifics are important. For example… we have the edge where orbital warfare is concerned, and they have the capacity to build more planes than we can.”

“So noted,” Gill said. “But rather than analyze the strengths and weaknesses of both sides, the purpose of this meeting is to find a way to win. And who better to consult than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs? So tell us, General… Rather than keeping on keeping on, is there some way we could break the stalemate and put some points on the board now?”

Bo looked from face to face. “That depends,” he temporized.

“On what?” Chaffin demanded.

“On what you’re willing to do,” Bo answered. “Are you willing to do the hard things? Will you authorize the air force to carpet bomb Chicago? Will you green-light the use of cluster bombs? And what about tactical nukes? If we nuke a hundred targets on Monday, we will be victorious by Friday.”

Lemaire frowned. “But what good is a nuclear wasteland?”

“It wouldn’t be good so far as our enemies are concerned,” Bo replied. “But the use of tactical nuclear weapons could save the lives of our troops, the same way it did when our great-grandparents dropped a bomb on Hiroshima during World War II. A massive attack would destroy the Union’s factories, break the enemy’s will to fight, and put an end to Sloan’s socialistic government.”

“I don’t know,” Gill said doubtfully. “It would cost billions to rebuild.”

Bo spoke as if to a child. “With all due respect, sir… Why would you rebuild? All you would need to do is prevent the rabble from streaming south. Kingdoms will rise and fall. Cults will rule… And die-hard socialists will attempt to re-create the existing freeocracy. But surveillance drones can be used to watch the sheep and target leaders as necessary. That is how we can win.”

It wasn’t the first time that such options had been discussed. But it was the first time they’d been put forward as part of an overall strategy. And Bo’s unapologetic argument in favor of destroying half the country in order to save the rest of it left the civilians mute. A good ten seconds passed before Lemaire cleared his throat. “Thank you, General… I think I speak for everyone when I say that I appreciate your candor. I’m sure your comments will fuel some very interesting discussions during the days and weeks ahead.

“Now, there’s another matter we need to address. Secretary Gill? I believe you have something you wish to share with the general?”

Gill stood and circled the table to place a newspaper in front of Bo. “It pains me to say this, General… especially in light of your selfless service to the Confederacy. But this sort of thing has to stop.”

Bo looked down. A copy of the New York Times was lying in front of him. The headline read: A MISSION INTO HELL. And there, directly below it, was a photo of his younger daughter. Robin was a major now! Since when? She’d been court-martialed and sent to prison last he’d heard. “Go ahead,” Gill said, having returned to his seat. “Read it. We’ll wait.”

The caption under the photo read: “Major Robin Macintyre, commanding officer of Mac’s Marauders, led a mission deep into enemy territory.”

Bo could feel their eyes on him as he skimmed the article. He was, needless to say, familiar with the snatch. Finally, having finished the story, he looked up. “Kids these days… You never know what they’ll do next.”

Selock laughed. But he was the only one.

“I’m glad you can find humor in the situation,” Lemaire said icily. “But we lost thirty-seven soldiers at Pyote Field, and their families are very upset. Nor can I ignore the fact that your daughter’s troops were able to abduct a member of my cabinet.”

Bo started to respond but was forced to stop when Lemaire raised a hand. “It would be one thing if the raid were an isolated incident. Many loyal Southerners have family members who are fighting for the North, and the reverse holds as well. But the raid is part of a pattern… Major Macintyre led the effort to rescue President Sloan from Richton, Mississippi. And it isn’t unreasonable to suggest that Sloan would be dead had it not been for your daughter. And what then? There’s a very good chance that the North would still be in chaos.

“Then Major Macintyre went after Robert Howard who, as you’ll recall, was working with us. And now this.”

Bo was angry. Angry at Robin… And angry at the assholes arrayed in front of him. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded. “I don’t have any influence over Robin. We’re estranged… And we have been for years.”

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” Secretary Gill replied thinly. “You can do one of the hard things that you like to talk about. Your daughter is an enemy combatant. Treat her as such.”

Bo looked from face to face. All of them were willing to meet his gaze. They’d met, taken a vote, and sentenced Robin to death. And the assassin? That would be him, or someone chosen by him. But could he do it? The decision was easier than it should have been.

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

When the meteorite exploded over Washington, D.C., the National Cemetery across the river in Arlington was spared. Some called that a miracle, a sign of God’s compassion. But Mac thought a truly compassionate God would have saved the living rather than the dead.

For whatever reason, Arlington had been spared except for damage to the trees, many of which were now branchless sticks or shattered stumps. But the graves? Some of the markers had been toppled. Fortunately, the remains were safe underground.

Mac had been there before to visit her ancestors’ graves, the first of whom fought for the South and died at Gettysburg. The others had fallen in World War I and Korea. Macintyres had fought in World War II and Vietnam, too, yet come home safe, as her father had after fighting in Afghanistan. But Mac was there to bury half of Alpha Company.

Under normal circumstances, the services would have been spread out over days or weeks. But the public affairs people had gone to great lengths to group them together. Why? To better recognize the nation’s loss? Or to create a made-for-TV spectacle that would remind people of the daring mission into enemy territory and make Sloan look good?

Or was that too cynical? Mac knew Sloan had to look good in order to get elected. And, all things considered, she wanted him to remain in office. The fighting president. That was the kind of president the nation needed.

The staff car slowed and came to a stop. A sharply dressed private opened the door and delivered a crisp salute as Mac got out. “Good morning, ma’am.”

It wasn’t a good morning, and Mac resisted the temptation to say so. “Good morning, Private. How long have you been here?”

“Since 0600, ma’am.”

It was cloudy, cold, and well past 0900. “Thanks for getting things ready, Private… We appreciate it.”

The soldier looked surprised. No one thanked him for anything. “You’re welcome, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

A snowflake twirled down between them. Mac nodded. “Me too. They were good soldiers.” And with that, she walked away.

A lieutenant was waiting to lead her to the area where Mac’s Marauders were to be laid to rest alongside the air force personnel who had died with them. Chairs had been set up… more than four hundred of them. A temporary speaker’s platform was in place. And there, beyond the stage, the lines of open graves could be seen. They were on part of the 624 acres of land that had once belonged to Confederate General Robert E. Lee. It was an irony not lost on the reporters who were there to cover the event.

Overman showed Mac to her seat as streams of people filtered into the area. The officers acknowledged each other but didn’t engage in chitchat. Neither was in the mood. What followed was a tried-and-true ceremony multiplied by fifty. Not fifty-six, because six soldiers were MIA and might be alive. Were they? It seemed unlikely. But what if?

Mac thought about that at least ten times a day. The army took pride in “leaving no man or woman behind.” Yet she had… And the knowledge continued to eat at her. That in spite of what her soldiers told the debriefers. Mac remembered one in particular. The soldier’s name was Cramer, but everyone called him Howdy, because that’s how he greeted people. “The major arrived after loading was under way and fought to keep those bastards off our backs. There wasn’t no way she could know where everyone was. As for taking off… Hell, we had to take off or die. And what good would that do?”

Investigating officers had agreed with Howdy, Mac had been cleared of what some family members called “dereliction of duty,” and that was that. Except that it wasn’t over because Mac couldn’t stop thinking about it.

A train of caissons arrived. So many caissons that it had been difficult to find enough of them. The caskets were removed, placed in three carefully spaced rows, and covered with flags. American flags.

Then, as the officer in charge led his team off to one side, the Chief of Chaplains for the Union Army stepped forward. In keeping with the request for a nondenominational service, he had chosen the poem “Eulogy for a Veteran” by an unknown author. Puffs of lung-warmed air accompanied his words.

The words were moving… And Mac allowed herself to cry as the chaplain backed away and the burial team took over once again. The audience was ordered to rise, and the volleys of carefully timed rifle fire began. Normally, a party of seven soldiers would fire three volleys. But in the case of this burial, there were so many salutes that two teams of riflemen were required so that each squad would have time to reload.

Gun smoke drifted through the air as the noise went on and on. Was that intentional? So the ceremony would look more impressive on television? Maybe. But Mac didn’t give a shit. She wanted her soldiers to receive the honors due them.

Once the volleys were over, a bugler played “Taps,” as the caskets were lowered into the ground. The mournful sound never failed to move Mac, and this time was no exception. Would someone play “Taps” for her someday? Of course they would. Every soldier has to die… The only question was when.

The snow fell more thickly as the spectators took their seats, and teams of soldiers folded each flag and delivered it to the next of kin. The ceremony came to a close after that, and General Herman Jones passed among the mourners, offering each a card, along with the nation’s condolences.

Mac was there as well, and some of the family members came over to speak with her. Most were pleasant, but one woman wasn’t. She was wearing a snow-dusted scarf over her long hair, her eyes were red from crying, and a handkerchief was clutched in her right fist. “How dare you come here!” the woman demanded. “Kevin was alive! I know he was! He came to me in a dream. ‘The major left us to die.’ That’s what he said. May you rot in hell.” And with that, she turned away.

Mac bit her lip and wondered if it was true. As the last of mourners left, Mac was still there, looking out over the graves, when a woman appeared beside her. She was wearing a white-knit cap and a thick coat. Another mother? Intent on damning her to hell? That’s what Mac assumed as the woman spoke. “Major Macintyre?”

Mac braced herself. “Yes?”

“I have a message for you.” The woman handed Mac an envelope. It was blank except for a presidential seal. Mac felt her heart beat a little faster. She opened it. And there, tucked inside, was a note card. Two words were scrawled on the heavy stock. “I’m sorry.”

The note hadn’t been signed, nor was that necessary. Mac felt a sense of warmth suffuse her body as she read the words again. Then, having placed the card back in its envelope, she turned to discover that the woman was gone. “I am the diamond glint on snow.” The blanket of white lay over the cemetery like a shroud.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

Warehouse 72 was a nondescript building located in an out-of-the-way part of Fort Hood. Victoria parked her car and went inside. The air was chilly and smelled of disinfectants. A civilian was seated behind the waist-high counter. She had short hair and too much eye shadow. “Hello… How can I help you?”

“My name’s Macintyre… Kathy Ivers is expecting me.”

The woman nodded. “Right… I’ll page her.”

Ivers arrived two minutes later. She was dressed in a white coat over green OR scrubs. Her white clogs made clacking sounds as she walked. “Major Macintyre? I’m Kathy… Everything is ready. Please follow me.”

The facility was part of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner System, which was charged with carrying out autopsies on all soldiers killed in action, including those who fought for the North. The operation’s main purpose was to gather detailed information regarding how each person had been killed in order to identify deficiencies in body armor and vehicle shielding.

But there were secondary benefits as well. Especially where the examination of enemy casualties was concerned. What about their body armor? Had improvements been made? And if so, should the Confederacy copy them?

Victoria was there for another reason, however. She wanted to look at the bodies of the people her sister had left behind when she fled Pyote Field. “Leave no man behind.” That was the motto. But Robin had left five bodies behind rather than stay and fight for them. The bitch.

Ivers led Victoria back through a maze of corridors to the cold room, where the cadavers were laid out on stainless-steel tables. There were three men and two women. All were nude and, with the exception of an African-American male, looked exceedingly pale under the bright lights.

Victoria had seen dead bodies before. Lots of them. But always on the battlefield. And what she saw in front of her was unsettling. Some of the soldiers were staring at the ceiling. Others lay with eyes closed. One woman had lost an arm in the fighting. It lay next to her… And there was a wedding ring on her hand.

A Y-shaped incision had been made under the soldier’s breasts. It ran all the way down to her pubic bone. Widely spaced stitches had been used to close it. “The autopsies are complete,” Ivers explained. “Their brains were taken elsewhere for examination, but their organs were replaced.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “In the anatomically correct positions?”

“No, of course not,” Ivers replied. “That would be a waste of time. We dump them into the chest cavity. The effects found on or near each body are displayed next to them. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thanks,” Victoria replied.

“There are some coats hanging over there,” the tech said. “Feel free to borrow one if you get cold.” And with that she left.

Victoria eyed the bodies. They were a beginning point, a way to prepare for her latest assignment. “Kill your sister.” Her father had given the order over drinks in a nice restaurant. And who better for the job? Victoria knew Robin the way only a sister could. And she hated Robin the way only a sister could. The psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung had a theory about that… He called it the Electra complex, meaning a psychosexual competition between a girl and her mother for the affection of her father. Except that Victoria had been forced to compete with both her mother and her sister.

Victoria knew that some people, most people, would see that as a problem. Screw them. It was, to her mind, a logical extension of the Social Darwinism upon which conservative principles were based. It made sense that she, as the person most deserving of her father’s affection, would have it. And the fact that Victoria knew what she was doing meant she was sane.

But orders to kill Robin were one thing… Getting the job done was another. There were plenty of potential obstacles. Robin wasn’t likely to have bodyguards as such… Majors didn’t rate that kind of protection. But she was in command of a battalion. And if even half of the press reports were true, Robin’s jailbirds were in love with her. So an assassin would have to get past them in order to put the bitch down.

Then there was the woman herself. Somehow, some way, Victoria’s once-reticent sister had transformed herself into a badass officer who was quite capable of defending herself.

So how to get close enough? Perhaps, by spending some time with the dead bodies, Victoria would find an answer. As Victoria circled the tables, she paused every now and then to examine a wallet, handle a piece of jewelry, or look at a photograph. One image caught her attention. The picture was that of a young man with a striking resemblance to one of the dead soldiers… a private named Linc Holby.

A brother perhaps? Yes. And the letter made mention of how happy their parents had been the day he was released from Leavenworth. Was that why Linc had kept the letter? And continued to carry it around? Of course it was.

As Victoria stood there, holding the letter, an idea occurred to her. What if someone pretending to be Linc Holby’s brother turned up at Robin’s base and asked to speak with her? Would Robin agree to a private meeting? Yes, she would! Robin was sure to feel guilty about leaving Linc behind. Very guilty. And that would provide the opening Victoria needed. She took all of Holby’s effects, signed a receipt for them, and left.

NEAR FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

Traveling from Texas to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, turned out to be a lot more difficult than Victoria had anticipated. Months earlier, she’d been able to ride her motorcycle north, using back roads and common sense. Now, security was tight, very tight, all along the heavily disputed border between North and South. So the team’s first attempt to enter Union-held territory failed.

That forced them to request a plane. It flew them west across Mexico and out over the Pacific before turning north. After a long, nine-hour flight, the transport touched down in Canada. And, because the Canucks were on friendly terms with the Confederacy, the team was able to charter a second plane, which took them east to a rural airport north of Duluth, Minnesota.

From there, a hunting guide led them down through a myriad of trails to the point where a beat-up van was waiting. It was the property of a Southern sympathizer, and the Confederate flag sticker in the rear window attested to that fact. Victoria ordered Sergeant Ric Radic to scrape it off. His job was to provide security and handle communications.

Sergeant Jimmy Clay had been chosen to impersonate Holby’s brother, lure Robin off base for a meeting, and kill her. Corporal Suzy Quan, better known as Suzy-Q, was an ex-beautician and makeup artist. Her task was to make Clay look like Holby to the extent that was possible. Who knew? Maybe Robin had met Linc’s brother… If so, the likeness would be important.

From Minnesota, they followed a meandering path south through Iowa and into Kansas. So, by the time they arrived in Leavenworth, two weeks had passed since Victoria had viewed the bodies. Was Robin still there? Probably. Mac’s Marauders had been badly mauled at Pyote Field, and Victoria figured it would take a while for her sister to get replacements and train them.

An apartment had been secured for the group, and the key was right where the Confederate agent had left it. The fully furnished crash pad was pretty funky, but that didn’t matter. If all went well, the team would be gone within a matter of days.

After settling in, the next step was to learn as much as they could about what was going on inside the base. Were the Marauders there? And was Robin present?

Victoria figured that the best and least risky way to gather such intel was to visit the correct bar and make some new friends. With that strategy in mind, Victoria put on a skimpy outfit and, with Clay in tow, made her way to a military nightspot called the Bomb Shelter. It was, according to information online, “A favorite with off-duty army personnel.” And, since the bar had 1,236 positive reviews, that appeared to be true.

So Victoria had every reason to expect the thump, thump, thump of bass as they arrived, a meaty bouncer on the door, and a packed room. But after making her way down a flight of concrete stairs, Victoria discovered that the door was unattended, the music wasn’t that loud, and the nightclub was practically empty. “What’s up with this?” Clay wanted to know. And Victoria wondered the same thing.

The décor consisted of army paraphernalia dating back to WWI. There were various types of helmets, sandbags around the empty stage, and a dramatically lit Huey in the middle of the room.

And that was just the beginning. Packs, entrenching tools, boots, and more were perched on beams or hanging from nails. And any wall space not taken up by regimental flags was covered with layers of photographs that had been taken all over the world. Almost all of them featured one or more soldiers standing in front of a building, a vehicle, or a landmark.

Once the two of them were seated, a waitress arrived. Her outfit consisted of a tee shirt with GO ARMY on it, short shorts, and combat boots. A bejeweled utility belt with pouches completed the look. “Good evening… Would you like to order drinks?”

“Yes,” Victoria replied. “But where is everyone?”

“You’re from out of town?”

Victoria saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. We heard this was a hopping place.”

The girl nodded. “It was until they split the brigade up into smaller groups and sent them off to who knows where. See that photo? The larger one? Those guys were regulars. Business sucks… especially when you’re working for tips.”

“Where did they go?” Clay inquired.

The waitress shrugged. “I asked, and they said it was secret. Are you ready to order? Or shall I give you a minute?”

“We’re ready,” Victoria assured her. Once the orders had been placed, and the waitress was walking away, Victoria turned her attention back to the montage. The photo with the three soldiers on it was not only larger than the rest but pinned on top of them as if it had been added recently. Victoria peered at the image in hopes of recognizing something in the background. An entire brigade had been subdivided and dispersed. Why? Army Intelligence would want to know.

“What is that thing?” Clay inquired, as he pointed to the vehicle immediately behind the soldiers. Victoria hadn’t paid any attention to it until then. But now, on closer inspection, she realized that she didn’t recognize it either. A missile launcher of some sort? Yes, but what kind?

The waitress arrived with drinks, and Victoria took the opportunity to ask more questions. “How about Mac’s Marauders? Did they leave, too?”

“Oh, no,” the girl answered. “They’re still here. But they’re in a training cycle, so we haven’t seen them for a while.”

If Victoria hadn’t been a soldier herself, she might have been surprised by how much the girl knew. But that sort of savvy was typical of military bars. The soldiers would come in, shoot the shit, and unintentionally reveal all sorts of stuff. Never mind the warnings from officers like her.

Once the waitress turned away, Victoria took the group shot down and slipped it into her bag. Later, after they returned to the apartment, she would order Radic to scan it and send it off. Chances were that the people in Texas would know what kind of launcher it was.

After a couple of drinks and good food, the twosome returned to the apartment with boxed meals for Radic and Suzy-Q. They were inside enemy territory, so one of them would need to stand watch at all times. Victoria took the first two-hour stint and went to bed. She’d been asleep for less than an hour when Radic knocked on the door.

The apartment had only the bare minimum of furnishings and, while there were enough beds, there wasn’t any bedding. So Victoria had to turn on a light and wiggle her way out of her sleep sack before she could answer the door. Quan had the neighboring twin bed and turned over to face the wall. “Yeah,” Victoria said groggily. “What’s up?”

“Some guy named Alpha-Four-Niner-Six wants to talk to you,” Radic said as he offered the sat phone. Her father wanted to speak with her? That was a surprise, and Victoria felt a growing sense of apprehension as she took the phone. “This is Alpha-Four-Niner-Seven.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Bo Macintyre said flatly. “Get your team out of there by 0300. And when I say ‘out of there,’ I mean as far away as you can get… Oh, and one other thing… Your launcher is part of a new short-range antimissile screen that can blow our stuff out of the sky. We knew they were working on it but didn’t realize the system was being deployed. Think about what that means.” Victoria heard a click followed by static.

Victoria’s mind was racing. A change in plans… Get clear by 0300… Why? Because they’re going to drop some heavy-duty shit on Fort Leavenworth, Victoria thought to herself. Was one of the antimissile batteries located at the fort? Hell, yes.

Suddenly, Victoria understood. Because the Union was deploying a system that could intercept conventional and nuclear weapons, the Confederacy was determined to inflict some pain while they still could. Assuming it wasn’t too late. What was that her father had said down in Port St. Joe? “Victory always comes at a cost. And I think we should pay the price before the Union grows any stronger.”

Shit, shit, shit! Her own army was going to nuke her ass! Victoria jerked the door open. “Clay! Radic! Grab your stuff… We’re getting out of here. And I mean now!”

FORT RILEY MILITARY RESERVATION, NORTH CENTRAL KANSAS

Night exercises were a pain in the ass. But because a great deal of combat took place during the hours of darkness, such efforts were very important. And that was why Mac’s Marauders had been sent 130 miles west to Fort Riley where they could play hide-and-seek with other armored units and get what Sergeant Major Price called, “their get-go juice back.”

And that was important. Having lost half of Alpha Company, and with new people arriving every day, there was a need to strengthen unit cohesion. “Keep ’em busy,” Colonel Lassiter had advised. “Work their asses off.” And Mac had done her best to comply.

She found ways to test squads, platoons, and companies. How good were their leaders? How rusty were the soldiers who’d been in prison? And were their technical skills up to date?

Nor was the headquarters company spared. Wu and her people were expected to fight if it came to that, and had been tested along with everyone else.

So there the troops were, spaced out along the top of a steep embankment, waiting for an “enemy” convoy to pass below. But would it? According to the thermal images streaming in from one of the battalion’s drones, it would.

But what about the convoy’s drones? Their job was to spot concentrations of enemy troops so that the convoy’s commander could call in an air strike. Mac had a solution for that, however… Or hoped that she did. Thanks to countless years of erosion, a rock ledge had been exposed, and it hung rooflike over the embankment, giving Mac’s troops a place to hide. Hopefully, the partial “roof” would screen them from the convoy’s drone. That’s what Mac was thinking about when there was a bright flash of light, followed by a second flash, and overlapping explosions.

Mac’s initial assumption was that the officer in charge of the exercise was throwing them a curveball… Something he did on a frequent basis. But before she could give the possibility much thought, her RTO offered her a handset. “Warlord is on the horn, ma’am.”

Mac took the instrument and held it to her ear. The message was for all COs, and Warlord was in midsentence. “…I repeat, not a drill. The rebs fired two short-range missiles at us. Both were intercepted by Iron Shield launchers and destroyed in midair. We believe that the enemy missiles were armed with nuclear, repeat nuclear warheads. That means there could be some fallout. Especially in the aftermath of an airburst. Those who can shelter in their vehicles should do so. Those who can’t should seek whatever shelter is available and await orders. Decontamination units will be dispatched soon.

“We believe both warheads were relatively small and expect that the radiation will disperse in a week or two. In the meantime, monitor your troops for any signs of radiation sickness. Over.”

All of Mac’s people would fit into her Strykers, and all of the Strykers were equipped with a CBRN (chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear) warfare system, which would keep the crew compartments airtight and positively pressurized. So their course of action was clear.

After giving the necessary orders, Mac scrambled up the embankment and onto the flat area above. As troops hurried to board the trucks, Mac saw a flash of light off to the east. Fort Leavenworth? Mac hoped the interceptors had been able to protect that base as well. But were more missiles on the way? If so, one or more might get through.

Mac forced herself to wait next to the vic called HELL ON WHEELS until all of her personnel were accounted for. She ushered Tilly up the ramp before entering the Stryker herself.

The interior was crowded, and Mac felt a rising sense of claustrophobia as she sat down. Sergeant Major Price was seated across from her. He grinned. “I don’t know about you, Major, but I could use a beer.”

Mac nodded. “Me too… Put out the word. Off-duty personnel will assemble to complete mandatory beer training once we’re off duty. I will buy the first round.”

A cheer went up inside the vic. Mac’s Marauders were on the mend.