Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 13

MCCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, WICHITA, KANSAS

Sloan could have arrived in a black SUV or limo. But Press Secretary Doyle Besom was forever looking for ways to portray “the fighting president” as a man of action. So nothing less than a military vehicle would do. The flags flying from the Humvee’s antennas snapped in the breeze as the vehicle rolled past a long line of KC-135 Stratotankers that were parked next to the main runway. Sloan’s arrival would make a good picture when viewed from above, which it would be, since the TV networks had permission to fly camera drones over selected portions of the base.

An air force colonel was waiting to open the door and salute Sloan as he emerged from the vehicle. Sloan returned the gesture and shook hands with the officer. Cameras followed the two men up a flight of metal stairs to the top of a reviewing stand. Drones swooped in to capture tight shots of the president’s face as a general stepped in to greet him.

Then, after a formal introduction from the general, Sloan stood in front of the microphones. His eyes swept the mostly military crowd. “My fellow Americans… The oligarchs who rule the Confederacy attempted to destroy this base using two missiles fired from Texas. Each weapon was armed with a tactical nuclear warhead packing explosive power equal to seventy-two tons of TNT. Or, put another way, the equivalent of seventy-two two-thousand-pound bombs.

“Fortunately, our newly deployed Iron Shield system kept one of the weapons from striking this base. Sadly, the other missile fell on the town of Belle Plain, where more than a thousand people died.”

Sloan paused to let the words sink in. “Meanwhile, the Confederacy launched similar attacks on Fort Riley, Fort Leavenworth, and half a dozen other targets. I’m happy to say that all of those weapons, with the exception of the one that hit Belle Plain, were intercepted.

“Please remember that a significant amount of radiation was released into the atmosphere, however. So if you live in an area where one or more warheads exploded, be sure to follow the instructions provided by state and local authorities. Scientists assure me that so long as citizens take the right precautions, they should be fine. But if you, or someone you know, has symptoms of what could be radiation poisoning, see a doctor right away.

“Now let’s ask ourselves some very important questions. Why was the Confederate government willing to use nuclear weapons? And how should we respond? What I’m about to say falls under the heading of conjecture… That’s all we have to work with since the enemy hasn’t seen fit to comment on their motivations.

“But to my mind, the sudden escalation from conventional weapons to nuclear weapons signals weakness and desperation. Having been unable to take more of our territory, it appears that President Lemaire and his flunkies are turning to a different strategy. What if their new goal is to lay waste to the North, in the hope that they can create a state of continual chaos and simply wall us off? If that’s their plan, they might decide to fire nuclear-armed missiles at population centers. To counter that possibility, we will continue to expand the Iron Shield system and put appropriate civil-defense measures in place.”

Sloan stared into the cameras. “Regardless of their reasoning, we need to respond. But how? After I heard what happened to the town of Belle Plain, I wanted revenge, and my first impulse was to launch a counterstrike, knowing that the Confederacy doesn’t have an effective antimissile system. So our missiles were likely to get through.

“But as emotionally satisfying as that would have been, I remembered something very important. Who would die when our missiles fell? The oligarchs in their underground shelters? No, they would be safe. The casualties, and there would be thousands of them, would consist of the people who allowed themselves to be co-opted.

“Some might say that they deserve to die for supporting an evil government… And I can understand that view. Yet what about our first civil war? Reconstruction wasn’t pretty, but it beat the alternatives.

“So,” Sloan added, “the following message is for the oligarchs and the people who support them. Do not use tactical nuclear weapons again. If you do, we will intercept most, if not all of them, and retaliate in kind. There will be no further warnings and no negotiations. Just death raining down from the sky. And consider this… Rather than fighting a war you can’t win, how about agreeing to a cease-fire in place? Let’s exchange words instead of bullets.”

There was no applause. Just jagged spears of lightning on the horizon, followed by the soft mutter of thunder. Rain began to fall, and Sloan looked up into the sky. Was a satellite staring down at him? Probably.

“Mr. President?”

Sloan turned to see that the general was getting wet. “Come on, General… I hope air force coffee tastes better than the sludge the navy serves. Let’s get out of the rain.”

NEW MADRID, MISSOURI

The Humvee slowed to a crawl as it followed a six-by-six into a traffic jam. Mac had never been to the river town of New Madrid before, which wasn’t too surprising since it was a small community with a population of only three thousand people. She had looked it up, however—and been interested to discover that the Battle of Island Number Ten had been fought there.

Back during the first civil war, the Confederates had been determined to prevent the Union Army from using the Mississippi River as a path south. It took the Northern army a month to break through—but they did on April 8, 1862. And now, more than 150 years later, the town of New Madrid was about to play a role in the Second Civil War.

From what Mac could see, New Madrid was a pleasant place, or had been, before the military came to town. Now the streets were clogged with trucks carrying supplies for Flotilla 4. Whatever that was.

The orders had come down shortly after the attack on Fort Riley. Mac’s Marauders were to pack up and drive to New Madrid. Once there, Mac was supposed to report to Colonel George Russell who, according to what she’d been able to learn, was a member of the Army Corps of Engineers and Flotilla 4’s commanding officer. And that was the extent of what she knew. Her driver braked as an MP waved them down. He tossed Mac a salute as she opened the side window. “Where are you headed, ma’am?”

“We’re Mac’s Marauders,” she told him. “I have twenty Strykers loaded with troops plus some support vehicles. Where do you want us?”

The MP consulted a clipboard and nodded. “Right. Follow the road into town. When you see the car wash, turn right and drive into the field beyond. It’s all yours.”

“Thanks. And where would I find Colonel Russell?”

“His office is on the Mississippi,” the soldier replied. “Go down to the river. You can’t miss her.”

Mac thanked him, returned a salute, and turned to her driver. “You heard the man… Take a right at the car wash.”

They didn’t have far to go, but it still took fifteen minutes to get there. Once they arrived, Mac was pleased to see a hand-lettered sign with MAC’S MRDRS on it, plus a row of sanikans and a green Dumpster. The preparations were too good to be true! It appeared that someone was on the ball.

Roy Quick arrived a few minutes later, and Mac went over to speak with him. “We’ve got plenty of room, so spread the vehicles out and throw revetments up to protect them on three sides. And let’s get a perimeter in place.”

Quick nodded. “I like what I see… But we’re going to need water.”

“I’m about to check in,” she told him. “I’ll ask Colonel Russell about that.”

As Quick left, Mac turned to find that Corporal Atkins was standing a few feet away. The ever-present RTO weighed no more than 110 pounds but never complained about the gear she was required to carry. Her eyes were huge behind the lenses of her army-issue “birth control” glasses. “Ma’am?”

“Come on… We’re going to visit the man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The river was a block and a half to the east. The water had a greenish-brown appearance, and the eastern bank appeared to be relatively close. Or was that an island? Mac wasn’t sure.

Mac got her first look at the vessels of Flotilla 4 as she passed a cluster of shiny storage silos. They were moored to the orange buoys anchored offshore. A white-over-red pusher boat was moored in front of Mac. And its blunt bow was in contact with the first of two empty barges, both of which were equipped with cranes.

But the pusher boat and its barges were dwarfed by the large motor vessel moored to Mac’s left. It was well over two hundred feet long and a plaque bearing the name MISSISSIPPI was clearly visible on the ship’s starboard side. Mac noticed that a gun tub had been installed on the boat’s bow, where a group of sailors were gathered around an M163 Vulcan Air-Defense System. The weapon hadn’t been designed for shipboard use but would probably work.

Mac led Atkins to the point where a couple of smart-looking soldiers were guarding the riverboat’s aluminum gangplank. One of them saluted. “Good afternoon, ma’am… Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m Major Macintyre, and I’d like to see Colonel Russell if that’s possible.”

The soldier nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We were told to expect you. Can I see your ID please?”

After showing their cards, both women were allowed to cross the gangplank. It bounced under their boots. Once aboard, Mac stopped a passing sailor. “Where would I find Colonel Russell?”

“Deck three, ma’am,” the man replied, as he jerked a thumb upwards. “A ladder is located just aft of here.”

As she made her way toward the Mississippi’s stern, Mac saw that the “ladder” was actually a set of stairs. For some reason, the navy felt compelled to rename common items. She led Atkins up to deck three and through a varnished doorway. A private was there to receive her. “Name please?”

“Macintyre.”

He consulted a clipboard. “Yes, ma’am. We are expecting you. Please take a number.”

There was a dispenser on the table next to him. The kind normally seen in a bakery, or the Department of Motor Vehicles. The current number was seventy-nine. Mac frowned. “You’re joking.”

“No, ma’am. Except in the case of emergencies, the colonel sees people in the order they arrived. He says that keeps the process fair, and rewards promptness. Please have a seat.”

As Mac entered the waiting area, she saw four civilians, two army captains, and an air force lieutenant. There were empty chairs next to the zoomie, so Mac sat in one and Atkins took the other. The lieutenant smiled. He had blue eyes and a boyish face. “Good afternoon, Major, and welcome to Colonel Russell’s navy. Michael Hicks at your service.”

“Robin Macintyre. You’re a pilot.”

“Sometimes, yes. But I’m serving as a combat-control specialist at the moment. When the colonel wants the rain, it’s my job to bring it.”

“So we’re going to get shot at?”

Hicks grinned. “Oh, yeah… From both sides of the river and on a frequent basis.”

Mac was going to interrogate Hicks further when a male voice called the number 73. Hicks stood. “Wish me well, Major… The colonel beckons.” And with that, he was gone.

Nearly thirty minutes passed before Mac’s number was called, and a private ushered her into Russell’s office. The officer was seated behind an oak table with his back to a large window. Mac could see the pusher boat and the barges beyond. She came to attention and popped a salute. “Major Macintyre, sir… Reporting as ordered.”

Russell returned the salute and gestured toward one of two guest chairs. Both were made of oak, lacked any sort of padding, and had straight backs. Like a restaurant that wants to move customers through. “Welcome aboard,” Russell said. “Have a seat.”

As Mac sat down, she saw the sign on Russell’s desk. It was made of brass and turned her way. The inscription read: BE BRIGHT, BE BRIEF, AND BE GONE.

The tools of Russell’s trade were laid out like instruments on a tray. Mac saw a pen, a mechanical pencil, a complicated calculator, a protractor, and a rectangular magnifying glass all positioned with the precision of soldiers on parade. The rest of the table was bare except for an in-box/out-box combo to her right. The out-box was full to overflowing.

Russell’s eyes locked with hers. He had thinning hair, gray eyes, and a straight nose. “You arrived in New Madrid twenty-six minutes early and immediately went to work settling in. I like promptness, Major. And I like efficiency. So based on what I’ve seen so far, you and I are going to get along. How much do you know about Flotilla 4 and its mission?”

“Very little, sir.”

Russell nodded, as if that was to be expected. “As the Union Army pushed south across the New Mason-Dixon Line, and the rebs were forced to retreat, they began to blow bridges along the Mississippi. Not all of them, mind you… because they had an ongoing need to move troops and supplies east and west. But they dropped enough spans to block the river and slow us down. We had no way to respond at first.”

Russell made a steeple with his fingers. “But,” he added, “things have changed. Something big must be afoot at Fort Knox because we have orders to head south and clear obstructions. The kinds of obstructions that would impede barge traffic.

“I’ve been working on this river for seven years, so trust me when I say that ours would be a difficult task under normal circumstances. But now, with people shooting at us, the job will be even more challenging.

“Each time we pause to clear underwater wreckage, it’s likely that the enemy will attack. To counter that threat, you and your battalion will go ashore and provide the flotilla with security. Do you have any questions?”

Mac had plenty of questions but, in light of the sign on Russell’s desk, forced herself to focus. “Not about the basic mission, no. But I have twenty Strykers and more than two hundred troops. How do you plan to accommodate them?”

Russell hooked a thumb back over a shoulder. “See the pusher boat? And the barges in front of it? Your Strykers will be loaded onto the barges. As for the troops, most of them will be billeted on the Mississippi, where, I might add, a cabin has been assigned to you. Is there anything else?”

“My officers and I appreciate the preparations that were made for us,” Mac said. “But we need water.”

“I think you’ll find that a water tanker is in place when you return,” Russell told her. “There’s no need for anything more permanent since I expect all of your vehicles and personnel to be aboard the barges by this time tomorrow. We’re scheduled to depart at 0600 the following morning.”

Atkins was waiting when Mac left the office, and they returned to the unit together. After some quality time with Russell, Mac wasn’t surprised to discover that a water tanker had arrived during her absence. It was parked between two supply trucks. What was she supposed to do with them? There were lots of details to take care of and no procedures to work from.

Mac worked until 2200 hours that night, slipped into her sack, and awoke seven hours later. The sun was little more than a pus-colored smear behind a screen of gray clouds as Mac entered a temporary enclosure and suffered through a cold shower before getting dressed. Breakfast consisted of an MRE Sloppy Joe and a cup of coffee.

Then it was time to head down to the river and get things rolling. It took the better part of twenty minutes to find the pusher boat’s captain, and when she did, he was sitting in the Mississippi’s well-appointed dining room feasting on free food. His name was Foley. And he was dressed in a ball cap and dirty khakis. “My name’s Macintyre,” Mac told him, as she took the seat across from him. “Your crew is supposed to load my Strykers this morning.”

Foley eyed her over a forkful of hash browns. He had beady eyes and purplish lips. “I have a contract with the government,” he said. “And according to the terms of that contract, we begin work at nine. So, when nine o’clock rolls around, we’ll load your vehicles.”

Mac frowned. “What are you going to do when we’re downriver, and the rebs attack before nine o’clock?”

Two rows of yellow stumps appeared when Foley smiled. “I’ll do whatever I’m told… But it will cost the government time and a half. Now go find someone else to bother.”

Mac was seething as she returned to the unit. Thanks to Quick’s leadership, Mac’s Marauders were packed and ready to go. The first Stryker in line was called the IRON LADY, and Mac rode her down to the river.

It was 0837 by then, and Mac could see the crane operators standing on Barge 1 shooting the shit. But, in keeping with Foley’s contract, she forced herself to wait until 0900 before crossing the gangplank and stepping onto the barge. Mac could tell that Foley had warned the men about her because both of them had shit-eating grins. “Good morning, gentlemen… We’re ready to load. How should we proceed?”

The next fifteen minutes were spent discussing how the Strykers would be positioned ashore, who would attach the slings, and how to secure the vics once they were hoisted aboard.

When the discussion was over, the crane operators climbed up into their cabs and went to work. The IRON LADY was the first to be plucked off the ground, swung out over Barge 1, and deposited on the rusty deck. And that was when Mac realized something important. The Stryker was positioned facing forward. That wouldn’t do.

Mac hurried to board the barge. A sergeant and a team of three privates were there to secure each vic as it touched down. Mac asked the sergeant for his radio and held it up to her mouth. “Hey! Up in the cab… We need to reposition that Stryker. I want to place them back-to-back, facing out.”

“No can do,” came the reply. “Our deck plan was approved by Colonel Russell. And a colonel outranks whatever you are. Right?”

“That’s correct,” Mac said tightly. “Please stop loading while I speak with Colonel Russell.”

That was when Mac heard Foley’s voice on the radio. “Belay that bullshit… We have our orders. Continue loading.”

Mac keyed the radio again. “Captain Quick?”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t bring any additional vehicles into the pickup zones until you hear from me.”

“Roger that.”

“That’s a violation of our contract!” Foley shouted. “I’ll have your ass for that!”

Mac sighed. The whole thing was out of control, but she couldn’t back down, not without sacrificing authority that she might need later. So she left the barge, marched past Foley’s pusher boat, and stormed over the Mississippi’s gangplank. One of the sailors objected, but she kept on going.

Once Mac arrived on deck three, a distraught private sought to intercept her but without success. And when Mac entered Russell’s office she saw the source of the private’s distress. Captain Foley was standing with hands on hips. “And that ain’t all!” he proclaimed loudly. “The bitch refused to load her vehicles!”

Russell looked at Mac. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Mac replied, “is that I asked the crane operator on Barge 1 to load my Strykers back-to-back, facing out.”

“And that,” Foley said, “violates the load order that you signed! It specifies that the vehicles will be loaded facing forward.”

Russell’s eyes looked like twin gun barrels as they swiveled back to Mac. “Captain Foley is correct, Major… I did specify that the Strykers be loaded facing the front. Is this how it’s going to be? Are you going to waste my time by questioning each order I give?”

Mac regretted the whole thing by then. But there was no going back. “Sir, no, sir. But with all due respect, it doesn’t make sense to load the Strykers facing forward.”

Russell’s voice was cold. “Really? Why not?”

“Because if vessels were to attack us from the side, or if we take fire from the riverbanks, the Strykers won’t be able to return fire as effectively. I have twenty vics, sir… Some are armed with .50s, some with 40mm grenade launchers, and some with 105mm tank guns. That’s a lot of firepower, sir. But my vehicles will be more effective if they’re facing the enemy, and there will be less chance of a friendly-fire incident.”

Foley opened his mouth to speak, and Russell told him, “Shut up.”

Then, with his eyes on Mac, he spoke again. “You told Captain Foley what you told me?”

“No, sir. I never got the chance.”

Russell turned back to the civilian. “The major is correct, Captain Foley. The notion of using the Strykers to protect the flotilla while it’s under way never occurred to me. You will comply with the major’s request, and with any other suggestions that she makes. Is that clear?”

“The change order is going to cost you five hundred bucks,” Foley said triumphantly. “I win!”

“Get out.”

Mac was about to follow Foley through the door when Russell spoke. “Major Macintyre…”

“Sir?”

“Try to resolve such conflicts on your own in the future.”

“I will, sir.”

Russell nodded. Then, for the first time since she’d met him, he smiled. “Good thinking, Major. Dismissed.”

The loading process went well after that, but using cranes to swing the vics aboard took a lot of time, and Mac began to worry. What would happen when the flotilla ran into trouble? Would the enemy wait while the crane operators put the Strykers ashore? Hell no, they wouldn’t. What she needed was a faster way to get the job done.

And that wasn’t all. As Mac stood on the deck and looked up at the crane on Barge 1, she was struck by how exposed the crane operator was. He was sitting in a small box protected by little more than Plexiglas and some sheet metal. The moment the rebs got in close, they would realize that and target him. And once he was dead, her Strykers would be stranded.

In an effort to solve the loading problem, Mac sent Captain Amy Wu and a team of scroungers into town with instructions to find ramps or the means to make them. Then she turned her attention back to the cranes. An old barge was sitting on the riverbank. So Mac sent some wrench turners over to cut it up and ordered the crane operators to swing the steel on board.

Foley claimed that welding the sheets of steel to his cranes would damage them and promised to file a lawsuit. Mac chose to ignore him and went a step further. The wheelhouse perched on top of Foley’s pusher boat was extremely vulnerable. And if the helmsman was killed, the barges and the boat would run aground. So Mac ordered her soldiers to bulletproof that, too.

The whole project involved a lot of work, and the barely visible sun was setting by the time Wu and her crew returned. The supply officer was riding in an army six-by-six with a big rig following along behind. It was towing a flatbed trailer loaded with what looked like a pile of aluminum scrap.

There was a smile on Wu’s face as she came over to report. “We got lucky, Major… An aluminum plant is located south of town… And they fabricate stuff, including barge ramps! They only had one that could handle a Stryker, but it’s extendable and takes five minutes to deploy. That’s the good news.”

Mac’s eyebrows rose. “And the bad news?”

“The bad news is that you’ll have to unload two Strykers so we can install it.”

“That sucks,” Mac said. “But the effort will be worth it. How complicated is the installation process going to be?”

“The extension-system bridge uses hydraulics,” Wu replied. “So installation will take about eight hours. I brought two of the company’s techs back with me.”

“They were willing?”

“Semiwilling.”

“Watch them. And, Amy…”

“Yeah?”

“You rock.”

If Mac needed to put all of her Strykers ashore, she would still have to use the crane on Barge 2. But with any luck at all, the first ten would be able to fight the rebs off while Bravo Company deployed. The knowledge made her feel better. A lot better.

Crews worked throughout the night to remove the two vics and install the self-extending bridge on Barge 1. Once the work was complete, the Strykers were driven onto the barge. The first truck went up front end first, while the second had to back up the bridge, so its weapons would be pointed at the right bank.

As the sun rose in the east, Mac gave final orders to the lieutenant who was in charge of the Stryker crews. Then she hurried ashore and jogged back to the point where the Mississippi’s crew was preparing to pull the gangplank. No sooner was she aboard than the ship’s horn produced a blast of sound, and the engine noise increased.

Mac made her way up to the bow. From there, she could see the so-called Spud barge, which the Mississippi was pushing out into the main current, and Foley’s pusher boat beyond. Water churned at the smaller boat’s stern as it guided Barges 1 and 2 downriver. Flotilla 4 was on the move.

By that time, Mac had been working so long that it was difficult to disconnect even though she knew the flotilla was 120 miles from Memphis and the rebel-held territory that lay beyond. She forced herself to visit the crowded dining room, discovered that she was hungry, and was eating a large breakfast when Lieutenant Hicks sat down. While they were chatting, Hicks revealed that rebel drones were monitoring the flotilla’s progress, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that would mean trouble later.

After finishing her meal, Mac went looking for her cabin and was pleased to discover that it was equipped with a window, a desk, and a tiny bath, in addition to the neatly made bed. Her gear was piled in a corner. Atkins’s doing perhaps? She would find out and thank whoever the person was. But the first order of business was a hot shower and eight hours of sleep. It arrived quickly and pulled her down.

Mac awoke feeling reenergized. Based on the strength of the vibration under her feet, she knew the ship was still under way.

After a shower and a hot meal, Mac went looking for her troops, most of whom were quartered on the Mississippi. It turned out that Alpha and Bravo Companies were down on the main deck and sleeping four to a cabin. That meant the accommodations were crowded but still better than living in the field. Especially since the troops could access the twenty-four/seven dining facility.

Because Quick was on Barge 1, Overman was in command of the troops. Mac found Overman in a tiny cabin, where he was ass deep in paperwork. The door was ajar, so she walked in. Overman stood and was about to salute when she waved the courtesy off. “No need for that. How are we doing?”

“Everything is going well so far… But it’s hard to do any PT. We don’t have enough space.”

Mac considered the possibility of using the spud barge for PT but pushed the thought away. “Let them rest. Odds are that they’ll be very busy during the days ahead.”

Overman nodded. “The colonel has been calling on us to supply work parties.”

“That’s his privilege. But if it starts to have a negative impact on combat readiness, let me know. Atkins will be with me most of the time, and I will carry a radio as well.”

“Will do,” Overman replied. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

From there, Mac went up to deck three in hopes of getting a sitrep from Russell’s adjutant. The waiting area was empty. The door to Colonel Russell’s office was open though, and light spilled out onto the floor.

Mac went over to take a look, and sure enough, Russell was seated at his desk. When he looked up, Mac saw that he was in need of a shave. “Please come in, Major. I was going to send for you in an hour or so.”

Mac entered the office and took a seat. “Thank you, sir. What should we expect today?”

“We’ll pull into Memphis soon,” Russell predicted. “That’s where the Riverines will meet us.”

“Riverines, sir?”

“Yes. The navy is loaning us a couple of thirty-three-foot special operations boats. They’re heavily armed and should be able to keep reb speedboats from getting in close. A lieutenant is in charge, and I want her to report to you. Once we reach Helena, Mississippi, I’ll be too busy to deal with the swabbies.”

“Helena, sir? What’s the situation there?”

“The channel is blocked,” Russell replied. “The Helena Bridge carries, or carried, US-49 east- and westbound, and the Confederates dropped one of five spans into the river. And, because the navigation channel was only eight hundred feet wide to begin with, nothing of any size can get through. So we’ll have to stop, put divers down, and cut the wreckage into manageable chunks. Once that’s accomplished, the crane on the spud barge will lift them out. We won’t attempt to clear everything… just enough to restore traffic.”

Mac’s mind was racing. “How long will that take?”

“That depends on what the divers encounter,” Russell responded cautiously. “But I expect us to be there for at least three days, working around the clock.”

Mac remembered what Hicks had told her about the rebel drones. The bastards knew the flotilla was coming and would be well entrenched by the time it arrived. Would Russell’s engineers be able to do their jobs while the enemy fired on them from the remains of the bridge and both riverbanks? Of course not. Mac cleared her throat. “I’d like to make a couple of suggestions, sir. I think there are some things we could do to limit our casualties and increase theirs.”

Russell nodded. “Please proceed. I’m all ears.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

After being forced to run for their lives from Fort Leavenworth, Victoria and her team had returned to Fort Hood. Then, while meeting with her father, Victoria had accepted a new mission. “Don’t worry,” Bo Macintyre told her. “You’ll get a chance to deal with Robin. But there’s something more urgent that I need you to take care of right now.

“Based on a number of intelligence reports, it looks like the Yankees hope to break the existing stalemate with a two-pronged attack. Efforts are under way to clear the Mississippi, so they can send troops downriver. And, we believe they plan to invade the Confederacy from the Gulf of Mexico. The most likely point of attack is New Orleans. I don’t need to tell you how important the Big Easy is in terms of shipping. Especially now that we’re importing so many things from South America. And, if the bastards manage to take control of the Mississippi, they will cut the Confederacy in half. We’ll fight for the river, needless to say… But what if we lose? That’s when Operation End Zone will come into play.”

Victoria had been confused. “End Zone? I don’t understand.”

Bo nodded. “There’s no reason why you should. After giving the matter a lot of thought, President Lemaire and his cabinet came to the conclusion that there’s only one thing that would be worse than losing New Orleans—and that would be to let the enemy occupy it.”

Victoria remembered staring into her father’s eyes. “So we’ll destroy it?”

“No,” Bo had assured her. “Not unless the situation becomes hopeless.”

Now, days later, Victoria was standing near the Bonnabel Boat Launch, looking out over Lake Pontchartrain. She was wearing a white hard hat, reflective vest, and jeans. Just like the power-company workers who kept the city’s power grid up and running each day.

A stiff wind was blowing in from the north, and an endless succession of waves rolled in one after another to explode against the rocks lining the bottom of the embankment. And there, right in front of her, was the weapon Victoria needed. She knew that the average elevation of New Orleans was between one and two feet below sea level, while some areas were even lower. All Victoria and her teammates had to do was to place explosives near key floodgates and pumps and detonate them at the right moment. And, because New Orleans was located inside the Confederacy, they could plant the charges with impunity.

And there was another advantage to the plan as well. The explosions could be timed to coincide with the moment when Union forces arrived—thereby making it seem that the enemy was responsible for the destruction. That perception would serve to rally the population behind the Confederate government. The thought brought a smile to her face. She turned away. It was time for a beignet and a cup of coffee.

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

The Mississippi and the rest of Flotilla 4 was docked at the Beale Street landing just blocks from what had been the downtown business district. But as the first Stryker rolled off Barge 1, all Mac could see was a lead-gray sky, pillars of black smoke, and mountains of rubble.

The Union Air Force had bombed the city and for good reason. The rebs had been using Memphis as a hub for the distribution of troops and supplies. Eventually, elements of General Hern’s division managed to fight their way down Interstate 40 and, as they entered Memphis, the rebel air force bombed the city again. And the results were horrendous.

Mac was standing in the ROLLER SKATE’s forward air hatch. She looked back to make sure that the rest of Alpha Company’s vics were clear of the barge. They were… And Quick was riding drag so that the force would still have leadership even if she was wounded or killed.

The SKATE bounced through a crater as Mac turned her eyes forward. The Stryker’s TC was a very competent sergeant named Hassan… And since he had all of the latest recon imagery at his disposal, Mac knew Hassan would be able to find his way to Highway 61, which would take them south to the junction with 49. They would turn west at that point. And, if her suspicions were correct, they would encounter Confederate forces just short of the Helena Bridge. The same bridge the rebs had blown.

What would happen next was anyone’s guess. But Mac hoped to not only take the enemy by surprise, but to chase them away, so that Colonel Russell’s people could work on clearing the channel below. Barring problems, the seventy-mile trip would take about an hour and a half. During that time, Alpha Company would be vulnerable to an air attack, and knowing that, Mac kept scanning the sky. Yes, she could call for air support immediately, but that could signal the company’s presence.

The question hung over Mac as the convoy cleared the central business district and passed through the suburbs south of town. The highway was littered with what looked like the remains of a rebel convoy. It had been destroyed from the air and served as an excellent example of what could happen to her Strykers if an enemy A-10 happened along. The need to thread their way between the wrecks set Mac’s nerves on edge, as any of the burned-out vehicles could conceal an IED.

Farther on, the convoy passed through Walls, Mississippi, and a place called Tunica Resorts. The small town was home to some large casinos that, strangely enough, were open for business! Mac decided that the war was a strange affair indeed.

Her thoughts were jerked back into the present when a bullet smacked into the ROLLER SKATE’s hull, and the distant crack of a rifle shot was heard. Mac spoke as she brought the M249 machine gun around to point forward. “This is Rocker-Six… We’re taking fire. Over.”

“You got that right,” a male voice said. “I see a head up on the overpass!”

“This is Rocker-Seven,” Sergeant Major Price said. “You will use the correct radio procedure, or I will rip your head off and piss down your throat. Over.”

Mac couldn’t help but grin as ROLLER SKATE’s gunner fired her .50. But as the heavy weapon blew chunks of concrete out of the overpass, a question niggled at her mind. One shot… Only one shot. Where was the automatic-weapons fire? Where were the shoulder-launched rockets? She fired the M249 until the Stryker rolled under the overpass, and Price spoke. “This is Seven. Cease firing. The target is down. Over.”

Mac released her grip on the LMG. “The target is down.” What target? A reb sniper? On his own for some reason? Or a patriotic sixteen-year-old with a hunting rifle? She feared the latter. Damn… It seemed like the bad things would never end.

But it wasn’t until the column made the turn onto 49 west that things got really bad. Because there, crouched a quarter of a mile away, was a Confederate LAV-AT missile carrier! The eight-wheeled vehicle was very similar in size and shape to the ROLLER SKATE, except that it was armed with two roof-mounted missile launchers. Either one of them could destroy a tank, never mind a Stryker.

For one brief moment, Mac thought the enemy vehicle commander might assume that he or she was looking at some friendlies, but no such luck. In the blink of an eye, the Confederate gunner sent a wire-guided missile down the highway. Mac waited to die.