Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 3

CLEVELAND, OHIO

In spite of all the tasks associated with reconstruction, and his responsibilities as commander in chief, Sloan had to spend a great deal of time on politics. An activity that could be divided into two piles: the give-and-take of getting things done—and the need to raise money. Sloan preferred the first over the second.

But what choice did he have? His term, which was to say his predecessor’s term, was going to end in a year. So he could either run or hand the presidency over to whom? That was the problem. The Patriot Party’s back bench was rather thin. Of course, the people seated on that bench would disagree.

But the decision had been made, and Sloan was butt deep in a campaign to become president. An elected president… And it was hard work. He heard applause as a stagehand waved him forward. Sloan entered the auditorium from stage left, and the Whig Party’s candidate emerged from stage right. Her name was Senator Marsha Pickett—and Sloan heard a number of rebel yells as she waved to the crowd. All ten thousand seats were filled, and Sloan knew that millions of people were watching their TV sets or listening via radio. Unfortunately, millions more didn’t have telephone service, never mind cable television or the Internet. And that was just one of the many problems that one of them would face.

Two podiums were located at the center of the stage. And as Sloan walked over to them, he knew that Pickett was a formidable opponent. She had a modelish face and high cheekbones. Her clothes weren’t so expensive as to make her appear wealthy, which she was, nor were they frumpy. So to the extent that a portion of the electorate would cast their votes for anyone with good looks, Pickett would do well. Better than he would? Yes, definitely.

But Pickett was more than a runner-up for Miss Oklahoma. She was a Harvard-trained lawyer, a world-class skier, and the mother of two adorable children. All of which were accomplishments that Sloan couldn’t match. Pickett’s perfect teeth were very much on display as they met and shook hands. “Mr. President.”

“Senator Pickett.”

A second passed. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose incrementally. “Can I have my hand back?”

Sloan felt himself flush as he let go. What the hell was wrong with him? Was her mike on? Had the comment gone out over the air? He was struggling to think of a rejoinder when the moderator took over. He was a much-respected journalist with a reputation for fairness. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen… My name is Lester Hollings, and I will serve as your moderator. As the participants take their places, let’s review the rules. Each candidate will have five minutes to introduce themselves, with President Sloan going first.

“That will be followed by ten questions, all of which were sent in by members of the public and selected by a panel of six people split equally between the two parties. For those of you here in the auditorium, please don’t applaud until the end of the debate, and remember… the place for demonstrations is outside. Now, without further ado, it’s my pleasure to introduce the President of the United States, Samuel T. Sloan! Mr. President?”

The cameras were on him, and Sloan knew better than to waste any of his precious airtime sucking up to the citizens of Cleveland. He went straight to what he thought of as “the pitch,” the centerpiece of which was a proposal to spend four trillion dollars on his America Rising Initiative. A program that would not only serve to rebuild the nation’s infrastructure, but put millions of people to work and jump-start the economy.

“But make no mistake,” Sloan added after the summary. “The America Rising Initiative will benefit the entire country, including the South. Because once we defeat the people who stole our oil reserves and imposed an oligarchy on the South, we will welcome our brothers and sisters back… just as our forefathers did after the first civil war.”

“Yes!” a man shouted, as he stood. “God bless President Sloan!”

“There will be no demonstrations,” Hollings said sternly. “Escort that man out. Senator Pickett? Please proceed.”

Sloan’s proposal was anything but secret. He’d been saying the same things over and over for weeks. So Pickett’s people had been able to prepare a point-by-point response.

“Good evening,” Pickett said. “It’s a pleasure to be here even if the man standing next to me favors an imperial presidency and a weak Congress. Is Mr. Sloan our chief executive? Or has he declared himself king?”

There was fire in Pickett’s eyes as she scanned the audience. “Were any of us allowed to vote for or against the so-called ‘war of national reunification’? No. According to Mr. Sloan, and his Attorney General, the Insurrection Act of 1807 gives him all the authority he needs to turn family against family and state against state.

“So without any sort of vote by the House or Senate, Mr. Sloan launched an airborne assault on Richton, Mississippi, where we lost a battalion of Army Rangers. I want to change that. I want to give you a voice in what happens next. If I’m elected, I will ask Congress to change the Constitution so as to make sure that the people who work hard and pay taxes will make the decisions! And once the changes I propose are in place, voters will shift the balance of power from Emperor Sloan to the men and women of the United States Congress. Then, if Congress wants to spend four trillion dollars and fight a war with the South, we will do so. My job, which is to say the president’s job, will be to implement what your elected representatives choose to do.

“Yes,” Pickett added, as she raised a hand, “I know this would represent a change. And that Emperor Sloan doesn’t want to change. But new situations demand new solutions! And I stand ready to welcome the future rather than attempt to block it. Thank you!”

Pickett’s statement was so practiced that only one second remained on the clock when the last word left her mouth. The questions were tough, but predictable. “Will you raise taxes?”

Sloan answered, “Yes, I would. Upper-income taxpayers will reap huge benefits from the America Rising Initiative, so it makes sense for them to pay more.”

Pickett replied by saying, “No. By reducing the size of government, I will lower taxes.”

And so it went. Finally, when all of the questions had been answered, it was time for Sloan to deliver his three-minute summary. His eyes scanned the room. “Let’s take a moment to consider what will happen to this country if Senator Pickett wins. Rather than rebuild the country, and seek to unify it, she wants to change our time-honored Constitution. To do that, she would need commanding majorities in both Houses of Congress… And that’s unlikely to happen.

“But we’re talking about a fantasy world, right? So let’s suppose that newly elected President Pickett has the votes she needs. Months would pass while members of both Houses debate the exact wording of each proposed change. Then, supposing Congress can reach an agreement, at least three-fourths of the state legislatures would have to approve it.

“Ladies and gentlemen… It took 202 years to ratify a commonsense amendment that keeps congressional salary increases from being implemented until after the next crop of representatives comes into office.” That comment produced widespread laughter.

“Now,” Sloan said, “ask yourself a simple question… Who would benefit from such a delay? You? Or the oligarchs who run the New Confederacy and need more time in which to consolidate their power? The answer is obvious. Thank you.”

The possibility that the New Whigs might feel an affinity for the New Order had been voiced before. But the direct, unapologetic attack from Sloan was sufficient to elicit gasps of surprise from some members of the audience. And that gave Sloan a sense of satisfaction. It was a strong close… And Pickett’s response turned out to be little more than a list of lame denials. So when Sloan left the stage, he was in a good mood. Press Secretary Doyle Besom was waiting. “That was an outstanding summary, Mr. President… You dropped the hammer on her.”

Sloan frowned. “I hear the words… But they don’t match the expression on your face.”

Besom shrugged. “Pickett’s mike was on. So the entire country heard what she said, and that’s what people are talking about. Half the reporters left before your closing statement in order to scoop the competition, and you can bet the headline writers are having a field day. ‘The president hands Pickett a win.’ ‘Senator Pickett gives the president a hand.’ That sort of thing. I’m sorry, Mr. President… Politics sucks.”

Sloan sighed, and his spirits fell. “You got that right… Let’s get out of here.” Meanwhile, south of the New Mason-Dixon Line, people continued to die.

CASPER, WYOMING

After showing her ID to the guards, Mac was allowed to enter the battalion’s underground command center. Crowley had summoned her, and Mac was eager to meet with him even though she was extremely tired. Chances were that he’d read her report… And, if they moved quickly enough, they’d be able to find the women who had been captured in the town of Wright.

When Mac arrived at Crowley’s door, it was to find that the curtain was parted and a lieutenant was seated in one of two guest chairs. Crowley waved her in. “Good morning, Macintyre… Have you met Lieutenant Casey? No? Well, it’s high time that you did. Casey is our public affairs officer, and an important member of the team. It doesn’t matter how many battles we win if no one knows about them! Right, Lieutenant?”

“That’s right, sir,” Casey said as he stood. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Casey was tall, slim, and projected a sense of old-world dignity. Mac liked his Southern drawl. Too bad you’re a lieutenant, she thought to herself. Just my luck. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mac said, as they shook hands.

“Casey and I were discussing the battle at Arminto, and how to best publicize it,” Crowley said.

“Yes,” Casey agreed, as he sat down. “My techs are busy editing battle footage into a sixty-second clip. That’s the most any TV network will run… And it can be used on the Internet as well.”

“Who clears that sort of material?” Mac inquired. “Someone at Fort Knox?”

Crowley chuckled. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But the regular process can be cumbersome. So when we find ourselves with a really important story to tell, we submit it to the army and the media at the same time.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “What happens then?”

“The shit hits the fan,” Crowley said with a smile. “And I get a nasty note from General Gowdy telling me that Intel, PSYOPS, and the REMFs at regimental HQ need to review stories before they go out. But what’s she going to do? Send me to Wyoming?” Crowley laughed, and Casey smiled.

Mac wasn’t entirely surprised, given her commanding officer’s rep for self-promotion and eccentric behavior. But Mac knew that sort of thing could come around to bite him one day, and she planned to stay clear of the impact zone. “So the story’s going out?”

“It certainly is,” Crowley replied. “The American people need some good news, and we’re going to provide it! Speaking of which… I read your report. What a shame. I wanted to put a forward operating base in Wright, but the mayor and city council objected.”

“Why?”

“They were afraid that an FOB would constitute a ‘provocation,’” Crowley replied. “Meaning they thought Howard would attack it. I told them he’d attack anyway, but they refused to listen.” Crowley shrugged. “I wish they had chosen differently.”

Mac nodded. “Yes, sir. We can’t do anything about that… Not now. But we can go after the people who were taken prisoner.”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed. “And we will. But first things first. Alpha Company lost six soldiers in Arminto. They need a couple of days to regroup. And your company just returned from a long patrol. But I promise to give the matter some thought.”

Mac was disappointed. Time was critical. How long would it take for Howard to sell the women? It might be a matter of days. But there was nothing she could do. All she could say was, “Thank you, sir.”

Subsequent to the meeting with Crowley, Mac spent two hours on the sort of administrative matters that all executive officers have to cope with before returning to the company area where her XO had been equally busy. They were sitting in the shed that constituted Bravo Company’s HQ, sipping sludge-like coffee. “So, Lieutenant,” Mac said, once Perkins had delivered his report. “You raised some extremely important issues.”

Perkins looked surprised. “I did?”

“Yes, you did. And I think we should convene a command conference to address them. It will include the other platoon leaders, as well as their platoon sergeants who, as all of us know, actually run the company.

“However,” Mac added, “a conference of such importance should be held in the right environment. An establishment that has good food and the kind of liquid refreshment that’s likely to enhance the brainstorming process. Would you know of such an establishment?”

Perkins’s expression brightened. “Yes, I would… Dolly’s Place would fit the bill.”

“Excellent. Please pass the word. We will assemble here at 1800 hours.”

Mac spent the rest of the day in meetings with the battalion’s medical officer, the engineer in charge of the fort’s septic system, and Company Sergeant Hank Boulineau. There was only one army insofar as Boulineau was concerned. And that was the one he’d joined fifteen years earlier. Just as there was only one way to do things, and that was by the book.

That’s why Boulineau was upset with the lack of military discipline exhibited by certain members of the company and wanted to clamp down. “We may be at war, ma’am,” Boulineau said. “But that ain’t no excuse for slackness.”

Mac had to tread carefully. Boulineau was the company’s senior noncom and a critical link between her and the enlisted people. And he was correct in many respects. Just that morning, she’d run into a private wearing a buckskin vest and ordered him to remove it. And whose fault was that? Crowley’s, because he set the example. And Boulineau resented that.

“I read you, Top,” Mac said. “And I agree… Things are beginning to slip. So pass the word. Except for Stetsons, which were specifically authorized by the CO, I expect everyone to wear army-standard uniforms at all times. As for the haircuts, and the matter of military courtesy, let’s bring our platoon leaders in on that discussion. We’re going to hold a command conference in town this evening, and you’re invited… I’ll make sure those items get covered. Meet us in front of the command shack at 1800.”

Boulineau stood. “Thank you, ma’am… I’ll be there.”

The salute was textbook perfect. Mac gave one in return and watched him leave. And that, she thought to herself, is a man who will make a good sergeant major.

The group gathered on time. In addition to Lieutenants Perkins, Gilstrap, and Huff, Platoon Sergeants Gray, Tinley, and Nunez were there. And when Boulineau arrived, that made a party of eight. Civvies weren’t authorized, so all of them were in uniform. They weren’t armed. Not visibly, anyway. But Mac was carrying a baby Glock under her right arm and suspected that the others were “strapped” as well.

Once outside the main gate, Mac led them over to the taxi line, where she hired two vehicles. Dolly’s was what Mac expected it to be. Concrete barriers had been put in place to prevent car bombings, and a squad of heavily armed “cowboys” were on guard out front.

The interior was large, noisy, and decorated country style. And that included a huge Confederate flag since most of Wyoming’s population were Confederate sympathizers, never mind the fact that the Union Army was protecting them from the warlords.

The barstools were made out of old tractor seats, glassy-eyed animal trophies stared down on the dance floor from high above, and the log-style tables were shiny with varnish. The girl who led them to a booth was dressed in a white-and-red-checkered shirt, tight shorts, and cowboy boots. Mac waited for the predictable commentary, but there wasn’t any. The men were on their best behavior. “Okay,” she said, once they were seated. “Have whatever you want. Dinner’s on me.”

“And we’ll buy the drinks,” Perkins said as he gestured to the other platoon leaders.

“Thank you, Lord,” Tinley said. “My prayers were answered!”

That produced some laughs, and once their drinks arrived, the meeting got under way. Mac took the opportunity to bring up a variety of issues, including those Boulineau had voiced earlier in the day. And she was pleased to see that her platoon leaders were taking the discussion seriously. The nature of the conversation changed when the food came—and the soldiers began to tell stories. Gray was especially good at it and soon had everyone in stitches.

Mac excused herself after finishing her steak and went looking for the ladies’ room. It was on the second level, just off the gallery that surrounded three sides of the open room below.

The lighting was dim, and two-person tables lined the outside railing. A familiar figure was seated at one of them. Crowley was dressed in full Crowley regalia—and seated across from a pretty blonde. His wife? Probably. Crowley said something, and the woman giggled. Neither of them took notice of Mac as she passed by.

As Mac returned to the table, Tinley was finishing a story about the time he and his girlfriend went skinny-dipping in a hotel’s hot tub, locked themselves out of their room, and had been forced to visit the front desk to get another key card. That generated sympathetic laughter and more stories in the same vein.

It wasn’t until they were about to leave that Mac mentioned Crowley. “This place is hopping,” she said. “The CO’s here, too… He’s upstairs, with his wife.”

The announcement was met with an awkward silence. None of the other soldiers were willing to meet her gaze. “What’s wrong?” Mac demanded. “Did I step in something?”

“Was the woman a blonde?” Perkins inquired.

“Yes,” Mac replied. “She was.”

“That’s Captain Lightfoot’s wife,” Huff told her. “Everyone knows except for the captain.”

“Who happens to be out on patrol,” Gray added. “The poor bastard.”

“It’s a regular thing,” Boulineau said. “And it ain’t good for morale.”

Mac tried to keep it light. “Okay… I’ll file that under things I wish I didn’t know. As for morale, that takes us back to what we were discussing earlier. We can’t control the CO, but we can keep everything else tight, and we will.”

“Roger that,” Boulineau said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Perkins added.

“Got it,” Gilstrap agreed.

That was the best Mac could do for the moment. But she was pissed. Rather than go after Howard and try to rescue the female prisoners, Crowley was spending the night with another man’s wife. And not just any man… But one of his subordinates. Should she take it up the chain of command? Probably. But what would happen then? An investigation would begin, Crowley would be relieved of duty pending the outcome, and the brass would download a colonel to take his place. In the meantime, Robert Howard would sell his prisoners. The cold night air was like a slap in the face, and the darkness took her in.

NORTHEAST OF CASPER, WYOMING

The Cessna JT-A produced a mind-numbing drone as it winged its way north. It was flying low, no more than three hundred feet off the ground, in order to stay off enemy radar. That was necessary but scary since visibility was iffy, and left the single-engine plane with no margin for error. Victoria turned to the pilot. “How much longer?”

The man was sixtysomething. What hair he had was pulled back into a gray ponytail. “It’s like I told you ten minutes ago,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Victoria opened her mouth to put the man in his place, thought better of it, and forced herself to remain silent. The minutes crawled by. And then, just when it seemed as if the flight would go on forever, the plane began to turn.

Victoria looked down. What she saw was anything but promising. The airstrip consisted of a patch of flat ground surrounded by rocks. “We’re going to land on that?” she demanded.

“Hell no,” the old man replied. “We’re gonna land at Kennedy, take the shuttle to the terminal, and have a latte.”

Victoria thought she heard him say, “Dumb shit,” under his breath as he brought the plane into alignment with the runway and pushed the yoke forward. Two red highway flares marked the end of the strip. They lost altitude quickly, hit hard, and came to a stop a few yards short of the flares. Victoria had been holding her breath. She let it out. “Welcome to Wyoming,” the pilot said. “And thanks for keeping your breakfast down.”

“Glad I could help,” Victoria said as she pushed the door open. It was cold, but she was dressed for it. A small pack was stashed behind her seat, and the man made no effort to help her with it.

“Forty-eight hours,” he said. “That’s when I’ll come for you… If I fail to show, it will be due to bad weather or because I’m on a binge. Wait twelve hours. Then, if I’m still MIA, start walking. Got it?”

Victoria put her right arm through a pack strap. “Got it.”

“Good. Close the fucking door… It’s getting cold in here.”

Victoria closed the door and stepped back. The engine roared as the plane turned to face the other way. Then, after opening the throttle all the way, the pilot released the brakes. The Cessna took off like a jackrabbit and cleared the pile of rocks at the other end of the runway with ten feet to spare.

That was when Victoria heard a crunching sound—and turned to find a man wearing a tasseled stocking cap and sheepskin coat approaching her. A rifle was slung over his left shoulder. He stopped six feet away. His skin was brown, and there was a wispy goatee on his chin. “Where did they bury the great Khan?”

“In an unmarked grave.”

“Where does he live?”

“In our hearts.”

The man bowed. “My parents named me Thomas Styles. But my warrior name is Jebe, which means ‘the Arrow.’”

“You killed Kuchlug.”

Snow fell like a veil. The man bowed again. “The Confederacy chose its messenger with great care. Can you ride?”

“Yes.”

“All will be well then. Follow me.”

Two men and four horses were waiting just off the airstrip. Jebe’s companions wore balaclava-style white-on-black skull masks. To look scary? Or to stay warm? Both, most likely, and Victoria wished she had one. The army-issue knit cap left her face unprotected.

Victoria’s horse was a big brute named Montana. Victoria could feel the stares as she placed her left boot in the stirrup and swung her right leg out and over the horse’s hindquarters. Victoria felt Montana stir uneasily as she landed on the Western-style saddle. She stroked his neck, and two streams of vapor appeared when he snorted. Victoria had learned to ride during summer vacations in Idaho, and Jebe nodded as if satisfied with her performance.

Jebe and his horse led the way, followed by Victoria and the two skull faces. The trail wound around a snowcapped rock formation, down into a ravine, and up the other side. The landscape was turning white, and that forced Victoria to don her sunglasses.

The first hour was enjoyable in a weird, otherworldly sort of way. But by the time they were fifteen minutes into the second hour of riding, Victoria’s knees had started to ache. Had it been that way when she was sixteen? No, she didn’t think so.

Thirty long, painful minutes passed before they followed a switchbacking trail down the side of a hill to the point where two trucks and a large horse trailer were waiting. Jebe aimed a remote at the blue pickup, and Victoria saw the lights flash. “Throw your pack in the cab,” Jebe told her. “I’ll take care of Montana.”

Jebe led the horses over to the horse trailer, tied them up, and returned to the pickup. “We aren’t likely to be stopped,” Jebe said as he slipped behind the wheel. “But should that occur, we’re ranchers headed up to Kaycee for supplies. Are you armed?”

“With a handgun, yes.”

“Good. If the poop hits the fan, shoot everyone on your side of the truck. And don’t hesitate to use the sawed-off if you need to.”

Victoria followed Jebe’s glance to the shotgun clamped above the windshield. “Got it.”

The truck was in motion by then. It bounced through a series of potholes. “We’re going to take back roads west to I-25,” Jebe told her. “We’ll follow it north to Buffalo. High Fort is a half hour beyond that.”

“High Fort?”

“Yes. That’s the name Subutai gave to the Huntington Lodge after he captured it,” Jebe replied. “It was the site of a gold mine before that.”

Captured? That was one word for it… Although Victoria was willing to bet that the people who owned the lodge would call the theft something else.

The next thirty minutes were spent winding their way through a maze of snow-covered backcountry roads. They turned onto a two-lane highway that provided access to I-25 ten minutes later. There was some traffic, but less and less as they traveled north. Because of the horde? That made sense. Some people would have to enter the horde’s territory and pay Howard’s road tax. But anyone who could avoid doing so would.

Interestingly enough, there were no signs of military activity. “I thought the Union had a battalion of troops stationed here,” Victoria said. “Where are they?”

“They spend most of their time at Fort Carney,” Jebe replied. “Although they did attack one of our strongholds two days ago. And believe me… They’re going to pay for that.”

There was no mistaking the anger in Jebe’s voice. Victoria was reminded of what her father had told her. Robin was stationed at Fort Carney. Had she taken part in the attack? And how would she fare when Howard took his revenge?

It was something Victoria should care about. Then why didn’t she? Was there something wrong with her? Possibly. Or maybe there was something right with her. “Each of us makes choices—and each of us has to live with the consequences.” That’s what Bo Macintyre liked to say. And it applied to Robin, along with everyone else.

The horde had established a checkpoint and toll booth adjacent to the small town of Kaycee. It was a flimsy affair that consisted of a motor home, lanes that were defined by traffic cones, and six well-armed rat rods. “Anyone can blow through it,” Jebe admitted, as they entered the VIP lane. “But the rat rods will chase them down if they do… And the rat riders don’t take prisoners.”

When a man wearing a pullover skull mask appeared in the window, Jebe raised his right hand palm out. Skull face bowed deeply and waved Jebe through. Victoria was curious. “Did you show him some sort of ID?”

“Yes,” Jebe replied, as he held his right hand up for her to look at. An intricate tracery of tattoos covered his palm. Could it be copied? Yes, of course. But Victoria’s ID card could be duplicated as well.

“Each tattoo shares common elements with all the rest,” Jebe explained. “Yet each is unique. Like pieces in a vast puzzle.”

Victoria was beginning to take the horde more seriously by then. She’d been expecting to deal with a wacky bandit cult. But Jebe was more than a thug. Was he the exception? Or should she take all of them seriously? Victoria would know soon. And the knowledge would go into her report.

Victoria didn’t see much traffic during the forty-minute trip to Buffalo. And that wasn’t surprising given the things she did see. At one point, they passed an off-ramp where three bird-pecked corpses were dangling from a light standard. When asked why the people had been executed, Jebe shrugged. “There are laws,” he said. “And they were lawbreakers.”

Victoria was pretty sure Jebe didn’t have the foggiest idea why the people had been executed. Nor did he care. And that was the flip side of the man behind the wheel. Though seemingly profound at times, he wasn’t very analytical.

If the horde continued to rule with an iron hand, the locals would find ways to resist, one of which would be to collaborate with Union forces. So while Howard was likely to rule for a while—he would have trouble holding on to what he’d conquered. As a result, his value to the Confederacy was limited.

They had to pause at a checkpoint just outside Buffalo but not for long. Once Jebe presented his palm, a guard bowed and waved him through. Mountains were visible to the west. And, based on what she’d heard earlier, Victoria assumed that they were home to the High Fort.

That theory proved to be correct when Jebe left the freeway for a two-lane highway that led into the Bighorn National Forest. Even though there was no reason for her to believe that she would need to find her way out of the forest alone, Victoria did her best to memorize the route just in case. The road turned, began to climb, and passed a snow-clad gun emplacement. Three skull-faced bandits stood like statues as the truck passed them. Victoria noticed that one of them was armed with a spear.

A series of switchbacks took them up past a well-sited Bradley to what Jebe said was the final checkpoint. It consisted of what looked like a new metal gate mounted on wheels. “We have to walk the rest of the way,” Jebe said, as the pickup came to a halt. “The guards will take your pistol—and return it when you leave.”

The process went the way Jebe said it would except for one thing. The guard assigned to search Victoria was male—and took full advantage of the opportunity to feel her up. Fortunately, Jebe was there to intervene. “Stop it! She’s Subutai’s guest, you fool… He’ll take your head.”

The man immediately released her, bowed, and backed away. “I’m sorry,” Jebe said, as they climbed a set of switchbacking stairs. “Subutai doesn’t get a lot of female visitors.”

“I can see why,” Victoria said, as they arrived on what had been a lawn. The mansion loomed above them. It had turrets, steeply sloping roofs, and at least half a dozen chimneys. A well-protected porch fronted the building. Everything about the lodge shouted elegance, even if the place had fallen on hard times. But something bothered her. “Union forces could destroy this place with a single plane… or a couple of drones. Why don’t they?”

“We keep prisoners here,” Jebe answered. “Some are sold, but new ones arrive. The Union Army knows that.”

The strategy made sense so long as the Union brass had a certain mind-set. But Victoria knew that if her father were running the Union Army, he’d bomb the shit out of the place and blame faulty intelligence for the civilian deaths.

They walked past a crudely constructed AA emplacement, past a pile of trash, and through an impromptu graveyard. “The men buried here have lived many lives and been buried in many places,” Jebe said. “They’ll be waiting when my turn comes.”

Was Jebe crazy? Hell, yes. And that’s what Robin and her battalion would have to face if they wanted to defeat the horde. An army of crazy people. Good luck with that, Victoria thought to herself.

Victoria followed Jebe up a flight of snow-dusted stairs into an enormous foyer. It was crowded with people. Some were seated on chairs, some were standing, and one man was asleep on the muddy floor. The air was so cold that Victoria could see her breath. “They’re waiting to see Subutai,” Jebe explained. “Some have been here for days. But don’t worry… He will see you soon.” And with that, he left.

“Soon,” turned out to be half an hour. And as Victoria listened to the chatter around her, she got the impression of a thinly stretched government run by a paranoid micromanager. Not a recipe for success. Something more for her report.

Victoria could feel jealous eyes on her back, as Jebe returned and led her away. After climbing a flight of stairs, they had to pass between heavily armed guards before entering what had been a ballroom. Groups of men stood here and there… There was no way to tell if they were guards or part of Subutai’s retinue. The only women to be seen were servants, who kept their eyes down as they brought food and drink.

Victoria felt a momentary wash of heat as they passed a large fireplace. Then the air cooled as they followed a red carpet up to a velvet rope, where Jebe bowed deeply. “Greetings, great one… This is the New Confederacy’s emissary, Major Jeri Ferris.”

Rather than use her own name, Victoria had chosen to establish a cover which, if Howard had the means to check, ran quite deep. He was sitting on a throne-like chair made out of antlers. Had the piece of furniture been built for him? Or did it come with the lodge? The latter, Victoria supposed… Although the look was very much in keeping with the man Howard had chosen to be.

The warlord of warlords was wearing a softly rounded Afghan pakoz hat rather than the Mongol equivalent. Victoria knew because she’d spent a year battling the Taliban. Was the hat a mistake? Or a preference? The latter seemed more likely since she’d read his file and knew that he had served in Afghanistan, too. The rest of Howard’s outfit consisted of a sheepskin jacket, Levi’s, and cowboy boots. Howard was clearly Caucasian, but his wide-set eyes and high cheekbones gave him a Slavic appearance. A wispy mustache decorated his upper lip.

A pair of Rottweilers lay sprawled next to the warlord’s elaborate chair. One of them growled, and Howard patted its head. “Welcome to the High Fort, Major Macintyre… I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

The extent of Victoria’s surprise must have been visible on her face because Howard laughed. “That’s right, Major… I have sources of information inside the Confederacy.”

Victoria’s mind was racing. Howard had been a Green Beret only months earlier… So he knew special ops people in both armies. More than that, he had bled with them. So if some were on his payroll, that would make sense. What did that mean to her mission?

Howard nodded as if able to read her mind. “Never fear, Major… I don’t blame you for using a cover. I would if I were in your position. And one more thing… The fact that General Macintyre was willing to send his daughter means a lot to me. But it raises questions, too… What are you, Major? A warrior? Or Daddy’s girl?”

Victoria could feel the man’s hostility. At officers? At female officers? Is that why he referred to her rank so often? “I fought in Afghanistan,” Victoria answered. “Just as you did.”

There was no warmth in Howard’s smile. “You read my file? Good on you. Well, there were a shitload of rear-echelon motherfuckers who went to Afghanistan and never fired a shot. How ’bout you, missy? Did you kill anyone up close and personal? Or were you staring at a screen?”

Victoria didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Was there some sort of purpose behind the grilling? Or was Howard mind fucking her for the fun of it? “My activities in Afghanistan are classified,” Victoria told him. “As are many of yours.”

Howard reached inside his jacket and dragged a shiny revolver out into the light. Victoria felt a stab of fear. He was going to shoot her! And there was nothing she could do about it. “Maybe you worked for the dark side, and maybe you’re full of shit,” Howard said. “Let’s find out. Guards! Grab that girl!”

Howard’s left index finger was pointed at a girl with mousy-brown hair. She had glasses and was dressed in one of the sack-style dresses that all of the female servants were required to wear. She uttered a shriek of fear and tried to run. Two men grabbed the teen and held her arms. She was sobbing by then—and a puddle of urine appeared between her feet.

Howard’s eyes were on Victoria. “If you’re the woman you say you are, then you know this is a Colt Python and that it holds six rounds.”

As if to illustrate that fact, Howard flipped the cylinder open—and dumped six shiny .357 cartridges onto the table next to him. He chose one of the bullets and held it up to the light as if inspecting it for flaws. Then he inserted the cartridge into an empty chamber, flipped the cylinder closed, and ran it along the outside surface of his left arm. Victoria heard a series of clicks.

“Here,” Howard said as he offered the weapon butt first. “If you want an alliance with the horde, then aim the pistol at the girl and squeeze the trigger. Maybe the bullet will rotate in under the hammer, and maybe it won’t. But either way, I will take you seriously from that point forward. Or you can run back to Daddy. You choose.”

Victoria wanted to laugh. Howard thought he was talking to Robin! Or someone like Robin… And that was a mistake.

A dog growled as she unhooked the velvet rope, stepped forward, and accepted the Colt. She could have killed the warlord of warlords then, and his bodyguards knew it. At least six weapons were pointed at her.

Victoria smiled, pointed the barrel of the handgun up at the ceiling, and turned to the teenager. The men who stood to each side of her looked worried. What if the woman with the Colt missed? But orders were orders, and they had no choice. “Pull her arms straight out,” Victoria instructed.

The girl struggled, but the men were too strong for her. Victoria held the revolver in a two-handed grip, took aim, and waited for Howard to stop her. He didn’t. She pulled the hammer back to full cock and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell, and the Colt bucked in her hands. The big slug hit the teen with such force that it passed through her chest and hit the wall beyond. The guards let go of the body, and it slumped to the floor.

“Well, well,” Howard said, as Victoria handed the pistol to Jebe. “You are for real. Let’s have lunch… There’s a great deal to talk about.”