Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 4

CASPER, WYOMING

The so-called com cave was a side room just off Fort Carney’s underground command center. Flat-panel screens covered two of the four walls—and cables ran like snakes between the timbers that helped to support the ceiling. The cave was where the battalion’s UAV pilots spent their time when not in the field, and Mo Henry was no exception. She got up from her chair when Mac entered. “Good morning, Sergeant… What’s up?”

“There’s something I want you to see, ma’am. Remember the motion-activated cameras we left on the airstrip? We scored some footage.”

Mac looked at the screen that fronted Henry’s chair. There was nothing to see at first. Just a field of white and some dark, snow-crusted rocks beyond. Then a small plane entered the frame, touched down, and blew snow every which way as the pilot stood on the brakes. “All right,” Mac said. “This should be interesting.”

Unfortunately, there was very little to be learned as the plane stopped and turned. Four people entered the picture. All of them were mounted on horses. One dropped to the ground. He or she was wearing a pack. But that’s as much as Mac could determine as the person was enveloped by the cloud of snow associated with the plane’s prop wash.

The man or woman climbed up into the cabin, and the Cessna took off two minutes later. That left Mac with more questions than answers. Someone had a secret airstrip. But who? And why? She sighed. “Thanks, Henry. Let’s pull those cameras the next time a patrol goes in that direction.”

From there, Mac returned to the surface, where the sky was clear, but the air was cold. A short walk took her over to the battalion command shack. The premission briefing was scheduled for 0800, and the conference room was crammed with people, including a civilian scout named Wilbur Stratton. Charlie Company’s CO was present, too. Captain Lightfoot had a round, almost cherubic face—and was known for his sense of humor.

There was a stir, and a platoon leader shouted, “Atten-hut!” as Crowley entered the room. Crowley was dressed in full Western regalia, and his high-heeled boots made a clumping sound as he made his way to the head of the table. “At ease. Please sit down,” Crowley said as he looked around. “All of you know why you’re here… But some may wonder about the late start. There is, I assure you, a method to our madness.”

Having already snapped a couple of photos, Lieutenant Casey stepped forward to rip a blank sheet of paper off a large map and throw it aside. Crowley used his swagger stick as a pointer. “The idea is to trick Howard into believing that everything is normal. At 1000 hours, Bravo Company will depart and drive north through Arminto. In the meantime, Charlie Company will go east, turn just shy of the airport, and head north from there. The companies will converge at the old Hole-in-the-Wall Hideout just before nightfall.

“The Wild Bunch used to hang out there back in the late 1800s,” Crowley added, as his eyes roamed the room. “But a warlord named Ron Goody is using the place now. He’s in the kidnapping business, so be careful… There’s a good chance that noncombatants will be present when we grease Goody. That will open the way for an all-out assault on Howard’s mountain fortress. Are there any questions?”

Stratton raised a hand. He was wearing a beat-up Stetson and a grungy parka. “Yes, Wilbur,” Crowley said. “What’s on your mind?”

Stratton had a raspy voice and a no-nonsense manner. “I think you’re making a big mistake, Colonel… I was up that way two days ago—and Howard’s people were all over the place. I’d keep those companies together if I were you.”

“Well, you aren’t me,” Crowley replied. There was a smile on his face, but that wasn’t likely to fool Stratton, or anyone else for that matter.

“We sent a drone up there this morning,” Crowley said. “And the enemy’s there… But not in the numbers you suggest. Plus, the element of surprise should give us a significant advantage.”

“There ain’t gonna be no surprise,” Stratton insisted. “Howard has spies everywhere. That includes inside this fort. So when you head out, he’ll be waiting.”

It was starting to feel uncomfortable in the conference room. Crowley frowned. “That’s an interesting assertion, Wilbur… But it isn’t true. We surprised Cory Burns at Arminto.”

“You got lucky in Arminto,” Stratton replied.

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Crowley said stiffly. “But I’m in command, and the plan will remain as is.”

Stratton stood. Beady eyes scanned the room. “Maybe some of you will survive,” Stratton said. “I hope so. Personally, I plan to go home and do some chores.” And with that, he left.

“Civilians,” Crowley said, as the door closed. “I suggest that you ignore Stratton. Maybe he saw enemy activity, and maybe he was two sheets to the wind. The drone flew over the Hole-in-the-Wall a few hours ago. And, by the time we attack, our force will have reunited. Now, does anyone else have a question? No? Let’s get ready. Dismissed.”

If Mac had been in command, she wouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Stratton’s concerns, especially where the element of surprise was concerned. Crowley was correct about the drone video, though… She’d seen it. And so long as the companies came back together prior to the attack, they should be able to carry the day.

So Mac put her misgivings aside and made last-minute preparations for the mission. To his credit, Crowley insisted on leading from the front. So Mac assigned the call sign one-one to his Humvee. As second-in-command, she was going to ride in the last vehicle, which was Stryker three-four, better known to its two-person crew as BIGFOOT. Crowley’s call sign was Viper-Eight—and Mac was Bravo-Six.

Both companies left the fort on schedule and went their separate ways shortly thereafter. The previously blue sky had clouded over by then, and the sun was a yellow smear beyond the blanket of gray.

Mac couldn’t see the BULLET MAGNET at the front end of the column but could listen in as Crowley offered all sorts of observations to people who didn’t need them. That in spite of the fact that the unit was supposed to maintain radio silence. Yes, the transmissions were scrambled… But by monitoring the volume of radio traffic, the bad guys could tell that something was going on. And that wasn’t good. Mac sighed. Stratton thought Crowley had been lucky. Maybe that luck would hold.

The column turned north shortly after that and rolled through Arminto twenty minutes later. Alpha Company had leveled the place. The saloon was little more than a pile of charred wood, shot-up rat rods littered the area, and the brand-new graveyard was thick with crudely made crosses. As BIGFOOT rolled through town, Mac saw only one resident, and that was a painfully thin dog. It skittered away, tail between its legs, looking back over a shoulder.

With the exception of some low-lying hills and the gullies that separated them, most of the surrounding terrain was flat. That was good since there were very few places for the horde to hide. But, even though Mac was standing in the Stryker’s forward air-guard hatch, she couldn’t see what lay ahead of the column. What did the road look like? Were there lots of tire tracks? Tracks made before the column rolled through? If so, that might indicate that the horde was on the move.

About fifteen minutes north of Arminto, the column was forced to pass through a narrow passageway between two hills. Mac caught glimpses of it from her position at the tail end of the convoy. Then, as the ground began to rise on both sides of her, Mac heard Crowley say, “Put the hammer down. Let’s get through this as quickly as we can.”

That was when an explosion tossed the BULLET MAGNET up into the air. Mac didn’t wait to witness the Humvee’s fate. She was shouting into her mike. “This is Bravo-Six actual! Back up! Back up! Back up!”

BIGFOOT’s truck commander was a corporal named Niki Chin. She brought the vic to a momentary stop, shifted into reverse, and stomped on the accelerator. Mac was thrown forward as huge wheels spun, and the Stryker backed out of the trap.

But, as BIGFOOT cleared the passageway, more charges went off. These explosives were located high on the hillsides, where they weren’t likely to be detected. Avalanches of dirt and rock struck the rearmost Stryker from both sides and nearly buried it. That blocked the road. Bravo Company couldn’t move forward—and it couldn’t back out. It was trapped.

Mac knew what would happen next. Howard’s warriors would appear on the skyline and fire down on the vehicles below. “This is Six actual,” she shouted. “Remain in your vehicles! Gunners will fire upslope! Let the bastards have it. Over.”

The words were hardly out of Mac’s mouth when hundreds of bandits appeared on top of both hills and opened fire. Stratton’s words came back to haunt her: “Maybe some of you will survive.”

Compared to earlier generations of wheeled vehicles, the Strykers had a lot of advantages, not the least of which was thicker armor, and their remotely controlled weapons stations enabled gunners to fire without exposing themselves. Their .50 caliber slugs raked the skyline, 40mm grenades exploded along both slopes, and the horde was forced to take cover. They continued to fire, however… And Mac suspected that fighting positions had been dug along the top of both ridges. Was that Howard’s doing? Probably.

Three of Mac’s Strykers were armed with 105mm guns that, if they could be brought to bear, could do serious damage to the bandits. But Mac knew the cannons couldn’t elevate high enough to hit the ridges. Still another indication that someone knew what they were doing.

All of that and more raced through Mac’s mind as she spoke over the intercom. “Take us to the right, Chin… And drive up onto that ridge. Hooper… Commence firing the moment that you have targets. Sergeant Ivey… Get ready to deploy your squad. We’re going to attack their left flank.”

The CAT engine roared as the Stryker lurched off road, and the vic’s eight-wheel drive propelled it upslope. A light machine gun was mounted in front of Mac. She ran a check on it as Lieutenant Perkins directed fire. “Higher, two-two… There you go. Nice job!

“Swing right one-three… Get those bastards!

“Eyes west, three-one! They have a rocket launcher!”

Mac knew Perkins must be up top, just as she was, in order to see so much of his surroundings. And she was about to order him to get down when a bandit spotted BIGFOOT and opened fire. Bullets pinged the vic’s armor and Mac heard them snap around her. She fired the machine gun, saw geysers of snow shoot up just short of the man, and made the necessary adjustment. A long burst cut him off at the waist. Blood stained the snow.

The truck’s grenade launcher began to chug as Hooper spotted targets and opened fire. Bright yellow-orange explosions marched upslope, consumed a machine-gun crew, and kept going. Chin fought for control as BIGFOOT lost traction, found it, and sent the vic lurching forward. “Find a place to stop and drop the ramp,” Mac told her. “Use the vic for cover, Sergeant Ivey… And grease some of those bastards for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply, as BIGFOOT came to a halt. Rather than turn, and watch the squad deploy, Mac kept her eyes to the front. “Bravo-Six to Bravo Company… Switch your fire to the west. I repeat, switch all of your fire to the west. Three-four is on top of the east ridge. Over.”

Mac heard a chorus of clicks as BIGFOOT topped the ridge, and the slaughter began. Howard, or the person responsible for laying the ambush, had failed to anticipate the possibility that a Stryker would make its way up onto the ridge. And that was a serious mistake.

Suddenly, one of the metal beasts was in among the bandits. And the crew was out for revenge. Chin rolled over a fighting position, crushing those within. Some of the ambushers fled. Grenades followed them, caught up, and cut most of them down. A few turned to fight. Mac fired the machine gun. They fell like tenpins.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. Mac dropped to the ground and looked around. Sergeant Ivey and his squad were walking the ridgeline, checking to make sure that none of the bandits were playing dead, and collecting whatever intel they could.

Mac made her way past an abandoned mortar pit and up to the spot where she had a clear view of the other ridge. At some point in the battle, Perkins had released the soldiers from the Strykers and sent them up the western slope. That in spite of her order for the troops to remain in their vehicles. Mac made a mental note to thank him. The uphill assault hadn’t been easy, though… Mac could see bodies on the hillside. The rest, those who made it to the top, were clearing the area.

Mac felt her heart sink as she looked down onto the road. It appeared that three of Bravo Company’s twelve Strykers had taken repeated hits from mortars and been destroyed. Two of the trucks were on fire, and the third lay on its side. Each vic carried a total of eleven soldiers. So as many as thirty-three people could be dead in addition to the bodies that lay on the slope. Mac felt an almost overwhelming sense of sorrow and had to fight back the tears.

Had she been wrong to keep them buttoned up inside their vehicles? Would more people have survived if she’d let them loose right away? That’s bullshit, the inner voice told her. You made the correct call.

Mac was still thinking about that when Crowley appeared next to her. There was a cut on his forehead and some blood on his buckskin jacket. He was otherwise unhurt. “Hello, Macintyre… I’m glad to see that you’re okay.”

It occurred to Mac that Crowley hadn’t crossed her mind until then. Why was that? “You too, sir… I saw your Humvee take to the air. Did your driver make it?”

“No,” Crowley said, as he looked down at the carnage. “She’s dead.”

Another one. Sisley? No, Sampson. A volunteer from Louisiana. Mac swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s eyes slid past hers to a point off in the distance. “I just got off the horn with Captain Lightfoot. I told him to abort the mission and return to the fort.”

“That makes sense, sir.”

People were moving in among the Strykers by then. Two-three had backed into two-two early on, and a sergeant was inspecting the damage. It would take a while to clear the traffic jam.

“I’m going to take your Stryker and head back,” Crowley said. “Salvage what you can.” And with that, he turned away.

There had been no expression of grief—and no admission of responsibility. What would Crowley do back at the fort? Work with Casey to weasel-word an after-action report? Yes, Mac decided. But there wouldn’t be any press release. Not on that dark day. Mac sighed, made her way downslope, and went to work.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Sloan was in a bad mood. There were three reasons for that. First, General Hern’s forces were still stalled just south of Columbia, Tennessee, where the Confederacy’s 3rd Tank Regiment was putting up a stiff fight. And the same was true to the east and west as well.

Second, the handshake thing was still in the news, and Senator Pickett was beginning to creep up in the polls.

And third, Sloan was scheduled to meet with a reporter from the World News. Not just any reporter… but Beth Morgan. The woman he’d been living with until two months prior to the May Day disaster. Besom’s advice was to, “Be nice. Maybe she’ll go easy on you. Lord knows, we could use some positive press.”

And maybe pigs will fly, Sloan thought to himself. This is Beth’s chance to get even.

But Sloan couldn’t choose whom World News sent, and he couldn’t afford to ignore such an influential newspaper, especially since print media were enjoying a postdisaster resurgence. That meant Sloan had to sit for the interview whether he wanted to or not.

Sloan knew Beth a lot better than most interviewees did, including her passion for organization. It was Beth’s firm belief that e-mails should be returned within twelve hours, thank-you cards were a must, and “good” people were always on time.

So when 3:57 rolled around, and Sloan was still on a call with IRS Commissioner Ralston, he broke it off. “Sorry, Marsha, but I’m supposed to sit down for an interview at four… And this particular reporter has been critical of me in the past. If I’m two seconds late, you’ll read about how arrogant I am on page one of the World News.” Ralston laughed, and they agreed to talk later.

Sloan’s hotel suite included a separate bedroom, and he left it for the sitting room at exactly 4:00 P.M. As he entered, Sloan saw that Beth was checking her watch. Beth had blue eyes, permanently arched brows, and kissable lips. Whoa! the voice cautioned. It didn’t work out. Remember? Beth stood and extended her hand. “Right on time… That’s a surprise.”

Sloan shook her hand but was careful to let go quickly. “It’s good to see you, Beth… How are you? And when did you join World News?”

“I’m fine,” Beth replied. “I was covering a story in Minneapolis when the meteors struck. The Washington Post was destroyed along with the rest of D.C. So I applied for a slot at World News, and here I am.”

“I’m sorry about the Post,” Sloan said sincerely. “I know how it feels to lose coworkers. We were lucky you and I. Please, have a seat.”

Once they were seated, Beth placed a recorder on the table that separated them. “I’d like to record our interview.”

Sloan nodded. “Go right ahead.”

The questions were what Sloan expected them to be. “Why was it taking Hern so long to push the Confederate Army south?” “What was Sloan doing to push his America Rising proposal through Congress?” And, “When was he going to nominate a vice president?”

It took about thirty minutes for Sloan to provide variations on his stock answers. The essence of which was that the Confederates were tough, the Whigs were determined to block reconstruction, and he was in the process of choosing a nominee.

Beth smiled knowingly. His tendency to procrastinate had been one of the things that caused friction between them. “Sure you are,” she said. “Once you make that decision, please have Besom call me first.”

And with that she leaned forward to turn the recorder off. “Thanks, Sam… Now, if you’ve got a couple of minutes, I’d like to tell you about another story that I’m working on. Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t. But since this could represent a matter of national security, my editor thinks that we should share.”

Sloan was intrigued. “Okay, what’s up?”

“Before I get into it I want a verbal agreement,” Beth said. “If the story pans out, you’ll let me break it.”

Sloan shrugged. “Sure, that sounds fair. So, like I said, what’s up?”

“I’m working on an in-depth piece on Senator Pickett,” Beth replied. “Where she’s from, how that shaped her views, and her life in Iowa after she got married. And that’s where things get interesting. When Pickett ran for the Senate in Iowa, she received financial support from the American Eagle PAC, and it was receiving 60 percent of its funding from the Huxton Oil Company.”

Sloan knew that Huxton Oil was owned by Fred Huxton, who had been instrumental in creating the New Confederacy and was a member of the government’s board of directors. But although the connection was interesting, there was nothing illegal about receiving predisaster support from the PAC, so where was Beth headed? “That makes sense, given her politics,” Sloan allowed. “But it doesn’t qualify as front-page news.”

“No,” Beth agreed, “it doesn’t. But there’s more… According to a person I interviewed in Iowa, a man who used to be on Pickett’s staff, the senator is still receiving cash payments from Huxton. They arrive once a month by courier.”

Sloan stared at her. “You must be kidding.”

“No,” Beth replied. “I’m serious. But here’s the problem… All I have is the allegation. And that won’t cut it. We need proof.”

Sloan could see where things were headed. World News lacked the resources to carry out a full-scale investigation—and wanted the government to do it for them. Was that ethical? Yes, no, maybe. If Picket was taking money from the insurgents in return for votes in the Senate, that was a crime. And the Whig candidate would go down in flames.

But what about his involvement? Using government resources to submarine a political opponent would look bad to some people even if it was legally appropriate. “I can’t get involved in this,” Sloan told her. “What I can do is ask the Attorney General to take your call. Then, if he decides that an investigation is appropriate, the wheels will start to turn. But if he says no, then it’s game over.”

Beth nodded. “I will call him tomorrow.”

Sloan glanced at his watch. It was nearly five. “So how about some dinner? I can’t take you out… not without a motorcade and an army of Secret Service agents. But we could eat here.” Are you crazy? the voice demanded. You dumped her! Because she’s OCD, bossy, and extremely transactional. But it was too late. The icy blue eyes seemed to soften a bit. “That would be nice, Sam. But no sex. Not while I’m working on a story that could benefit you.”

“Of course not,” Sam replied. And that was when he remembered something important. The last time he’d had sex had been with her. And it had been quite enjoyable. That was one area where they had always been sympatico.

A smile tugged at the corners of Beth’s mouth. “Good. So what’s on the menu?”

CASPER, WYOMING

A cold wind was blowing down from the north. The flag snapped in the breeze, hardware rattled, and halyards slapped against the aluminum pole as the funeral service continued. Mac was standing behind Colonel Crowley and in front of the battalion. Two days had passed since the ambush. During that time, the wreckage had been removed from what had become known as “the squeeze,” and thirty-nine bodies had been returned to Fort Carney.

Prior to the May Day disaster, the dead would have been processed and sent home for burial. That was no longer possible because of civil unrest, the war, and the country’s crumbling infrastructure. So a military graveyard had been commissioned half a mile south of the fort. And, with assistance from a local funeral home, the dead soldiers were being laid to rest. Each casket was draped with an American flag. And, because the soldiers were from the South, the symbolism took on additional significance.

Tears ran down Mac’s cheeks, and she made no attempt to wipe them away, as each casket was lowered into the ground. The rifle party fired a three-shot volley for each soldier lost. And as the bugler played “Taps,” the sweet-sad sound of it nearly broke her heart.

Once the battalion was dismissed, Mac half expected Crowley to turn and address his troops. He didn’t. A Humvee was waiting. Crowley made his way over, got in, and was whisked away. So Mac led the members of Alpha and Bravo Companies back to the fort, where Charlie Company was on duty. Once they arrived, Mac made her way to the company’s command shack—and was pouring herself a mug of coffee when Perkins arrived. He had Company Sergeant Boulineau in tow. “Have you got a minute, Captain?”

“Sure,” Mac replied. “What’s up?”

“It’s Kline, ma’am. And Porter. They went AWOL last night.”

Kline was the gunner in two-three, and Porter was a mechanic. Neither had been trouble before so far as Mac knew. “Did we catch them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Boulineau answered grimly. “The MPs found them on 220 trying to hitchhike south. They’re being held in the stockade.”

Mac took a sip of coffee. It was cold. “Good. Do we know why they ran?”

Perkins was visibly uncomfortable. “Kline and Porter are of the opinion that the CO doesn’t care about the troops—and that’s why so many people were killed in the squeeze.”

Mac was in a difficult position. The deserters were right—Crowley didn’t care about them. But she was the battalion’s XO, and Bravo Company’s CO. As such, she couldn’t side with Kline and Porter no matter how correct they might be. “Colonel Crowley led the way,” Mac reminded them. “An IED went off under his Humvee and sent it flying through the air.”

“That’s true,” Perkins allowed. “But he left the scene of the ambush before all of the wounded had been treated, much less evacuated. That left a bad taste in the mouths of some.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “You know the drill… Charge them with desertion. I’ll sign the paperwork.”

Neither man moved. Mac eyed them. “Well?”

Perkins cleared his throat. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

“Shoot.”

“We think Kline and Porter are part of a larger problem.”

“That’s right,” Boulineau agreed. “There are rumblings. Things that worry me.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a large number of people pulling out… and making a run for the New Mason-Dixon Line.”

Mac was reminded of what Crowley had said to her. “Who knows? The whole lot of them might go over the hill.”

“Are you referring to Bravo Company?” Mac wanted to know. “Or the entire battalion?”

“All of them,” Perkins replied. “Most, anyway.”

Mac sighed. “First, thanks for the heads-up. Second, let’s do what we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Perkins looked skeptical. “No offense, ma’am… But how will we do that?”

A plan was starting to form in Mac’s mind. “Let’s begin with a proposal to reorganize the battalion. By redistributing our personnel, we can create three companies of equal size… And that makes sense since it could be quite a while before reinforcements arrive. Then, assuming the CO approves of the plan, we’ll start an aggressive training cycle.”

Perkins eyes grew wider. “A reorganization would be like shuffling a deck of cards. It would break up cliques, redistribute opinion leaders, and buy us time.”

Mac smiled. “Yes. If it works. What do you think, Sergeant?”

Boulineau nodded. “You’re a fucking genius, ma’am. No disrespect intended.”

“And none taken,” Mac assured him. “Let’s bring Captain Lightfoot and Captain Withers in on our plan. Then we’ll go to work.”

The proposal to reorganize the battalion came together quickly—and Mac was ready to submit a draft the following morning. But, before she could request a meeting with Crowley, he sent for her. She took the plan along.

When Mac arrived the colonel, Lieutenant Casey, and the other company commanders were crammed into Crowley’s office. He was standing with his back to the earthen wall. “Good morning,” he said, as Mac entered. “Let’s begin.” His eyes roamed the faces in front of him.

“We got our asses handed to us a few days ago. But, rather than sit here and lick our wounds, I’m going to take most of the battalion up north and put Howard down like the mad dog he is. In a perfect world, we would call on the air force to destroy his so-called fort… But Howard has a lot of prisoners there… So we’ve got to do it the hard way.”

Crowley paused. “Right about now, you’re asking yourselves how we’re going to do it. I’m not ready to disclose that yet. Based on what happened in the so-called squeeze, we know that our plans were compromised in advance, and I’m not about to let that happen again.”

Mac was amazed. Stratton had warned Crowley about spies, the colonel had ignored the scout’s warning, and more than thirty soldiers had been killed. Yet here he was… talking about the need for security as if it were a new issue!

“Suffice it to say,” Crowley continued, “that I’m consulting with a new scout. And I expect to finalize a strategy within the next forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I want you to prepare your units for battle without tipping them off to what’s about to take place. And that shouldn’t be too difficult since we’re expected to maintain a high state of readiness at all times. Okay… That’s it for now. Dismissed.”

Mac waited for the others to leave. “Can I have a couple of minutes, sir?”

Crowley waved her toward a chair. “Of course… I’m sorry about leaving you out of the loop… But I’m sure you understand.”

Mac thought Crowley had veered from sharing too much to sharing too little. But what was, was. “Yes, sir. The other company commanders and I came up with a plan to rebalance the battalion… And I’d like to share it with you.”

“That’s a good idea,” Crowley replied. “Especially in light of what we’re about to do. I’ll read it and get back to you later today.”

As Mac left, she could tell that Crowley didn’t have the foggiest idea of how bad morale was, his role in making it that way, or the fact that the “rebalancing” was part of a plan to prevent a mutiny. But he’d been receptive, and that was good.

Mac went back to the command shack and all of the administrative work that waited there. A runner brought Crowley’s response two hours later. There was some markup, but not much. And the words, “Approved with changes,” were scrawled above his signature.

That was good news. But now it was necessary to contact her peers, hold meetings to let the troops know what was coming, and enter the necessary changes into a dozen different databases. Those efforts consumed what remained of the day.

By the time Mac hit the sack, she was exhausted and immediately fell into a deep sleep. And she was still out when the car bomb detonated at 0512 hours. The blast was so powerful that it shook the ground, rattled the room’s single window, and woke her.

Mac sat up in bed. What the? Had she been dreaming? Hell, no. The emergency Klaxon had started to bleat—and she could hear machine-gun fire. The fort was under attack!

Mac rolled off the cot, hurried to pull a pair of pants on, and grabbed her boots. Once the laces were tied, Mac stuck her head up through the hole in her tac vest and felt the familiar weight settle onto her shoulders. The carbine was leaning next to the door, and she grabbed it on the way out.

It was like stepping into hell. A cloud of black smoke was billowing up from the main gate. And as Mac looked in that direction, she saw that men with skull masks were flooding into the fort. Not without opposition, however… The soldiers on top of the walls were firing down on the invaders as people on the ground tried to push them back. Mac fumbled her radio on. “This is Bravo-Six actual… Be careful up on the wall! There are friendlies in the compound, too! Over.”

Shit! Shit! Shit! Where was Crowley? Was he in command? Or was everything up to her? The question went unanswered as three Black Hawk helicopters swept over the fort. Reinforcements! And just in time, too… Then the door gunners opened fire! Bullets chased a private, caught up, and took him down.

Mac’s mind raced. What the hell was going on? Were the helo pilots confused? Did they think that the enemy was in control of Fort Carney? No, that wasn’t likely. Then it hit her… The Confederates! They were helping the horde!

Mac’s radio-telephone operator was a fuzz-faced kid named Worsky. His place was with her, and to his everlasting credit, he appeared at her side. “Holy shit, ma’am… What the hell is going on?”

Mac threw him to the ground as gouts of slush marched across the ground and passed within inches of them. “Get on the horn!” Mac shouted. “Tell fire control that those helos belong to the Confederacy… and to shoot them down!”

Worsky was still talking as the Black Hawks hovered, and bandits jumped to the ground. Once they were clear, the helicopters began to rise. Their mission was complete—and the pilots were eager to haul ass. But the fort’s surface-to-air missile launchers had swiveled around by then. Two helos exploded in quick succession. The third managed to clear the wall, and was a mile away, when a missile caught up with it. The result was a flash of light, a boom, and a shower of flaming debris.

The bandits split up. Some ran toward the vehicle sheds, but six made a dash for the underground command post. Two guards were stationed out front. They fired but were cut down. Mac was up on one knee by then. She raised her carbine and triggered a three-round burst. The bullets hit the last bandit between the shoulder blades. He threw his arms out, took a nosedive, and slid through the slush. “Warn the people in the command post,” Mac said, as she fired again. “Tell them to lock the door!”

But before Worsky could obey, Lieutenant Casey made his way up the ramp and onto the surface. He was armed with a light machine gun, which he fired John Wayne style. The bandits seemed to dance like puppets and collapsed in a heap. “Good morning, ma’am,” the PA officer said as he passed Mac. “They need help on the gate… I thought I’d lend a hand.” Then he was gone.

Mac still hadn’t heard anything from Crowley. Maybe he’d been hit. But, whatever the reason, her place was in the CP unless the CO showed up to relieve her.

Mac ordered Worsky to stand guard outside, went down the ramp, and entered the underground com cave. She could hear garbled radio traffic and lots of it. A tech sergeant named Tully was in charge and hurried over. There was a look of relief on her face. “Thank God… We could use some help, ma’am.”

“Give me a sitrep,” Mac said, as her eyes flitted from screen to screen. “But keep it short.”

“They blew the main gate,” the noncom answered. “It’s secure now, but at least a hundred bandits got inside.” Mac went to work. It soon became apparent that without any centralized control, the battle had devolved to the company and platoon levels, as small contingents of troops battled to keep the invaders away from the com towers, the Strykers, and the ammo dump.

Bit by bit, Mac worked to reintegrate the battalion. And by 0623 hours, Fort Carney was secure again. But how had things gone so wrong? And where was Crowley?

Mac ordered Captain Lightfoot to take temporary command as she sought answers to both questions. She pulled Tully aside. “Okay… Give it to me straight… What happened? Give me the longer version this time.”

Tully looked scared, and that was understandable. Was Mac going to blame her for the debacle? “At about 0500, a Humvee flying the stars and bars rolled up on the outer perimeter,” Tully said. “The guards attempted to wave it down, but the driver kept going. That’s when Corporal Inthy called in and asked me what to do.”

Tully swallowed nervously and looked down at her boots. “I wasn’t sure. So I was going to escalate the decision when the Humvee ran over a guard stationed on the inner perimeter. Our people opened fire. But the Humvee’s armor held, the driver made it through the concrete obstacles, and slammed into the door. Then it blew up. The door gave way. That’s when three truckloads of bandits rolled in. They charged the gate.”

Mac wrapped her arm around the other woman’s narrow shoulders. “Write it down before you go off duty… while it’s still fresh in your mind. And one more thing… You kept things going. I won’t forget that. Now, what about the helicopters?”

Tully’s eyes came up, and she looked more confident. “That was different… They had the right recognition signals.”

“What?”

“Yes, ma’am. The lead pilot called in from fifty miles out, said that General Garrett was aboard, and requested permission to land. We asked for today’s recognition code and received it. Fire control was notified, along with all of the AA batteries.”

Mac took it in. Crowley had been careful this time. Even she didn’t know what the plan of attack was. Yet Howard knew… And the Confederacy knew. “Write that down, too,” Mac instructed. “It will go into the after-action report. And let’s stay vigilant. Who knows? Those bastards could launch a follow-up attack.”

Mac turned and made her way back to Crowley’s office. She didn’t know what to expect. Was the man drunk? Cowering under his desk? She’d be tempted to shoot him if he was.

But Crowley wasn’t cowering under his desk. He was dead. And that was glaringly obvious the moment Mac entered. The colonel was sitting in his chair, head back, staring at her. Except that instead of two eyes he had three… The one in the middle was rimmed with blue and leaking blood. It ran down onto the bridge of his nose and into his mustache.

Mac swore under her breath as she went over to look for the pistol. But there wasn’t any pistol. Crazy Crowley had been murdered! By one of the Southerners he feared so much? By Captain Lightfoot? No, that didn’t seem likely, given all that was going on. Plus there were guards out front. Or had been until the bandits killed them.

Then it came to her. Lieutenant Casey! He was from the South, he’d been there, and Crowley trusted him. But the bastard was a spy… An enemy agent who’d been ordered to shoot the fort’s CO at the height of the action, a moment when Tully and the rest of them were unlikely to notice the noise.

Mac wheeled, left the room, and returned to the com cave. “Sergeant Tully… get Captain Lightfoot on the horn. Tell him to find Lieutenant Casey and place him under arrest. Oh, and tell him that there’s a very strong chance that Casey murdered the colonel. If so, he’s dangerous.”

Tully’s eyes were huge. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t let anyone into the colonel’s office,” Mac added. “It’s a crime scene.” And with that, she left.

As Mac returned to the surface, she was greeted by the sight of two burning helicopters, people running to and fro, and a scattering of bodies. Most were bandits but not all… And that made her angry. Very angry. Someone was going to pay.

“There you are,” Captain Lightfoot said, as he arrived. “You’re serious? The colonel was murdered?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “And I think Casey did it.”

“He’s gone,” Lightfoot told her. “He left in a Humvee. No one had any reason to stop him.”

Did that amount to proof? No… But even if Casey wasn’t a murderer, he was a deserter. “I’m assuming command,” Mac said. “And I’m naming you as the acting XO. Have one of your platoon leaders contact the local police department and request assistance. Someone from the outside needs to conduct an investigation, and we don’t have any CIC agents.”

“Got it,” Lightfoot replied. “And then?”

“And then we’re going to find the new scout that Crowley told us about,” Mac replied. “They had a plan. Was Casey in on it? If not, we’re going to use it.”

Lightfoot nodded. “That makes my fucking day… Let’s do this thing.”