Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 5

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

It was a nice day by postapocalyptic standards. That meant Victoria could leave her cold-weather gear in her condo. She was barely aware of the drive to work because her mind was on other things. Primary among them was the summons from the normally hands-off Colonel Oxley. According to Oxley’s e-mail, he wanted to see her “regarding the Howard fiasco,” and “…a new assignment.”

Victoria had been reporting to Oxley for six months. On paper, at any rate. But in all truth, Victoria’s orders came from Oxley’s CO, which was to say her father. Now it seemed as though Oxley was going to get in her face. Something had changed. But what?

Victoria was approaching the gate by that time. She braked, waited for the line to jerk ahead, and had her ID at the ready when her turn came. An MP eyed it and took a step back. The salute was textbook perfect. Victoria returned it and drove into the fort. The III Corps headquarters building consisted of two squares and a central triangle.

Victoria parked behind the complex and made her way across the parking lot. After entering the building, Victoria had to show ID again before continuing on her way.

Oxley’s office was three doors down the hall from her father’s. Victoria glanced at her watch, confirmed that she had enough time for a side trip, and took a right instead of a left.

A well-worn carpet led her to a door that should have borne her father’s name, rank, and title. The plaque was missing, and the door was locked. Mystery solved. Her father had been promoted, reassigned, or both. And because Bo’s movements were classified, he hadn’t been free to tell her.

So, Victoria thought to herself, as she did an about-face. It looks like I’ll have to take Oxley seriously. She made her way to Oxley’s office, went inside, and paused at the reception desk. “Major Macintyre to see Colonel Oxley.”

The civilian clerk was a middle-aged man with a comb-over and a snippy manner. “The colonel is busy. Sit down. He’ll see you when he’s ready.”

Victoria chose one of six empty chairs. Most of the New Confederacy continued to enjoy Internet service, and she was checking her e-mail when the clerk called her name. The door to Oxley’s office was open. Victoria stepped inside and came to attention. “Major Macintyre, sir… Reporting as ordered.”

Oxley was fortysomething and runner thin. His uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. “At ease, Major… Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So,” Oxley said, as he made a steeple with his fingers. “I read your report regarding the attack on Fort Carney. The fact that we had an agent on Colonel Crowley’s staff led to a successful ambush. That part of the affair was well done.”

Oxley smiled thinly. “Unfortunately, the rest of it was a full-on shit show. In response to Robert Howard’s request, and your recommendation, we took part in the attack on Fort Carney. Three Black Hawk helicopters were lost along with their crews even though the pilots had the correct recognition signals. That’s eighteen million predisaster dollars, Major… Never mind the lives lost. Howard doesn’t care… But I do.”

Oxley’s comments had been carefully worded. At no point had he accused General Macintyre’s daughter of being incompetent, but the implication was there. And Victoria was seething with anger. She’d been able to watch the attack via a drone circling above. And it was a shit show. Something she was forthright about in her report.

So what was the rehash about? Oxley wanted to throw his weight around and get back at the Macintyre family for the manner in which he’d been sidelined. Victoria was reminded of the old saying: What goes around comes around.

But Victoria had been forced to deal with pissy COs before and wasn’t about to provide Oxley with a reason to write her up. “Yes, sir,” Victoria said. “I understand.”

“Good,” Oxley said, as if an important understanding had been reached. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. And there’s no point in crying over spilled milk, is there?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” Oxley said. “As I mentioned in my e-mail, we have a new assignment for you.”

“What about Howard, sir?”

“Don’t worry,” Oxley replied. “We’ll take care of him… But he won’t be on the receiving end of any more helicopters.”

The dig hurt, but Victoria kept her face blank. “Yes, sir. And the assignment?”

Oxley was enjoying himself. He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been busy… So it’s possible that you missed the news stories regarding the so-called Resistance. They’ve been killing our troops, blowing things up, and spreading antigovernment propaganda. They claim to be fighting for what they call ‘a full restoration of the United States government,’ but they’re terrorists, pure and simple.

“So the decision was made to create a military counterterrorism team, and the folks in Houston chose you to lead the team.” It wasn’t clear whether Oxley approved of the choice, but Victoria suspected that he didn’t.

“Everything you need to know is on this thumb drive,” Oxley told her as he pushed a USB drive across the surface of his desk. “The material on it is classified, so take good care of it.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said, as she accepted the device. “Whom will I report to?”

Oxley produced a shit-eating grin. “That would be me, Major… I think we’ll make an excellent team. Don’t you agree?”

Victoria didn’t agree, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Study the information on the drive and let me know if you have any questions.”

Victoria knew a dismissal when she heard one and stood. “Yes, sir.” She saluted, Oxley threw one in return, and Victoria left. What was the old saying? “If you can’t take a joke, don’t join the army?” It was true.

NEAR CASPER, WYOMING

The Flying H Ranch was located in the Rattlesnake Hills region west of Casper. And as the van bounced along a dirt road, Mac wondered why anyone would choose to live in such a desolate place. Most of the terrain was rocky and cut by ravines. What grass there was stood in frozen tufts and seemed unlikely to support more than a few dozen cattle.

But that’s where Sarah Huntington, the great-granddaughter of Fergus Huntington, had chosen to live. And she was the scout that Crowley had been working with prior to his death. So if Mac wanted to learn about Crowley’s secret plan of attack, Huntington was the person to see.

That’s why Mac and a small group of soldiers had chosen to travel in a civilian van. Assuming that Howard’s spies weren’t aware of Huntington, and her relationship with Crowley, Mac didn’t want to tip them off.

Perkins swore as the van topped a rise, took to the air, and landed hard. Perkins was riding in back with Mac’s RTO and two soldiers. “Damn it, Johnson… What’s wrong with you? Slow down.”

“Sorry, sir,” Johnson said. But Mac was sitting next to the driver and noticed that he didn’t look sorry. She smiled. Even though officers were in charge, and NCOs ran the army, privates could make life miserable for their superiors when they chose to.

Johnson braked as the road rounded the side of a hill—and passed a weather-faded sign. It was succinct if nothing else. TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

The road ran straight as an arrow after that, and Mac could see a cluster of trees ahead. They framed a yellow double-wide and a scattering of shabby outbuildings. Huntington’s home? Yes. It was quite a comedown for the family that once owned a gold mine, lived in Huntington Lodge, and owned vast tracts of land.

How Huntington wound up on Crowley’s radar wasn’t clear… But, while trolling through Crowley’s laptop, Mac came across her name under CONTACTS, and the note that went with it: “New scout/Operation Payback.” But it was password protected. And that meant Mac would have to talk with Huntington if she wanted to learn about Operation Payback.

The van came to a stop. The old four-by-four pickup parked in front of the house suggested that Huntington was home. If so, she was in no hurry to come out and welcome uninvited guests. Mac didn’t blame her. Not with the horde roaming the land. “Stay in the van,” Mac instructed as she opened the door.

It was cold outside—and Mac could see her breath. There were boot prints in the snow… Plus a lot of paw prints. Mac felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was being watched. That’s how it felt. And as she looked around, Mac saw them. Dogs… At least a dozen of them. Some of the mutts were sitting with tongues lolling out of their mouths. Others were crouched, as if prepared to attack, and one lay on its side as if waiting for her to scratch his tummy. Vapor misted the air around its snout.

Mac’s carbine was in the van—but her pistol was holstered on her vest. Could she draw and fire in time? No. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. “Ms. Huntington?” Mac shouted. “My name’s Macintyre… Captain Macintyre. Colonel Crowley was murdered. I found your name on his computer. I’d like to talk to you about Robert Howard.”

Seconds passed. Mac heard a noise and turned to see a person roll out from under the pickup truck. She stood and took a moment to brush snow and ice off her clothes. One by one, the dogs gathered around her. One of them growled. “Are you Sarah Huntington?” Mac inquired.

“Yes,” the woman answered. Huntington appeared to be in her fifties because of her sun-ravaged skin, but she could have been younger. Her hair hung down in braids, and she was wearing a duster. “Say your piece.”

Mac saw that Huntington was holding a long-barreled revolver down along the outside surface of her right thigh. It was pointed at the ground but could come up in a hurry. “You were working with Colonel Crowley to finalize a plan called Operation Payback. Maybe that plan has been compromised. If not, I’d like to use it. Howard is a murderer, a thief, and a slaver. Plus he took prisoners in the town of Wright… Female prisoners. We might be able to save them.”

Huntington’s hand moved, and the pistol seemed to jump into the cross-draw holster on her belt. “Show me some ID.”

Mac produced her card, gave it over, and watched Huntington scan it. “Okay,” the scout said. “Your soldiers can leave the van… The dogs won’t hurt them.”

Mac turned to the van and gave a thumbs-up. Doors opened, and her troops got out. Then, on an order from Perkins, they deployed with their backs to the vehicle.

Mac turned back to Huntington. “Did you know that Crowley had been murdered?”

Huntington nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“The police told you?”

“No.”

“Then how did you find out?”

“Follow me,” Huntington said, and walked away. Mac followed her to one of the sheds out behind the house. Smoke dribbled out of a metal stovepipe.

“This is my smokehouse,” Huntington announced as she opened the door, and Mac followed her inside. Big chunks of meat hung from hooks. Mac was about to ask, “Why did you bring me here?” when Huntington pointed to a carcass. “That’s how I knew Crowley was dead.”

The light was dim, and the air was thick with drifting smoke, so it took a moment for Mac to recognize Lieutenant Casey. He was nude and hanging head down. Large chunks of flesh had been ripped from his body. “The bastard is heavy,” Huntington commented. “But a buck weighs even more. That’s where the chain hoist comes in.” It was said matter-of-factly, one woman to another.

Mac was aghast. “What happened to him?”

“He came for me,” Huntington said. “And the dogs tore him up. I called them off, but it was too late by then. He bled out.”

“But why store the body in here?” Mac inquired.

“Where else would I put it?” Huntington countered. “I couldn’t go to the police, not without alerting Howard to my involvement, and the ground is frozen. I’ll bury him in the spring.”

They left the smokehouse. Huntington’s story made sense. Not that Mac cared. Huntington could use Casey for dog food as far as she was concerned. “Did Casey know about Operation Payback?”

“No,” Huntington said. “He didn’t.”

“Good. What is the plan? And could it work?”

It took Huntington three or four minutes to explain. Once she was finished, Mac couldn’t help but smile. “I like it. Are you still willing to sign on?”

Their eyes met. “Howard is like a cancer that needs to be cut out,” Huntington answered. “Plus, if we free those prisoners, then so much the better. And there’s one more thing.”

“Which is?”

“That bastard is camped in my granddaddy’s lodge. That pisses me off.”

SPRING HILL, TENNESSEE

President Sloan was in Fort Knox, Kentucky, working on a speech. That’s what the press had been told. It wasn’t true, however. After weeks of grinding warfare, the Union Army had been able to advance a few miles. Reporters were calling it “the Battle of Spring Hill.” That was the sort of victory that Sloan had been hungering for. And rather than simply read the reports and watch battle footage, he had decided to visit the battlefield.

No one liked the idea, especially the Secret Service, which was understandably worried about putting the president down so close to the front lines. But Sloan was insistent. So under the cover of darkness, he’d been flown to Murfreesboro, given a uniform to wear, and helicoptered out to the battlefield. General Hern had been notified, but no one else knew. And rather than lay on extra security, which might alert the rebs, Secret Service Director Jenkins was keeping everything low-key.

That’s why no one other than Hern, his adjutant, and a squad of special ops troops were on hand to welcome “Major” Sloan when he landed. Once he was clear of the LZ, Sloan saw occasional flashes along the horizon—and heard a series of thumps as artillery rounds detonated. The Battle of Spring Hill might be over, but the war wasn’t.

The still-rising sun was hidden by a thick layer of clouds as the two men shook hands. Hern was a big man. Not fat, just big. The general didn’t have a neck so far as Sloan could discern, which made it appear as if his head were perched on his shoulders.

And jutting out over a pugnacious jaw was the unlit cigar that Hern was so famous for. When a reporter asked him about the stogie, Hern replied, “I’m going to light that son of a bitch when we enter Houston,” and Sloan hoped that day would come soon. “Good morning, Mr. President,” Hern said. “Thanks for coming.”

Hern didn’t want him there, and Sloan knew that. It was a nice thing to say, however… And Sloan smiled. “Thank you, General… And congratulations.”

“I’ll pass that on to the troops,” Hern promised. “They fought well.”

Sloan nodded. “How bad is the butcher’s bill?”

“We don’t have a final count yet,” Hern answered. “But according to the preliminary figures, we lost 6,241 soldiers. Another 11,748 were wounded. Some won’t make it.”

The numbers were high. Higher than Sloan thought they’d be. What had the Duke of Wellington said? “Compared to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle won.” Or something like that. “And the rebs? They were Americans, too.”

“Some were,” Hern conceded. “But something new has come to light. The Confederates are using Mexican mercenaries as cannon fodder. That’s one of the reasons why we won… Our forces attacked the section of the line that the mercs were in charge of. They fought bravely, but most were poorly trained.”

Mercenaries… Bought and paid for with revenue from America’s oil reserves! Sloan had been forced to rely on mercs during the early days of the war. But that practice had been discontinued shortly after the debacle in Richton, Mississippi. He felt sorry for all of the dead soldiers, regardless of which side they’d been fighting for. “Show me. I want to see.”

They got in a Humvee, followed by other Humvees, and drove away. The route took them down a country road and past a burned-out minimart.

As they drove along, Sloan saw an artillery piece that was pointed at the sky, a row of body bags awaiting pick up, and the arrows that pathfinders had spray painted onto walls. All of the images were tiles in a ghastly mosaic Sloan would never forget.

The Humvee left the road at that point, bounced through a drainage ditch, and entered a field. It looked as though an artillery shell had landed among a herd of cows. Their mangled bodies lay in concentric circles liked the petals of an obscene flower.

Tires fought for purchase as the driver directed the vehicle uphill. They passed a group of rebel prisoners before arriving on the top of the hill. “This is as far forward as we can go,” Hern said. “But the view is pretty good.”

Once outside, Sloan saw that the view was pretty good. Or pretty bad… depending on how one chose to look at it. Hern gave Sloan a pair of binoculars. As he brought them up to his eyes, Sloan saw a clump of shattered trees, some hastily dug earthworks, and a clutch of fire-blackened vehicles. Way off in the distance, a soldier could be seen. He was carrying a buddy on his back as he trudged south. Victory, Sloan thought to himself. This is what victory looks like. He gave the binoculars back. “Thank you, General. It isn’t pretty… But I’m glad I came.”

CASPER, WYOMING

It was just past 0700, and Mac was standing atop Fort Carney’s defensive wall, looking north toward the city of Buffalo and what Robert Howard called “the High Fort.” A chilly breeze stung her cheeks—and ruffled her hair. Mac responded by ramming her hands even deeper into her pockets. She was in a bind.

After reporting Crowley’s death, word had come down that a new commanding officer would arrive at Fort Carney in seven days. Meanwhile, assuming that Howard’s prisoners hadn’t already been auctioned off, that could happen at any time. Never mind whatever cruelties they were forced to endure in the meantime.

There was something else to consider as well. What if the new CO refused to act on the Crowley-Huntington plan? And that was more likely than not. Even the most aggressive officer would want to get acquainted with their new command before launching an attack on the warlord of warlords.

Plus, since the battalion had lost almost fifty people during the last week, the new CO might very well wait for reinforcements before heading north. All of which argued in favor of launching the attack immediately, before anyone could tell her not to.

On the other hand, Mac knew that folks up the chain of command expected her to sit tight even if they hadn’t issued specific orders to that effect. So if she went after Howard on her own, and things went wrong, they’d hang her out to dry. What to do?

Mac remembered the guilt-ridden man she’d spoken to in the town of Wright. The man who had committed suicide in front of her. What was his granddaughter’s name? Sissy? Yes. Was Sissy worth risking her career for? Yes. And time was short.

It took the rest of the day and some of the night to get organized. Mac couldn’t justify taking more than one company after the attack on the fort. And, since Charlie Company was in the best shape, she chose it for the task. Bravo Company’s platoon leaders were pissed… But that couldn’t be helped.

So at 0200, a fueler, plus fourteen Strykers and 108 soldiers left Fort Carney on a mission that was almost guaranteed to produce a stunning victory or a terrible defeat. As the convoy drove west on Highway 20, doubts plagued Mac’s mind as they passed through Natrona, Shoshoni, and veered north to Thermopolis. From there it was a short trip to Worland and Highway 16 east.

By the time 0445 rolled around, Mac knew they were deep inside horde-occupied territory. The fact that they’d been able to travel that far without being forced to fight was thanks to good luck, the early hour, and complete secrecy. Only Mac and Lightfoot knew where the convoy was headed—although the troops could guess by then.

Mac felt an emptiness in her gut as they cleared Worland and continued east. The first part of the mission was over—but the most dangerous section lay ahead. Mac had chosen to ride in the lead vehicle. It was an ESV Stryker with a dozer blade mounted up front. She ducked down into the cargo area below. The air was warm and heavy with the smell of hydraulic fluid. Her RTO sat up straight. “Send this message on this frequency,” Mac told him.

Worsky accepted the piece of paper, made the necessary adjustment to his radio, and spoke into his mike. “Starlight to Star Bright… We cleared Worland. Over.”

The reply consisted of two clicks. That meant Huntington had received the scrambled message, understood it, and was waiting. Mac felt a sense of relief. Thank God. The whole plan would have gone up in smoke had the civilian scout been intercepted or killed.

Fifteen minutes later, Mac was standing in the hatch, struggling to stay warm, when the vehicle rounded a curve. Lights appeared in the distance, and Mac knew they were approaching the town of Ten Sleep. Huntington claimed that Ten Sleep had been a favorite with tourists prior to the May Day disaster. Now it was home to fifty or sixty bandits who were stationed there to protect Howard’s southwestern flank and collect taxes from travelers.

The outlaws were a threat in and of themselves, of course… But the greater danger lay in the possibility that they would tip Howard off to the convoy’s presence.

Even though the sun hadn’t cleared the horizon, there was enough light to see by as Mac raised her binoculars. Barricades to channel vehicles through a checkpoint had been put in place. “This is Bravo-Six,” Mac said. “One-one and one-two will pull over to the side of the road. One-three and one-four will engage the position ahead. Hit them hard, people… And take that antenna out immediately. Execute.”

Mac was thrown sideways as the ESV swerved to the right and stopped. One-two turned left and pulled over. That cleared the way for one-three and one-four to advance side by side. One-three, AKA OL’ SLAB SIDES, was equipped with a 105mm cannon. Mac heard a loud boom and saw a bright flash as a shell hit the checkpoint. “Good morning, assholes,” the Stryker’s driver said. “Eat lead!”

“That will be enough of that,” Captain Lightfoot said from his position at the tail end of the convoy. “Cut the crap. Over.” Mac grinned and knew that everyone else in the convoy was grinning, too.

One-four was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher, and it chugged away as the vic called LUCKY LOU closed in on the concrete barriers. A steady stream of grenades swept left to right across the enemy checkpoint. The overlapping explosions threw bodies into the air.

SLAB SIDES jerked to a halt, its gunner sent another round downrange, and Mac saw a flash as it hit the thirty-foot-tall com mast. That was followed by a loud bang. The top half of the antenna crashed onto the top of the thirty-foot trailer parked beside the highway. An office perhaps? Or a ready room? Mac hoped so. She keyed her mike. “Nice shooting, one-three… All right, get some troops in there and mop up. Over.”

Two squads left their Strykers and made their way forward. Mac heard firing and a series of bangs as more grenades went off. A lieutenant named Swanson was in charge—and she called in five minutes later. “This is Charlie-Two… The area has been secured. Twelve bandits are down—and about ten got away. One of my soldiers was wounded, but the doc says he’ll make it. Over.”

Mac swore. Some bad guys were on the loose and, if they had the right kind of radio, were talking to Howard. And even if they couldn’t, the survivors would send a messenger to the High Fort in order to warn him. But that was to be expected. The race was on. “Roger that, Charlie-Two. Well done. Pull back and mount up. We’re out of here. Over.”

Mac ducked down into the cargo compartment. “Worsky… Send this message on the same frequency as the last one.”

Worsky accepted the slip of paper and read the words aloud. “Starlight to Star Bright… We’re leaving Ten Sleep. Over.”

Mac listened for the clicks, heard them, and felt the ESV jerk ahead. She went forward to speak with the driver. “Watch for a flashlight on the left. It will blink three times. Stop when you see it—but warn the rest of the column first.”

The truck commander was named Castel. He kept his eyes on the road. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac went up top. The sun was higher but hadn’t cleared the mountains. Five minutes dragged by as Mac waited. Then she saw it! A blink followed by two more. Huntington was waiting at the point where a dirt road met the highway.

Castel put out a call to the other TCs and braked. As the ESV came to a stop, Huntington climbed up onto the vic. She was carrying a scope-mounted rifle and a light pack. “Good morning, Captain. You’re right on time.”

“So far so good,” Mac said. “Hang on.”

Then, to Castel, “Hit the gas and turn left. Let’s get off the highway.”

“Bravo-Six actual to Charlie-Six… We need to clear the highway without being seen. If you see a vehicle, destroy it.”

It was a cold-blooded order, and one that might cause completely innocent people to die. But Mac had 107 other lives to preserve, prisoners to free, and a scumbag to kill. Did that make it okay? No, it didn’t. And Mac knew that if Lightfoot was forced to obey her order, it would haunt her forever.

Seconds turned into five incredibly long minutes punctuated by a burp of static. “This is Charlie-Six. The last vehicle cleared the highway. No vehicles passed in either direction. Over.”

Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief. “This is Bravo-Six. Roger that… Once your vehicle is hidden, send a squad back to clear our tracks. Over.”

Mac knew Lightfoot would understand. It was just a matter of time before Howard learned about the attack in Ten Sleep. But if he didn’t know where the column was, he’d have to send people to find it. That meant a large contingent of bandits would be ordered to block Highway 16 west of Buffalo—and that would reduce the number of men available to defend the High Fort. “This is Bravo-Six actual… All units will stop. Bring the fueler forward. TCs will top off their tanks. Over.”

The column came to a halt, and it wasn’t long before the tank truck pulled up level with one-one. Once the lead ESV was fueled, it pulled forward so that one-two could take its place, and so on until all of the Strykers had full tanks. And that was important because it would be disastrous if any one of them ran out of gas during the final phase of the attack. In the meantime, each squad had a short bio break. The entire process consumed thirty precious minutes but was absolutely necessary.

Finally, assured that the company’s tracks had been obliterated a full fifty feet back from the highway, Mac told Castel to get under way. The ESV jerked ahead, forcing Huntington to hang on or fall off. The scout had been invited to ride down below, but she wanted to see, and Mac couldn’t blame her.

Before long, the dirt road narrowed to one lane, and the company entered the Bighorn National Forest. An alpine meadow lay to the left, with a lightly treed slope on the right and craggy mountains in the distance.

Eventually, they came to a Y in the road. Huntington was crouched next to Mac. “Stay to the right!” she shouted, and pointed. Mac relayed the message to Castel. And that’s how the next hour was spent. The scout would point the way, and the column would follow along.

Most of the roads weren’t maintained. So there were times when the Strykers had to power through creeks, circle around washouts, and crash through thickets of saplings to proceed. They passed an old log cabin at one point—and a rusty pickup half a mile later. But there was no traffic. And for that, Mac was grateful.

That didn’t mean they were safe from observation, however. Howard was no fool… The ex–Green Beret would have lookouts up high somewhere. Mac’s train of thought was interrupted as the ESV topped a rise, and Huntington raised a fist. “Stop here.”

Mac gave the order, and the Stryker came to a stop. Huntington dropped to the ground, walked a few yards, and pointed at the ground. “Here it is! Just like I told you it would be!”

Mac felt a rising sense of excitement as she lowered herself to the ground and went to join the scout. And sure enough… There they were. Two rusty rails! “The main line used to run south from Buffalo, around the mountains, and up to Sheridan,” Huntington explained. “But the trains stopped running when my great-grandfather’s gold mine played out. And eventually they built Highway 16 over part of the line. We need to follow the old right-of-way for two miles… That’s where we’ll run into the spur that leads to the mine.”

“And the mine is located under the lodge,” Mac added.

“That’s correct,” Huntington agreed. “When the mine closed, my great-grandfather went into the cattle business, did well, and built his home over the mine. So all we have to do is follow the track in and boom! We win.”

Mac knew it wouldn’t be so simple but smiled anyway. “Okay, let’s get going.”

Once the women were aboard, Castel lowered the ESV’s dozer blade and angled it to the right. One-two’s driver angled his blade the other way. And with the rest of the column tagging along behind, they turned onto the track.

Mac had done her homework and knew that the Strykers could straddle the narrow-gauge tracks with room to spare. And by mowing the brush down, the lead vehicles could clear the way for the vics following behind them.

The ESV shook, and gear rattled as the Stryker bumped over a long succession of railroad ties. But that was the price to be paid if they were going to close in on Howard. The spur was right where Huntington said it would be, and the company turned east. Now they were west of the High Fort and aimed directly at it. “Two miles,” Huntington announced. “Then we’ll enter the tunnel.”

That was the moment when three F-111 fighter-bombers appeared from the south and began to circle. Mac saw them, as did a dozen other people, all of whom tried to report at the same time. “This is Bravo-Six actual,” Mac said. “I see them. Worsky… Get on the horn. Contact the zoomies. Tell them to hold off… There are hostages on the ground. Over.”

“Roger that,” the RTO replied from inside the ESV.

Mac’s mind was racing. She hadn’t requested the fighters… So who sent them? Some REMF at Fort Knox? In retribution for the attack on Fort Carney? Probably.

If so, that was on her since rather than request permission for a raid on the ground, and have her request denied, Mac had chosen to proceed on her own. Shit! What if prisoners died? It would be her fault!

“This is Bravo-Ten,” Worsky said. “The F-111s belong to the rebs! Some guy told me to fuck myself.”

Mac swore as the lead plane completed a wide turn and dived. “Step on it Castel! We need to reach the tunnel and fast!”

The ESV was already making pretty good time given the conditions, but the TC put his foot down. Mac’s teeth rattled as the big tires bumped across ancient railroad ties. “Bravo-Six to all units… Pick up the pace! Stand by to repel aircraft. Fire at will.”

The order to fire was largely meaningless since the only AA capability the Strykers had were the light machine guns mounted on the top of each vic. Mac turned hers toward an incoming plane as rockets flared off its wings and cannon shells ripped through a stand of trees to the north. Mac saw a flash of light out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a Stryker explode. “Keep going!” Lightfoot yelled from his position at the tail end of the column. “Push the wreckage out of the way!”

Mac looked up, fully expecting to see another F-111 coming straight in. But, rather than attack Charlie Company the way she expected them to, the other jets were focused on a target in the distance. She heard a thud, followed by a boom, and saw smoke billow up into the sky. Were the planes dropping bombs on the High Fort? Yes! But why?

Then it came to her… Maybe someone from Ten Sleep had been able to alert Howard. Or, given his alliance with the Confederacy, maybe the column had been spotted from orbit!

The exact mechanism didn’t matter. What mattered was that unlike the Union and Fort Carney, Howard didn’t give a shit about the High Fort, or the prisoners located there… He was a nomad… Or a renegade playing the part of a nomad. And, rather than surrender his headquarters to the Union, he preferred to destroy the old building. And the Strykers. A victory even the Khan would admire. “There it is!” Huntington exclaimed. “The tunnel!”

Mac turned, saw that the entrance was guarded by a pair of rotting doors, and told Castel to break through them. Then she grabbed Huntington’s arm and pulled the scout toward the hatch. They tumbled into the cargo compartment as the bulldozer blade struck wood. The impact threw Mac into Worsky, and they wound up in a tangle of arms and legs as the Stryker broke through. Once Mac was on her feet, she turned to the hatch. “Don’t go up there,” Huntington warned. “There’s less than a foot of clearance.”

“We lost the remote-weapons station,” Castel added, as the ESV bounced over a chunk of wood. Mac winced. So much for her planning. If the ESV’s primary weapon was gone, others would be lost, too.

Worsky had recovered by then, and Mac took his mike. “Bravo-Six to Charlie-Six. Give me a sitrep. Over.”

There was a pause followed by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. “Vic three-four didn’t make it Bravo-Six… They took a direct hit. The rest of the column entered the tunnel.”

Mac felt the ESV come to a sudden stop as she struggled to assimilate the news. At least ten people were dead, including Captain Lightfoot, who’d been riding drag. It took an act of will to keep her voice steady. “Roger that, over. Charlie-Three will use a squad to secure the entrance to the tunnel. All other units will prepare to deploy… Over.”

After returning the mike to Worsky, Mac went forward to speak with Castel. But there was no need. She could see the cave-in on the screen in front of him. “Drop the ramp… I’m going out.”

Mac heard the whine of hydraulics as she made her way toward the rear of the vehicle. Was there enough room to get past the cave-in? If so, she could take the entire company through the gap. If not, they’d have to exit through the west entrance. That would take them back the way they’d come—and it would take forever to find a way up over the ridge.

Mac made her way down the ramp, with Worsky and Huntington right behind her. As soon as she cleared the ESV, Mac turned east. There was very little room between the Stryker and the wall. That meant the officer had to turn sideways in order to get through.

Once Mac arrived at the front end of the vic, things opened up. She was wearing her helmet and night-vision gear but had no need of it yet. The cave-in was easy to see thanks to the glare from the Stryker’s headlights. Mac eyed the pile of dirt, rock, and broken timbers, looking for a passageway. She didn’t see one at first. But up top, and off to the right, she saw what looked like a hole.

After climbing up the pile of debris, Mac confirmed that yes, there was a way through, and allowed herself to slide back down. Worsky was waiting at the bottom of the slope. “Get on the horn… Tell Charlie-Three to remain where he is. Tell the rest of the company to shed everything except their combat gear and follow me.”

Worsky was relaying her instructions as Mac and Huntington scrambled up the slope and wiggled through the hole and into the darkness beyond. The tunnel assumed a greenish hue as Mac turned the night-vision gear on—and Huntington was using a penlight to find her way. The rusty tracks led them east. Water dripped from the ceiling, and Mac was forced to splash through a series of puddles.

It wasn’t long before Mac spotted blobs of light up ahead. As she got closer, Mac realized that they were holes in the wooden doors that protected the east end of the tunnel. They were a problem, but a relatively minor one. Her people could blow them open if necessary.

The larger issue was Howard… Where was he? Miles away? Laughing as the rebs bombed her? Maybe. But Mac didn’t think so. She stopped as soldiers ran forward to deal with the doors. Huntington was standing next to her. “Tell me about the lodge, Sarah… Does it have a basement?”

“No,” the scout answered. “But the doors open onto an old trestle that leads to the mine. And it’s located under the lodge.”

“Is it possible to enter the mine from the lodge?”

“Yes. Immediately after the lodge was converted into a hotel, the owners installed a spiral staircase in one of the air shafts. The staff took guests down for tours.”

That’s where he is, Mac thought to herself. Waiting for the bombing to stop. Then he plans to come out and ride away.

Maybe her theory was accurate, and maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. Because if the warlord of warlords was gone, then the battle was over. But if the bastard was there, waiting for her, then it was important to be prepared. A sergeant yelled, “Get back!” and the women obeyed.

Then a private shouted, “Fire in the hole!” and pressed a button. That produced a flash of light, a loud boom, and a cloud of dust. As a hole appeared, the horde opened fire from the opposite side of the canyon. The hail of machine-gun bullets sent everyone scuttling for cover. He’s there all right, Mac concluded. That’s why the mine is so well defended.

From her position against the left wall, Mac could look up and see smoke billowing up from what remained of the High Fort. But that was irrelevant. Focus, Mac told herself, and shifted her gaze to the trestle. She turned to find Worsky standing there. “Put out a call for every AT4 we have. Get ’em up here.”

While the RTO took care of that, Mac spoke over her radio. “Bravo-Six to Charlie-One… We’re going to put rockets into the entrance. Then we’re going across. Get ready. Over.”

Lieutenant Kevin Tyler, AKA Charlie-One, was a platoon leader. His delivery was matter-of-fact. “This is One. Roger that. Over.”

Mac grinned. She’d been a platoon leader and knew how Tyler felt. Scared, excited, and sick to his stomach. None of which could be allowed to show.

Bullets raked the entrance to the tunnel as three soldiers arrived. Each was carrying two single-use AT4s. “Take cover!” Mac shouted. “And put your rockets into the tunnel on the far side of the canyon.”

One of the men took up a position behind a rusty ore car, another knelt next to a pile of timbers, and the third chose to stand just inside the mouth of the tunnel. All three of them fired. Two of the rockets sailed into the hole and exploded. The force of the explosions blew smoke and dust out over the ravine.

The third rocket was high. It hit a spot over the entrance to the mine and detonated. That produced a small avalanche of rock and dirt. The curtain of debris continued to fall as volley two went home. Mac was already running by the time the explosions were heard. “Follow me!” she yelled, and hoped that someone would.

The heavy machine guns had fallen silent. But some of the bandits were not only alive but firing assault weapons, as Mac made her way forward. It would have been nice to fire back. But the two-foot gaps between the railroad ties meant that it was necessary to look down or risk a fall.

Bullets buzzed like angry bees, tore chunks out of the wooden bridge, and took some of the soldiers down. Mac heard a scream but couldn’t look back. Fortunately, Charlie Company’s snipers were hard at work smoking targets from the west side of the canyon. And that gave the soldiers on the trestle a chance to make it.

Mac tripped, fell onto a tie, and lost her carbine. And that’s where she was when a rocket hit the bridge behind her, blowing a hole in it, as an F-111 screamed overhead. Mac looked back over her shoulder. At least a third of the company had been cut off!

A bullet snapped past Worsky’s head as he reached down to give her a hand. The fuzz-faced kid was a hard-assed soldier now. “Stop lying down on the job. We aren’t there yet.”

Mac couldn’t help but laugh even if it sounded hysterical. Mac crossed the rest of the trestle with two dozen troops. The entrance to the mine yawned in front of her, and there was a quick flurry of shots as Union soldiers flooded the tunnel.

Now they were in the area that had been targeted earlier. Bodies, and parts of bodies were strewn all about, and the soil was wet with blood. Mac accidentally stepped on a hand and heard a groan. The bandit’s guts were hanging out. She shouted for a medic and knelt beside him. “Howard… Where is Howard?”

His eyes blinked rapidly. “I’m going to die again,” the bandit said. “My brothers are waiting.”

“That’s nice,” Mac said heartlessly. “Where’s Howard? The Khan wants to speak with him.”

The man squinted up at her. “The strong room… Where the gold was kept.”

A medic arrived as Mac stood. Lieutenant Tyler was waiting a few feet away. “Let’s find the strong room,” Mac said. “And be careful.”

Tyler sent soldiers deeper into the mine, and Mac followed, with Huntington at her side. A spiral staircase appeared on the right, and the strong room was just beyond. It was labeled STRONG ROOM for the benefit of hotel guests—and protected by a rust-pitted iron door. Mac turned to Tyler. “Blow it.”

It took the better part of five minutes to get people positioned and set the charge. It went off with a bang, the door sagged open, and smoke eddied. At least a dozen weapons were pointed at the person who emerged. She was a thin slip of a girl. Robert Howard was there, too… With an arm wrapped around her chest and a pistol to her head. He said, “Back off,” and pulled the revolver’s hammer back to full cock. “And I mean now.”

Mac’s eyes were on the girl, or more specifically on the girl’s face. She saw determination there… And that’s as far as the thought went before the hostage allowed herself to sag. That exposed part of Howard’s head. Mac was reaching for her pistol when Huntington’s six-shooter left its holster. The .45 produced a loud boom, and a chunk of Howard’s head flew off. The warlord’s eyes went blank, his body swayed, and he collapsed.

The girl turned to look. She nodded and turned back again. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Huntington said, as the Colt slid into its holster. “Some things need killing. He was one of them.”

Mac’s hand was on her pistol. She allowed it to fall. The warlord of warlords was dead… But what about his prisoners? “The people from the town of Wright,” Mac said. “Did they survive? And if so, where are they?”

“I’m from Wright,” the girl answered. “And yes, most of us survived. Come… I’ll show you.”

As they made their way deeper into the mine, the girl explained that the prisoners had been brought down into the mine when the planes arrived. And sure enough, there they were, all penned up behind a chain-link fence. They cheered when they saw the girl, and Tyler sent soldiers forward to free them. “I’m looking for a girl named Sissy,” Mac told them. “Is she here?”

“I’m Sissy,” a girl in a ragged dress said shyly. She looked to be seven or eight and was standing next to a young woman.

“I met your grandfather,” Mac said, “just before he died. ‘Tell Sissy I love her.’ That’s what he said. And I promised I would.”

That was a lie, of course… But some lies are better than the truth. Tears ran down Sissy’s face as Mac turned away. The cost had been high. But a battle had been fought—and a battle had been won.