Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 6

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan was lying on his back, staring at the wedge of light that was leaking out through the bathroom door. And, even though she shouldn’t be, Beth Morgan was sleeping next to him. They weren’t going to have sex. Not while she was working on the Pickett story. That’s what she’d told him, and that’s what he had agreed to. Yet there they were… And Sloan knew that the decision to renew his relationship with Beth was a horrible mistake. Not just because of the ethical problems involved, but because Beth was still OCD and still a pain in the ass.

But what to do? The reporter was working on a story that, if true, would destroy Senator Pickett’s candidacy. What would happen if he dumped her? Would Beth seek revenge? Of course she would. What was the saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Sloan cursed his own weakness. You shouldn’t have gone to bed with her, and she shouldn’t have gone to bed with you. Both statements were true… And both were meaningless. What was, was.

Hang in there, Sloan told himself. The FBI investigation is nearly complete. If the proof is there, Beth will break the story, and the public will learn that the Confederacy is feeding money to Pickett. Once the truth is out, you can back out of the relationship slowly, and everything will be fine.

It felt good to have a plan, and Sloan fell asleep. When he awoke, it was to find that Beth was gone, a lipstick kiss was centered on his mirror, and his shirts had been reorganized. And not just tidied up but hung according to type and color. Sloan knew that was just the beginning. If Beth were allowed to, she would apply the same degree of precision to every aspect of his life. He sighed.

After a shave and a shower, Sloan got dressed and left his underground quarters for the brightly lit executive dining room down the hall. It had all the charm of a military prison. But his breakfast was waiting, along with the news summary that Wendy Chow’s staff prepared each day. The first item grabbed his attention. The subhead read: WARLORD OF WARLORDS KILLED IN RAID.

Sloan was painfully aware of the fact that Robert Howard had sent assassins to kill him and had come close to getting the job done. He was also aware of the fact that some of the Whigs claimed the assassination attempt was an indication of how unpopular he was. A thinly veiled call for him to resign.

Sloan sipped his coffee and began to read. He hadn’t gotten far when a familiar name popped up. Captain Robin Macintyre! The officer who led a convoy of Strykers deep into rebel-held territory in order to rescue him. He could still see the amused smile on her face. And something else, too. Interest? Maybe. But no more than that. It would take a lot to impress a woman like Mac. More than a title.

Sloan read on. It seemed that Macintyre’s CO had been murdered by a rebel spy. Rather than sit around and wait for a new commanding officer to arrive, she went looking for Robert Howard, found him, and released thirty-two hostages. All while the Confederate Air Force dropped bombs on her. Where the hell had the Union’s interceptors been? Sloan made a note to look into that.

Robert Howard’s death was, according to the reporter who had written the story, more than a victory. It was a sign that the administration’s efforts to restore order in the wake of the May Day disaster were working. That put a smile on Sloan’s face.

Sloan placed a call to Chief of Staff Chow, told her what he wanted to do, and hung up the phone. His breakfast was good.

CASPER, WYOMING

Mac was exhausted and for good reason. Two days had been spent chasing the surviving members of Robert Howard’s horde. Many were captured, some were killed, and a few got away. But even if a dozen bandits were still on the loose, the people of northern Wyoming were free from Howard’s tyranny.

But nature abhors a vacuum. And if Mac wasn’t careful, some other warlord would move in to take Howard’s place. So before she could return to Fort Carney, she had to establish a forward operating base just outside of Buffalo and bring Alpha Company up to man it. That took two days.

Then it was time to return to Casper. And there, much to her surprise, was Crowley’s replacement. Colonel Marcus Owen was young for his rank and raring to go. He wanted to review every roster, eyeball the supplies he was being asked to sign for, and personally verify the money in petty cash. All of which was appropriate, and all of which required assistance from Mac.

Once those chores had been taken care of, Owen turned his attention to the troops. Mac was relieved to discover that he didn’t share Crowley’s suspicions where the Southerners were concerned—and wanted to make sure that those who deserved recognition would get it.

That meant Mac had to write up recommendations for a dozen medals and, in the case of those who had been killed, letters of condolence that would go to their loved ones. One such letter would be sent to Mrs. Lightfoot, who’d run off with a man from town and hadn’t been seen since.

All of those activities took time. So now, a full week after her return, Mac still felt tired. The duty runner found her drinking black coffee in Bravo Company’s command shack. Owen’s style was a lot more laid-back then his predecessor’s had been. “I have news for you,” the note said. “Drop by when you can.”

Mac thanked the runner and let him go. What sort of news did Owen have? Good news? As in, “Reinforcements are on the way.” Or bad news? As in, “No replacement Strykers are available.” There was only one way to find out.

After emptying her cup, Mac made her way across the compound to the underground command center. Two sentries were on duty and, even though they knew the XO, were still required to check her ID.

Once that was accomplished, Mac walked down the ramp, took a left, and made her way to what had been Crowley’s office. The rawhide curtain had been replaced by a wood door. It was ajar. Mac knocked and heard Owen say, “Come in.”

She was about to come to attention when Owen waved the formality off. His head was shaved, his skin was brown, and he had perfect teeth. They were on full display when he smiled. “Take a load off, Robin… Thanks for all the hard work. Just for the record, I tried to keep you, but the brass said no.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. The assignment had been temporary. A way to plug an organizational hole. And now, in the wake of Howard’s death, Colonel Granger wanted her back. “I see,” Mac said. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Owen shrugged. “A lot of good it did. But that’s to be expected. You’re a hero now, and all over the news. That’s the other thing… You have orders to swing by Fort Knox on your way to Murfreesboro. The president wants to thank you.”

“The president?” Mac remembered the man with mud on his face and the pain in his eyes. The attempt to establish an airhead in Richton had been a mistake. Sloan’s mistake. But he’d been there, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Rangers, many of whom died for him. And for their country. She would never forget that.

“Yes,” Owen said. “The president. And the press will have a field day. You pulled Sloan’s ass out of Richton, then you smoked the warlord who was trying to kill him. I’m no reporter, but that sounds like one helluva good story to me.”

Mac had zero media-relations experience, and knew it would be easy to say the wrong thing. “I would prefer to join my battalion, sir. That’s where I can make a difference.”

Owen laughed. “Nice try, Robin… But if the commander in chief wants to see you, then guess what? He’s going to see you.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing… You’re scheduled to meet with a New York Times reporter at 1100. I’d send our PA officer with you, but we’re still waiting for a replacement. One who doesn’t work for the enemy.”

Mac left Owen’s office with a new set of orders and a feeling of dread. But the interview with reporter Molly Thomas wasn’t as bad as Mac feared. Most of the journalist’s questions were of the sort that could be answered by anyone who knew the facts. But, toward the end of the interview, Thomas dropped a bomb on her. “So, Captain… You’re a combat veteran. How is the war going?”

Mac chose her words with care. “I’m a junior officer… So I don’t have enough information to answer your question. But I can tell you this… Most of the men and women of this battalion are from the South, and they fought bravely. They’re the ones who deserve credit for bringing Howard’s reign of terror to an end.”

Thomas winked, as if to say, “Well played.” Then she turned to the subject she’d clearly been waiting to bring up. “I assume you know that your sister and your father are fighting for the New Confederacy.”

“Yes,” Mac replied stiffly. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

Thomas nodded. “Are you aware that, according to a story in the Dallas Morning News, your father has been named Chairman of the Confederacy’s Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

That came as a shock. Her father, the man Mac most wanted to please, was in charge of the military machine she was sworn to fight. “No,” she replied. “I didn’t know that.”

The follow-up question was teed up and ready to go. “Do you have a message for your father?”

At least twenty seconds ticked by as Mac considered various answers. Finally, having rejected all the rest, she spoke. “My father taught me to fight for what I believe in. That’s what I’m doing.”

Later, while Mac was waiting for her train, she saw the story online. The comment about her father was featured as a boxed pull quote, inside the larger article. The headline was: A FAMILY AT WAR. It ran front page left, just below the fold. Would her father see it? Yes, Mac thought. He will.

Airliners couldn’t fly without fighter escorts, and there was a shortage of them. The net effect was a huge demand for train travel. Unfortunately, the country’s long-neglected railroads weren’t ready for the increase in traffic, and the system was struggling to cope. The result was a lot of scheduling problems, delays, and derailments.

So as Mac boarded the train that would take her to Kansas City, and on to Louisville, it was standing room only for civilians. And the two cars that had been set aside for military personnel were almost full. Mac made her way to the second one, where she found a seat among a group of engineers. Someone said, “Atten-hut!” but Mac waved the soldiers back into their seats. A sergeant was nice enough to heave her bags up onto the overhead rack.

As the soldiers returned to playing cards, Mac curled up in a corner. Here was a chance to get some much-needed shut-eye, and in spite of all the noise, Mac was asleep before the train cleared the station.

But rather than the dreamless nothing she’d been hoping for, Mac found herself back in combat. She and her troops were pinned down, a wounded soldier kept calling for his mother, and Huntington’s intestines were piled in her lap. “Stuff ’em back in,” the scout ordered. “And zip me up. I have work to do.”

In the meantime, Worsky was battling to get her attention. “It’s Bravo-Two, ma’am… He says his platoon is surrounded, and they’re running out of ammo. What should they do?”

Mac felt a touch and awoke with a jerk. As her eyes opened, she saw that the corporal sitting across from her was settling into his seat. “Are you all right, ma’am? You were making noises.”

Mac looked around. The engineers were gone. She glanced at her watch. It was 1322. Mac had slept through the first stop. She forced a smile. “Sorry, Corporal… I had pizza for dinner last night. It didn’t agree with me.”

The soldier nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to playing a game on his laptop. Mac could hear shouting and the rattle of machine-gun fire. The corporal was playing a combat game! How could he? Why would he? She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. You’re cracking up, the voice said.

“Bullshit,” Mac replied. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Right, and you’re cracking up, the voice responded.

The train swayed as it rounded a curve, and Mac put her hands in her pockets. How much combat was too much? The question went unanswered as the train rattled over a bridge and roared past a barn. The landscape became a blur after that… Mac closed her eyes. There weren’t any dreams this time, and when she awoke, the train was in Kansas City.

A conductor helped get her bags down, but Mac was on her own after that. Because she couldn’t carry both pieces of luggage, Mac wore one like a pack while dragging the other behind her. It produced a series of thumps as it tumbled down the stairs and fell into the entryway. From there, Mac managed to kick the duffel bag onto the platform as a man in civilian clothes stood and watched.

Then Mac had to wait two hours for a connection that was scheduled to depart an hour and a half earlier. Once it arrived, and loading began, an air force pilot stepped in to help with the bags. His name was Charlie something… He was a C-17 Globemaster pilot and quite attractive.

But Mac saw him slip his wedding ring off shortly after they boarded the train and kept her guard up after that. Slimeball or not, it was interesting to hear Charlie’s take on the air war. “Their pilots are as good as ours,” Charlie observed. “And that makes sense. We were part of the same air force six months ago. So both sides are even where the human dimension is concerned.

“But here’s why we’re going to win… Northrup Grumman produces a lot of military aircraft up north, and so does Boeing. That leaves Lockheed to manufacture planes in the South. The so-what being that the Union has the upper hand where industrial production is concerned.”

It was a convincing argument, and Mac hoped that Charlie’s analysis was correct. But her father was a very resourceful officer. Would he use the proceeds from the country’s oil reserves to buy planes from abroad? Hell yes he would, depending on what was available.

Much to Mac’s surprise, a soldier was waiting for her on the platform in Louisville. He was holding a card with her name on it—and hurried forward when she waved at him. He loaded her belongings onto an ancient luggage cart. One of the wheels produced a persistent rattling sound as he led her through the crowded station and out into a poorly lit street. “Sorry, ma’am… The car’s parked a block away. That’s as close as I could get.”

Mac told him not to worry about it and was amazed to discover the vehicle in question was a staff car and not a Humvee. Was that intentional on someone’s part? Or a matter of happenstance?

Whatever the reason, it felt good to settle into the backseat and let Specialist Lee do the driving. Traffic was heavy, which meant that the trip to Fort Knox took more than an hour. Soldier that she was, Mac noticed that there were lots of military vehicles on the roads. More than the last time she’d been there.

Mac had to show her ID at the gate. From there it was a short trip to Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, where a room was reserved for her. A message was waiting: “Please join Colonel Roy Caskins in his office at 0830 tomorrow.” The message was signed by a master sergeant Mac didn’t know. She’d heard of Caskins, however… He was the 8th Armored Cavalry Regiment’s commanding officer, which made him Granger’s CO.

Suddenly it was imperative to come up with a clean uniform. No small task since Mac hadn’t had time for anything more than some hand washing in many weeks. So immediately after she arrived in her room, Mac took a load of laundry down the hall to the shared utility room. It took more than an hour to cycle things through.

The dreams were waiting for Mac when she hit the sack. And when she awoke, it was to hear herself whimpering. It took the better part of an hour to get back to sleep.

Mac got up early, dressed with care, and went to the chow hall for breakfast. She ate a generous serving of bacon and eggs before following a map to Regimental Headquarters. A flight of wooden stairs took her up to the second floor and a spartan waiting room. What decorations there were consisted of photos. Cavalry photos… Which meant the walls were covered with pictures of tanks, Bradleys, and Strykers.

After presenting herself to the staff sergeant behind the reception desk, Mac was told to take a seat. Half a dozen other officers were waiting to see the colonel or one of his staff officers.

Mac knew very little about Caskins other than the fact that his nickname was “Casket Caskins,” because of a well-publicized incident in which the remains of two soldiers had been mishandled by a subcontractor. And, after learning of the slight, Caskins punched the civilian in the face. Charges were brought and subsequently dismissed. But, in spite of the fact that his fellow officers were sympathetic, very few of them thought that Caskins would make general.

The sergeant called her name. And, before Mac could do more than stand up, Caskins was there. He had a bald spot, stood no more than five feet, eight inches tall, and radiated energy. His magnetism seemed to fill the room as he came forward to shake her hand.

“Captain Macintyre!” Caskins proclaimed loudly. “Look at her!” Caskins demanded, as his bright blue eyes probed the room. “This is what an ass-kicking cavalry officer looks like! Come on, Macintyre, let’s have some coffee.” Mac could feel curious eyes on her back as she entered the colonel’s office.

Caskins closed the door behind himself and circled a nearly bare desk. “You did one helluva job in Wyoming,” Caskins said, as he sat down. “I hate to say it, but the spy did us a favor… Crowley was one crazy son of a bitch! Thank God you were there to pick up the pieces. But you’re back now, and maybe that will get Granger off my ass!”

It seemed as if the coffee was a ritual because it arrived without being requested and was placed between them. The corporal who brought the tray vanished as if by magic. Caskins stood to pour. “Describe the battle to me… I read the after-action report, but there’s nothing like hearing the unabridged version.”

So Mac took him through it as concisely as she could. “And that’s when Howard appeared,” she said finally. “He had a girl as his hostage. She allowed herself to sag, and that gave my scout a chance to shoot Howard in the head.”

“With a Colt .45,” Caskins said, “I love it. A story well told, Captain… And honest, too! You have no idea how much bullshit comes my way. That said, let’s talk about the things you could have done better.”

What followed was a review of the iffy decisions Mac had made. Those included going after Howard before her new CO arrived, placing too much reliance on luck, and failing to anticipate the possibility that enemy aircraft would attack. “Three Confederate helicopters took part in the attack on Fort Carney,” Caskins pointed out. “What did Captain Macintyre learn from that? Zip.”

Mac knew he was right, and some evidence of how she felt must have been visible on her face. Caskins smiled. “Sorry, I know how it feels… But you’re a promising officer. That’s why I took the time to poop on your parade.

“Now… Let’s talk about tonight’s get-together. I like the president. Not only does he respect the military—he’s willing to fight alongside us. Your objective is to get through the evening without embarrassing yourself or the army. And that may be difficult given all the press coverage you’ve had. Do you read me?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Have a good time. I’ll see you down South before long. Give Granger my best.”

Mac stood, delivered a salute, and got one in return. It wasn’t until she was outside and walking toward the BOQ that Mac had time to appreciate the skill with which Casket Caskins had taken her apart and put her back together again. She smiled. Lessons had been learned.

MELLOW VALLEY, ALABAMA

It was a sunny day in Mellow Valley, Alabama. The high school band was playing “Dixie” as the terrorists were hauled into town. There were three of them, all wearing black hoods and sitting in the back of a shiny pickup truck. Mr. Berkowitz was a businessman, Mrs. Berkowitz taught yoga, and their daughter, Ella, was a sad creature best known for being thirty pounds overweight.

Victoria didn’t think people should be executed for owning a jewelry store, having a couple of American flags stored in their attic, or being Jewish. But the local chapter of the Right is Right coalition had the necessary permit, and as Colonel Oxley put it, “Everyday citizens can be useful in fighting Yankee imperialism.” That in spite of the fact that he’d been born in Connecticut.

But, since the proceeding was legal, all Victoria and her team could do was watch as the Berkowitz family was forced off the pickup and marched to the intersection where three truck-cranes were waiting. A noose dangled from each. Ella was sobbing.

Victoria turned her back on the scene. Because the executions were wrong? No, Victoria told herself. Because there could be agitators in the crowd. Folks who might cause trouble.

About a hundred people gathered around. Victoria figured that was a big crowd by Mellow Valley standards. There was an introduction followed by a smattering of applause as a local minister launched into a minisermon about “King” Sloan’s hatred of everything Southern. And that was when Victoria heard the roar of unmuffled engines. The sound sent a jolt of adrenaline into her bloodstream. The mike was attached to her vest. “Heads up! Vehicles inbound. Take cover!”

The resistance fighters were riding in all manner of rat rods—and the crowd scattered as they converged on the intersection. Some of the locals were armed and fired pistols at the invaders. That was a mistake. Machine-gun fire cut them down. “Kill the drivers!” Victoria shouted. “Stop them!”

Victoria’s team consisted of four special operatives, three of whom had worked with her before. All were excellent shots. So it was only a matter of seconds before the woman behind the wheel of an old flatbed truck was killed. Her vehicle veered off course and flattened a stop sign before crashing through the front of the local café.

The invaders wasted no time retaliating, and that forced Victoria’s team to take cover. Meanwhile, a rat rod swooped in to rescue the Berkowitz family and spirit them away. A blizzard of paper fluttered out of the last vehicle to depart.

Victoria emerged from behind a bullet-riddled sedan. Five bodies lay sprawled in the street. Some were shooters, and some had been standing next to the shooters. She went out to retrieve a flyer.

RESTORE AMERICA, the headline said. That was followed by a list of reasons why the New Confederacy was illegal and people should oppose it. Victoria heard a buzzing sound and brought her carbine up to see a civilian drone hovering in front of her. It had four engines, a rounded fuselage, and was equipped with a belly cam. The light gray paint would make the aircraft difficult to see against the sky.

Now Victoria realized that the drone had been there all along, hanging over the town square, feeding video to who? One of the people she was supposed to catch, that’s who. Someone who would put the footage up on the Internet for propaganda purposes.

The voice was distorted but understandable nevertheless. “My name is Nathan Hale. A terrorist who calls himself El Carnicero, or the Butcher, has been assassinating your soldiers while claiming membership in the Union Underground. If you’d like to catch him, we’re willing to help. Send an e-mail to nathanhale@unionunder ground.org. We’ll talk.”

Victoria gave serious consideration to blowing the drone out of the sky but thought better of it. Maybe the Underground could help—and maybe it couldn’t. But El Carnicero was at the top of her hit list, and a lead would be welcome. Or, maybe she’d find Nathan Hale and smoke him instead. Victoria allowed the drone to fly away. It shrank to the size of a dot and disappeared.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Most of the world’s developed countries had been hit hard on May Day, while the citizens of many so-called third-world nations barely noticed because they were leading hard lives before the shit hit the fan. But now, having dealt with the immediate crises, industrialized countries were beginning to direct some of their attention outward again. More than that, they had to because so many things had changed, not the least of which was the situation in North America. A place where two governments claimed to control what had been the United States.

What were the Koreans and Brazilians to do? Should they back the Union, which, according to the laws extant on May Day, was the more legitimate government? Or would it be better to support the New Confederacy? Because of its “we can do business with you” mind-set.

As a result of this uncertainty, it was necessary for Sloan’s administration to woo traditional allies like France, Germany, and Great Britain in hopes of maintaining previous military alliances, trade agreements, and legal structures. That’s why Sloan, along with members of his cabinet, was about to spend the evening shooting the shit with all manner of diplomats, including some who had been seen in Houston.

But in spite of Sloan’s dislike of receptions, and all that they entailed, there was one thing to look forward to… And that was the opportunity to spend a moment with Captain Robin Macintyre. Or “Mac,” as her troops referred to her. Sloan knew that the prospect of that would help him wade through the endless rounds of toasts, the mind-numbing bullshit, and the posturing that would be served with dinner.

So Sloan kept an eye out for Mac throughout the meeting. The first sighting took place while he was standing on a riser, giving a short speech about the importance of old friendships and new opportunities.

Mac was toward the back of the crowd with some military types. She was dressed in a blue uniform and far prettier than the women wearing expensive dresses. Or so it seemed to him. That was when Sloan lost his place, coughed to cover the moment of confusion, and launched into the close. “So, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. Please enjoy the appetizers but save some room for Chef Franco’s main course.”

There was polite applause and a quintet began to play as Sloan stepped down. Secret Service agents shadowed the president as Secretary of State Henderson appeared with the Italian ambassador at his side. The Italians were trying to play the Union off against the New Confederacy in a blatant attempt to extract money from both. But what the ambassador didn’t seem to understand was that Sloan didn’t have any money to give. Not with a war to fight and a country to rebuild.

Sloan couldn’t say that, however, so he took the first opportunity that came along to redirect the conversation to the subject of soccer, and Italy’s upcoming game with Germany. That set the ambassador off… And all Sloan had to do was nod occasionally as the ambassador expounded on how horrible the Germans were.

Beth materialized out of the crowd. Her hair was just so, diamonds sparkled on her ears, and the blue dress looked as though it was sewed on. She, not to mention he, had been the subject of published rumors. The latest of which was that she’d been removed from the political beat due to her relationship with Sloan. And her presence at his side would add fuel to the fire. But what to do? He was trapped.

Sloan was about to introduce Beth to the ambassador when they exchanged air kisses and began to chatter in rapid Italian. Damn it… She was perfect for him! Good at everything except making him happy.

After what seemed like an eternity, the reception came to an end, and the dignitaries were herded into the dining room. Eight people were seated at each circular table. Beth was on Sloan’s left, and the other diners included the Russian ambassador, her husband, South Korea’s Consulate General, his wife, and a well-known comedian with her wife. The hope was that the pair from Hollywood could keep the conversation light. And the plan worked for the most part. That despite intel reports that Russia and Canada had designs on Alaska.

After an hour-and-a-half dinner came to an end, people began to leave, and Sloan parted company with Beth. “I’ve got a meeting… It could take as much as an hour.”

“I’ll wait,” Beth told him, and what could he say? Don’t bother? No, that wouldn’t do.

Secret Service agents escorted Sloan upstairs to a small meeting room. They were about to enter when Sloan told them to wait outside. “No offense guys… But you’re intimidating. Maybe it’s the shades.” Both men chuckled but left the glasses on.

Sloan opened the door and stepped inside. Mac was looking out through a window. Snow was falling through the wash of light beyond the glass. She turned, and there was the same softly rounded face he’d seen on that terrible night in Richton, Mississippi. Her eyes were what? Intelligent? Cool? Curious? All of those things and more. He went forward to shake hands. “We meet again, Captain. Thank you for coming.”

Mac smiled. “No offense, Mr. President… But I did my best to get out of it.”

Sloan laughed. “No problem. Hell, I’d get out of it myself if I could. But I’m glad they forced you to come. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, and so do I. What you accomplished in Wyoming was nothing short of miraculous. Please, have a seat.”

The conversation area consisted of two chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. Mac sat on one end with Sloan at the other. “Tell me everything,” Sloan said. “Starting with the day after we parted company.”

She told the story military style—so it came across as a report. But Sloan didn’t care. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice—and to watch the expressions on her face. “So that’s it,” Mac said finally. “And here I am.”

“Yes,” Sloan replied, “here you are. I wasn’t lying… You deserve our thanks. But I have a confession to make.”

Sloan saw Mac’s eyebrows rise. “Which is?”

“My motives aren’t entirely professional. You made quite an impression on me. So much so that I think of you frequently. And, due to the nature of my job, I haven’t had the freedom to contact you. And that explains this kind of creepy moment.”

Mac laughed. He liked the sound of it, but not what followed. “Thank you, I think. And, if you lose the next election, give me a call.”

“So you would? See me that is?”

Mac smiled. “Yes. But what about Ms. Morgan? How does she fit in? I read an article about the two of you earlier today.”

Sloan was struggling to formulate an answer when there was a knock on the door. He went to open it, and there was Beth. She was wearing her coat and carrying his over one arm. “The car is out front,” she said. “I’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

Then, having turned to Mac, she nodded. “The uniform becomes you, Captain… Congratulations on your victory.” Then she was gone.

Mac stood. Her face was professionally blank. “Can I be excused, sir?”

Sloan swallowed. “Yes, of course.”

Mac walked past him and out the door. The reception was over.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

Victoria was in a covert-action suite within the Internet Warfare section of the fort’s military-intelligence complex. Her video conference with Union Underground leader Nathan Hale was about to begin. The meeting had been arranged through a series of e-mails, and was scheduled to last thirty minutes.

Like any mission, this one had priorities, the most important of which was to learn whatever she could about the terrorist known as El Carnicero, or the Butcher. But Victoria hoped to capture Hale as well and thereby score a deuce. That’s why specialists were waiting to trace the incoming call.

Victoria was seated on a white Tulip chair in a pool of light. A roll-around TV monitor was positioned in front of her, and the rest of the studio was dark. The tech sergeant who was in charge of tracing the call could communicate with her via an earbud. His name was Orson, and his voice was unnaturally loud. “Stand by. The call’s coming in.”

Video appeared on the screen, swirled, and locked up. And there was a much younger Victoria. She was dressed in a high school cheerleader outfit and smiling for the camera. Had the shot been lifted from her yearbook? Yes, it had.

The first photo was followed by a well-produced slideshow that included pictures of her as a cadet at West Point, running a marathon, and being promoted to major. All of which were intended to send a message: “We have resources, we know who you are, and we can find you.”

Victoria’s respect for the Underground went up a notch as the final picture dissolved into a shot of a man wearing a latex mask. The likeness was that of Morton Lemaire, President of the New Confederacy. A joke then. “Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Nathan Hale.”

“And I’m Victoria Macintyre.” Her identity was something she would normally protect, but there was no point in doing so now. Hale knew who she was even though his identity remained a secret. Union Underground one, Victoria zero.

“Yes, you are,” Hale replied. “Plus you are General Macintyre’s oldest daughter and Captain Robin Macintyre’s sister. Did you know that forces under your sister’s command located and killed Robert Howard? He was an ally, wasn’t he?”

Victoria didn’t know. The New Confederacy’s censors didn’t have the means to prevent determined citizens from getting outside information. But they could prevent it from appearing in local newscasts. Victoria felt a twinge of regret about the girl. The one that she’d been forced to kill in order to prove herself. “Yes,” Victoria lied. “My sister is on a roll. I suggest that we put the posturing aside and get to work.”

Orson broke in. “They’re using onion routing to route the feed from computer to computer. Our Internet service provider will use timing analysis to determine where the call originated. So stall.”

Hale was oblivious to the fact that Orson was speaking, so their words overlapped. “Absolutely,” Hale said. “As I indicated earlier… the Butcher is not, I repeat not, a member of our organization.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s a serial killer,” Hale replied. “If the North and South weren’t at war, he would kill people anyway. He enjoys it.”

The experts Victoria had spoken with agreed with that analysis. But she was playing for time. “Okay, but how do you explain the fact that all of his victims are Confederate soldiers?”

“It’s like I said,” Hale replied. “He’s a psycho who is using the Underground as an excuse for what he does.”

“Or,” Victoria said, “he’s an Underground operator who went rogue. And, because you have been unable to find him, you turned to us.” It was a stall… a way to keep the conversation going but one that produced some unexpected results.

Hale shrugged. “There’s some truth to that. But what I said is true. He’s crazy.”

Victoria felt the same sense of satisfaction she felt after winning a tennis match. “Thanks for your honesty… But I still don’t get it. So long as he kills our people, rather than yours, why get in the way?”

“We have him!” Orson exclaimed. “And the bastard is only a few miles away… A special ops team is in the air. They’ll land in a minute or two.”

“The Butcher is unpredictable,” Hale told her. “Who knows what he’ll do next?”

Victoria felt the excitement that preceded a kill. “Like target you?” she demanded.

There was a sudden commotion on the screen as what might have been a body passed in front of Hale. Then the image grew smaller as the camera zoomed out to reveal a monitor and the empty room around it. That was when Victoria understood the truth… The transmission was originating from a place other than the spot she was looking at. Hale laughed. “Seriously? You think we’re that stupid?” The video snapped to black.