Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 7

NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE

The trip from Fort Knox, Kentucky, to the base in Tennessee involved hitching rides on half a dozen southbound army trucks and took the better part of three days. So Mac was both relieved and tired when her latest ride dropped her off in front of battalion headquarters. Rather than the old warehouse complex, where the outfit had been quartered in Murfreesboro, the battalion was operating out of a rock quarry near the town of Readyville.

A number of soldiers were out and about, but none of them looked familiar. Mac felt like a stranger until she heard a familiar voice and turned. Sergeant Lamm had been in command of BULLY BOY on the night they snatched General Revell. There was a smile on his face. “Good morning, ma’am, and welcome back. Here, let me help with that bag.”

As Lamm escorted Mac past the helipad and over to one of the sandbagged tents, she had the perfect opportunity to quiz him. According to Lamm, the battalion was spending most of its time on recon and special ops missions. As for the war, Lamm was anything but optimistic. “We keep grinding away,” he said. “But the rebs continue to hold the line. This thing could go on for years.”

Once they reached the tent, Mac thanked him and dropped her gear next to an empty cot before heading over to the Conex container where headquarters were located. The steel box was furnished with com gear, folding chairs, and a huge coffeepot. Major Granger was seated at a makeshift desk and rose to greet her. “You were supposed to arrive yesterday… When you failed to show, we ate the cake. Sorry about that.”

Mac laughed. “The story of my life. Colonel Caskins sends his best.”

“He’s a good man,” Granger observed. “The kind you can count on. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

Mac knew the tour was an excuse to get out of the Conex and away from all the ears inside it. “We’re fine,” Granger told her, as they strolled past the makeshift maintenance shed. “Or as fine as a shorthanded Stryker battalion can be. But the big picture isn’t so good. The rebs have been using Mexican mercenaries to do a lot of fighting for them. Not only does that increase the number of people they can put in the field, it lowers their casualty rate and gives voters the impression that they’re winning.”

Mac frowned. “So the mercenaries are that good?”

“They’re better than we thought they’d be,” Granger confessed. “And there are a lot of them. A division, according to current estimates.”

Mac took it in. A division. That could mean as many as twenty thousand soldiers. It was a sobering thought, and one that caused Mac to think of her father. Was he responsible for the use of mercenaries? Or had the policy been foisted on him? Not that it mattered.

“Captain Colby has been serving as the interim XO,” Granger continued. “But I want you to step in. Colby’s good… but not good enough to lead a battalion should that become necessary.”

Though well acquainted with all of the extra work that went with the XO slot, Mac couldn’t help but enjoy the implied compliment. “Yes, sir.”

“So get ready to jump in tomorrow,” Granger told her, as they circled back to the Conex. “Congratulations on killing that warlord, by the way… Too bad about Crowley.”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Too bad about Crowley.”

Mac spent the next two days shadowing Colby, meeting new people, and assessing the battalion’s readiness. She also spent a significant amount of time with her own company, which was short two vehicles and five people. One of whom was a mechanic. A situation not likely to be resolved anytime soon.

Maybe it was the return to normal duty, or maybe it was the passage of time, but after two days with the battalion, Mac felt less jittery. And when she held her hands out in front of her, the tremors were nearly invisible. Not perfect… but better.

On her fourth day back, Mac elected to lead a two-vehicle patrol down along the north bank of the Stones River. The tributary had been the scene of fierce fighting over the last few weeks as troops from both the North and the South surged back and forth across it. Now, having momentarily exhausted themselves, both sides had settled into an uneasy stalemate.

That situation wouldn’t last much longer. But things were quiet as the GERONIMO and LUCY rolled along the highway that paralleled the river.

Mac was up top, in GERONIMO’s front air-guard hatch, where she could see the surrounding countryside. Holes in the omnipresent cloud cover allowed shafts of early-morning sun to splash the forest on the far side of the waterway and promised a rain-free morning. The kind of morning cavalry officers loved because it’s easier to maneuver on dry ground.

Mac didn’t expect to fight, however… The purpose of the patrol was to show the flag to the rebs camped on the south side of the river and get reacquainted with her troops. Not to mention the fact that it felt good to escape the Conex, and the administrative crap that went with being XO.

Meanwhile, off to the south, Mac could see contrails—and hear the sounds of aerial combat. It served as a reminder that while her world was peaceful at the moment, other people weren’t so lucky. The detritus of past battles lay everywhere. And as the GERONIMO rolled past, Mac saw partially submerged tank traps out in the water, a section of pontoon bridge that was grounded on a sandbar, and all manner of defensive earthworks along both sides of the river. Union troops waved, and she waved back.

Around noon, Mac ordered the drivers to pull over so that the Stryker crews could eat and take a bio break. She was sitting atop GERONIMO, spooning some diced fruit into her mouth, when Riley stuck her head up through the rear hatch. The RTO was new to the company and generally referred to as “the Owl” because of the army-issue glasses she wore. “We have orders, ma’am… An A-10 went down ten miles south of here… The pilot is alive and in hiding. The major wants us to go get him.”

Mac’s mind began to race. Ten miles into enemy-held territory! That was a long way to go. “What about air cover?” she demanded.

“We’ll have it,” Riley assured her. “The zoomies take care of their own.”

Mac knew that was true. The enemy would have a hard time capturing the pilot with a couple of hogs circling above him or her. She tossed the fruit cup away and keyed her mike. “This is Six… The break is over. Button up and prepare for action. One of our pilots bailed out ten miles south of here, and he needs a ride. Over.”

Ramps came up, hatches closed, and gunners checked their weapons. The GERONIMO was armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, and LUCY was equipped with a 40mm grenade launcher. Both were excellent weapons for the task at hand.

The Strykers weren’t carrying any troops, however… So Mac’s total force consisted of herself, Riley, the truck commanders, their gunners, and a couple of ride-along privates who were there for training purposes. They could man a couple of M249s, though… And that would provide more firepower.

Riley continued to relay information to Mac and the TCs as the two-vic unit pulled onto the road. “There’s a ford a mile east of here,” she told them. “And, according to HQ, a squad of rebs is on the south bank. Over.”

“You heard her,” Mac said, as she fastened her chin strap. “Lucy will take the lead. Start firing as you enter the river. Over.”

“Roger that,” LUCY’s gunner said. “Over.”

Mac checked her machine gun as the LUCY passed. There was a tight feeling in her gut. She was scared and what else? Excited. Mac looked down at her hands. Were they shaking? It was impossible to tell because the GERONIMO was in motion.

The LUCY took a hard right, ran down the riverbank into the water, and began to fire. Grenades arched high into the air and fell on the bunker beyond. Mac could see laundry strung up between the trees—and knew the rebs had been caught flat-footed. She felt sorry for the unsuspecting grunts as a grenade landed next to their ammo dump and set it off.

Dirt, wood, and body parts were still raining down as LUCY lurched up out of the water—and waddled through the smoking ruins. “Way to go,” Mac said. “Put your foot in it. Over.”

Wheels spun, locked up, and the GERONIMO’s tires threw mud as it followed the first vic up between shattered trees onto the level ground beyond. A voice crackled in her ear. “Short Bird to Bravo-Six… Do you read me? Over.”

“Five by five,” Mac replied. “Over.”

“My wingman and I are approaching you from the north,” Short Bird told her. “We’re going to mow the grass. Over.”

Mac started to answer, but her words were drowned out by the roar of jet engines as a plane passed overhead. The A-10’s 30mm cannon produced an ominous growl as Short Bird fired on a target that Mac couldn’t see.

In the meantime, Riley was feeding info to the truck commanders. “The brass put a drone up,” she explained. “They’re going to provide routing information. Take a left onto the highway, and the first right you come to. Over.”

Mac saw the LUCY turn, and was thrown sideways as the GERONIMO followed suit. Regimental command was throwing everything they had at the rescue attempt, and that was good. But the rebs weren’t likely to sit on their hands. A Yankee A-10 pilot would be one helluva prize, not to mention a propaganda coup, when his picture appeared on the front of the Dallas Morning News. “Watch out!” LUCY’s TC hollered. “Roadblock ahead!”

Mac swore. A quick-thinking Confederate had parked a six-by-six across the highway in an attempt to block it. But there was room on the right, and LUCY’s TC was quick to make use of it. Small-arms fire began to rattle against GERONIMO’s armor, and Mac could see that three soldiers were sprawled under the six-by-six, shooting at her. She sprayed them with 5.56 caliber rounds, and the firing stopped.

After clearing the front end of the six-by-six, LUCY raced ahead, with the second vic in hot pursuit. And when the lead Stryker turned right, GERONIMO followed. The unpaved road ran straight as an arrow—and Mac could see smoke boiling up from a clutch of Bradleys up ahead. Short Bird’s work? Hell yes, and the air force pilot was still at it.

The Warthog was so low that Mac could count the fittings on the plane’s belly as it flashed overhead. Rockets leapt off the plane’s wings, and orange-red explosions marked a target hidden in among the trees a thousand yards beyond the Bradleys. “You’re looking good, Bravo-Six,” the pilot assured her. “Sleeping Beauty is five miles ahead and taking a nap. Over.”

Mac couldn’t help but grin. “Roger that, Short Bird. We’ll wake him with a kiss. Over.”

“He’ll like that,” the pilot replied. “Especially since he doesn’t get very many kisses. We’re going around. Over. Hold one… Uh-oh… Two F-15s at twelve o’clock! Gotta go…” The transmission ended as the A-10 started to climb, and the reb fighter fell like a hawk as it dived on its prey.

Mac wanted to watch but couldn’t. Her air cover had been pulled away, she was ass deep in enemy territory, and a pilot called Sleeping Beauty was waiting up ahead. “Riley,” Mac said. “Get Sleeping Beauty on the horn… Tell him to keep his head down and watch for us. Over.”

Mac heard two clicks and knew the RTO was on it. They were up on the Bradleys by then. The tracks were on fire, and Mac could feel the heat as GERONIMO rolled past. Two bodies lay sprawled nearby. Death from above… Had Short Bird put eyes on any of the people he’d killed? It didn’t seem likely. Not when traveling at more than 400 mph.

The trees Short Bird had fired at were coming up fast. Why? What had the pilot seen there? The answer arrived in the form of a 105mm cannon shell. It screamed past and exploded behind her. A tank! A fucking Abrams, which, having pushed out into the open, was preparing to fire again. “Take evasive action!” Mac shouted. “Fire smoke… And don’t run into each other.”

LUCY cut left and GERONIMO angled to the right as another 105 round ripped through the space where they’d been. LUCY’s gunner was firing smoke grenades. So it was only a matter of seconds before a gray fog enveloped the scene. Mac couldn’t see but took some comfort from the fact that the tank commander couldn’t see either, as the GERONIMO bucked over an obstacle and nearly threw her out of the hatch.

As the Strykers emerged from the cloud of smoke, they entered a cow pasture. Most of the animals were dead, but one stood munching away. The .50 began to chug, as GERONIMO’s gunner yelled, “Target’s left!”

When Mac turned to look, she saw the soldiers. They were spread out in a skirmish line. Some raised their weapons. They’re searching for our pilot, Mac thought to herself, as she brought the LMG to bear. Where is the son of a bitch anyway?

Bullets buzzed past her, pinged the hull, and left bright smears where they hit. Mac pulled the trigger and saw half a dozen soldiers go down. Some had been hit, and the rest were diving for cover. A distant part of her brain took note of the fact that they were wearing strange uniforms. Mexican mercenaries? Yes, that made sense.

Then the thought was gone as LUCY waddled up out of a gully, and GERONIMO followed. “Sleeping Beauty is directly in front of us,” Riley announced. “Don’t shoot him.”

It was a levelheaded order, and Mac was impressed. The Owl had a good head on her and would make an excellent corporal, assuming she lived long enough to sew the stripe on. Mac turned forward in time to see a man wearing a flight suit rise up out of a filthy pond! He waded toward them with a pistol in hand.

Mac was about to issue an order when she saw that LUCY’s ramp was falling. In the meantime, GERONIMO’s commander turned to place his vic between LUCY and the Mexican troops. That’s when the .50 began to send heavy slugs downrange. Geysers of brown soil leapt into the air as the heavy machine gun traversed from left to right. “We have him!” LUCY’s TC exclaimed. “Over.”

“Well done,” Mac said. “Let’s haul ass. Geronimo will take point. We’re going out the way we came in, so watch for the tank. Over.”

Surviving members of the infantry fired on the Strykers as they left but to no effect. Mac’s eyes were focused on the trees where the tank had been. Was the monster still there? A shell exploded next to the GERONIMO, went off, and flipped the vic over onto its left side.

Mac was thrown clear and hit hard. She was lying on the ground, trying to breathe, when Riley came into view. The RTO’s black-rimmed glasses were firmly in place, but the right lens was cracked. “Are you okay? The Lucy’s waiting for us.”

Mac accepted Riley’s hand, let the other woman help her up, and heard the tank fire. The armor-piercing shell had scored a direct hit on GERONIMO and blown the Stryker to smithereens. She couldn’t see them. So it seemed safe to assume that Ramirez, Stephano, and private what’s-his-name were dead.

“Come on,” Riley said, and took Mac’s arm. As they ran, Mac knew the tank was aiming at the Stryker. And when the Abrams fired, LUCY would cease to exist. Then something streaked down out of the sky, hit the tank, and exploded! A secondary blast blew the turret straight up… It seemed to pause in midair before crashing down.

Mac was still trying to understand the sequence of events as she followed Riley up the ramp and into LUCY’s cargo compartment. As she fell into a seat, Mac saw that the pilot was seated across from her with his back to the hull. He was sopping wet, but he was pretty. So pretty that he could be called beautiful. As for the “sleeping” part of his call sign, there had to be a story to explain that. Falling asleep in a class? Something like that. The pilot spoke as LUCY pulled forward. “I’m sorry.”

Mac was about to say, “Sorry for what?” Then she remembered Ramirez, Stephano, and the nameless private. She could see his face… A kid trying to look tough. The pilot didn’t know any of them, needless to say. But he knew that people had died to rescue him. And he was sorry. Mac forced a smile as LUCY lurched over some unseen obstacle. “Shit happens, Lieutenant. It wasn’t your fault. Remember that.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” But Mac could see the pain in Sleeping Beauty’s eyes and knew that some vestige of it would live there forever. “I think Short Bird killed the tank,” she said, in an attempt to change the subject.

“No, ma’am,” Riley said from the seat next to her. “The Hellfire missile was fired by a Predator drone. It’s circling overhead.”

I’m going to survive, Mac thought to herself. Again. She looked down at her hands. They were steady. Why? Mac closed her eyes and let her helmet touch the hull. Three people had died in order to save a comrade. It didn’t make sense. Not mathematically. Yet, it did. And Mac felt proud.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

The lighting was dim and the mood in the subterranean situation room was dark. People spoke to each other in hushed tones, as if in church. And no wonder. Live video was streaming in from Missouri, and all of it was grim. It appeared as if multiple tornados had ripped through Kansas City, leveling everything in their path. Malls, schools, homes… Everything.

And, according to preliminary estimates, more than five thousand people had been killed. But not by Mother Nature. No, this destruction had been wrought by man. Specifically, three B-2 Spirit stealth bombers based out of Lackland, Texas. Somehow, in spite of all the technology that was supposed to spot them, the planes had been able to cross into Union territory undetected.

Up until that point, neither side had intentionally bombed population centers. And that was something Sloan took pride in. The people who lived south of the New Mason-Dixon Line might be rebels, but they’d been Americans once and would be again one day. How could he bring the country back together if he bombed their homes?

President Lemaire had drawn the same line until now. Why the change? The answer was obvious. In spite of the stalemate on the battlefield, the North was winning. How wasn’t clear. Maybe perceptions had begun to change now that Southerners had lived under the oligarchs for a while. Perhaps government polling reflected that.

There was also the possibility that the resistance movement was gaining traction, or that Northern psyops efforts were succeeding, or who knows what else? Whatever the reason, the decision had been made to escalate. What to do? Sloan and his advisors would have to decide.

Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison was in the room along with Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Herman Jones, National Intelligence Director Martha Kip, National Security Advisor Toby Hall, and half a dozen others. They were seated around a long oval table—and all of them were staring at Sloan. That was when Sloan realized that he’d been silent for an uncomfortably long period of time. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you’ve seen the damage assessments. I’m sure you have suggestions about how to deal with this horrific act. Let’s start with General Jones.”

Jones had a buzz cut so short his black hair was barely visible against his brown skin. He had bright brown eyes and a square chin. “I’d like to tackle the second issue first,” Jones said. “Efforts are under way to figure out how the rebs managed to suppress our detection systems. That’s the first step.

“We will also increase the number of E-3 airborne early-warning and control missions. And, if you approve, we’ll move some surface-to-air batteries down from the Canadian border. Finally, we’re going to borrow twelve fighters from the navy in order to increase the number of interceptors available to deal with incursions.”

“I like it,” Sloan replied. “All except for moving the surface-to-air batteries. I don’t trust the folks who are leading Canada right now. Let’s leave the missiles where they are.” Jones nodded and made a note on the pad in front of him.

“Now,” Jones said, as he looked up, “let’s talk about offense. As it says in Leviticus, ‘an eye for an eye.’ Just say the word, and we’ll level the city of Dallas.”

The recommendation, or something like it, was what Sloan had expected to hear from Jones. And there was no way in hell that he was going to agree to it. But experience had taught him that it was best to let everyone have a say before saying no. And maybe, if he got lucky, someone else would take issue with the idea.

Sloan thanked Jones and continued to call on people until each person had spoken. All of them offered good suggestions, but only one of them took exception to Jones’s plan, and that was Secretary of Homeland Security Roger Alcock. He was from Colorado—and favored cowboy hats, bolo ties, and Western boots.

“With all due respect, General,” Alcock began, “I think your plan is a bit shortsighted. Let’s say we succeed, and we level Dallas. Or some other city. How will the rebs respond? They’ll destroy Philly or some other soft target. We will retaliate, and so on, until the entire country is a field of rubble. There has to be a better way.”

Sloan took the opportunity to jump in. “I agree. But we can’t sit back and take it either. The general’s right about that. So while I oppose carpet bombing Dallas, or any other Confederate city for that matter, I don’t object to hitting strategic targets. And I have some in mind. As you know, Texas had something approaching energy independence prior to the war. What you may not be aware of is that in spite of a well-earned reputation for pumping oil, the Lone Star State was the nation’s fourth largest coal producer when the meteors struck.

“But here’s the rub… The stuff they mine in Texas is a low-grade form of coal called lignite. It’s found in deposits that sweep from the northeastern edge of the state down south. And guess who owns eleven of the twenty-four mines in the state? The answer is Coruscant Southwest, the largest electric utility in the state. The same company that enables Lemaire to provide his constituents with cheap electricity even as it pollutes their air.

“But that’s not all,” Sloan added, as his eyes roamed the faces around him. “Coruscant’s CEO sits on the Confederacy’s Board of Directors… So, if we strike a blow against the company, we strike a blow against him.”

“I don’t know,” Jones said doubtfully. “I guess we could drop some bunker-busters on top of the mines. That would shut them down for a while… But deep targets are difficult.”

“I have some good news for you,” Sloan replied. “Most of the coal mines in Texas are located in rural areas. That limits the possibility of collateral damage, and they’re on the surface. Destroy the draglines used to harvest the lignite, and the operators will be out of business. What do you think?”

All eyes were on Jones. He smiled. “Holy shit, Mr. President… No offense, but I’m not used to getting targeting guidance from civilians! But I like it. We’ll put those mines out of business by this time tomorrow.”

There was more. And an hour’s worth of discussion followed. Sloan should have felt better as he left, but he didn’t. Another problem loomed. How to best part company with Beth Morgan? Especially now that the FBI investigation inspired by Beth’s journalism was over, Senator Pickett had been arrested, and Sloan was about to benefit.

But the need to part company with Beth had been clear to Sloan ever since the evening when he’d met with Robin Macintyre. He was unhappy already. But seeing Mac, and talking to her, had given him the impetus to do what he’d been putting off. Tonight, Sloan thought to himself. I’ll do it tonight. The prospect filled him with dread.

It was a full day. There were all the usual briefings to attend in the morning, a related press conference to survive at one, and a signing ceremony at three. The Whigs had done everything in their power to oppose the America Rising Reconstruction Bill but hadn’t been able to stop it, and that was something to feel good about.

But Sloan’s spirits were dampened by the knowledge of what was to come. And when he left his office to join Beth in his private quarters, it was with a heavy heart. Buck up, he told himself. Don’t drag it out.

That plan went out the window as he opened the door and entered the dimly lit sitting room. A linen-covered table sat at the center of it. Candles flickered, silverware gleamed, and soothing music filled the air. “Happy birthday,” Beth said, as she came forward to give him a kiss. “And congratulations regarding the reconstruction bill. It’s a historic piece of legislation.”

Sloan felt the usual spark as her lips pressed against his and her perfume embraced him. All sorts of emotions battled each other for supremacy. It felt good to have someone remember his birthday—and praise his achievement. But, sweet though the moment might be, the relationship was doomed. “Thank you, Beth… How thoughtful! I really appreciate it.”

“You’ll appreciate it even more when your steak arrives,” Beth replied. “But let’s have a drink first.”

A small bar stood against one wall, and Sloan went over to make drinks. A rum and Coke for her… and a gin and tonic for him. Both doubles.

They sat next to each other on the couch, arms touching. Beth was all wound up about some politics at work, and Sloan forced himself to listen as she chattered away. Eventually, when they were on their second drinks, he took the plunge. “Beth, we need to talk.”

Beth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Really? About what?”

“About us.”

Sloan saw her smile tighten. “Uh-oh… I don’t like the sound of this. Are you about to dump me? Again?”

Sloan tried to come up with a way to soften it and failed. “I’m sorry, Beth. You’re a wonderful person. But a very different person from me.”

Her eyes were like bottomless black pools. “Does this have something to do with Captain Macintyre?”

Sloan felt flustered. “Yes, I mean no. The captain and I don’t have a relationship if that’s what you mean.”

There was a hard edge to her voice. “But you’d like to have one.”

“Yes, I suppose I would,” Sloan admitted. “But that misses the point. It’s like I said earlier. You and I are very different people. And that would be a problem even if I didn’t know Captain Macintyre.”

Beth placed her glass on the coffee table and stood. There were no tears in her eyes. Just an implacable anger. “I’m not a toy, Sam. Something to be used, reused, and discarded. Everything has a price—and you will pay.”

With that, Beth turned, snatched her coat off the back of a chair, and left. Someone else might have slammed the door. Beth didn’t.

Sloan sighed. He’d known it would be bad but not that bad. There was a discreet knock on the side door. Sloan frowned. “Come in.”

Sloan heard a soft thump as a stainless-steel trolley pushed the door open. It was followed by a waiter dressed in white. “Good evening, Mr. President. Steaks for two… May I serve?”

Sloan felt his stomach rumble. “Tell me something, Louie… Do you like steak?”

The waiter was sixtysomething, gray, and extremely dignified. “Yes, sir… I do.”

“Good. Please serve. Then, if you’d be so kind, please join me for dinner. It’s my birthday.”

Louie was in no way perturbed. “It would be my pleasure, sir. And happy birthday.”

NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE

Three days had passed since the rescue mission—and the battalion had been ordered to move again. It was an arduous process, especially for the XO, who was expected to handle most of the logistics. So Mac was in a meeting with the battalion’s supply officer and her staff when the private came looking for her. He was a gangly kid who had graduated from high school six months earlier. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. But Major Granger wants to see you right away.”

“Right away as in now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mac eyed the faces around her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Remember what I said. Don’t trust anybody. Count everything before you load it.”

Lieutenant Simmons nodded. “Don’t worry, Captain. We’re on it.”

“Good,” Mac said, as she stood. “I’ll check with you later.”

There was activity all around as Mac crossed the compound. Tents were coming down, boxes of gear were being stacked for loading, and a line led into the first-aid station. Vaccinations had to be renewed on a regular basis, and Mac knew her name was on the list. When would she find the time?

As Mac entered the Conex container, she saw that it was nearly empty—and knew the techs were working out of the battalion’s com truck. Two people were present. Granger and a staff sergeant who looked strange in his class-A blue uniform and mirror-bright street shoes. That was when Mac saw the military police insignia. Shit. One of her people was in trouble. Granger looked grim. “Have a seat Captain,” he said. “This is Sergeant Wilkins.”

Mac sat on a folding chair. “Good morning, Sergeant… Did one of our soldiers screw up?”

Wilkins’s eyes were like black buttons, it appeared as if his nose had been broken at some point, and his mouth was little more than a horizontal slash. “None of your soldiers are in trouble, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of anyway. I’m here to arrest you.”

It came as a complete shock. Mac could hardly believe her ears. “Me? What for?”

“You have been charged with disobeying a direct order from a superior officer,” Wilkins replied.

Mac wasn’t in trouble with Granger. She knew that. Who then? Crowley? No, even though she disagreed with the colonel regarding all sorts of things, Mac had obeyed his orders. Besides, Crowley was dead. She looked at Wilkins. “Who is my accuser?”

“Major Jeremy Fitch, United States Air Force,” Wilkins answered.

Fitch, Fitch, Fitch… Who the hell was Fitch? Oh, shit… Now she remembered. The incident had occurred months earlier as Mac and her soldiers were making the long, arduous journey from Washington State to Arizona. Along the way, they’d stopped outside Mountain Home, Idaho, in hopes of finding weapons, ammo, and supplies in the National Guard armory.

The sheet of plywood propped up in the middle of the road had been visible from half a block away. The words GOV. PROP. DO NOT ENTER had been written on the wood with white paint.

Mac remembered seeing the ruins of a building on the right. It looked like the structure had been leveled by the Chinese missile that had destroyed nearby Mountain Home Air Force Base. “I see movement at two o’clock,” Brown had announced as he brought the .50 around.

Mac looked in time to see a man emerge from the hut located adjacent to the remains of the building. He was dressed in combat gear and carrying a light machine gun. After ordering a sniper to target the man, Mac had gone forward to speak with him.

Mac remembered how the ice crystals glittered in the sunlight as she jumped down off the truck—and made her way over to where the man was standing. He was a major, or some guy pretending to be a major. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre, United States Army. And you are?”

“Major Fitch, United States Air Force.”

The way Mac remembered it, Fitch had deep-set eyes and a gaunt appearance. And, when Mac asked Fitch what he was doing, the answer had been clear. “I’m guarding what remains of a building.”

During the following exchange, Fitch had asserted his authority over Mac, and she had refused to accept it. Why? Because she and her troops were cut off from their battalion, the country was in the shitter, and she had no way to accurately assess the man in front of her. Was he a die-hard hero? Or some sort of mental case? Who else would hole up next to a National Guard armory and guard it all by himself?

So she’d refused to obey Fitch’s orders, and now, after what seemed like a lifetime, that decision had come back to haunt her. Would her story get her off? Hell, no. The people Wilkins worked for didn’t care what her perceptions of Fitch were. The only thing they cared about was the answer to a simple question: Did you, or did you not, disobey a direct order? Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “What happens next?”

“Pack your gear,” Wilkins instructed. “All of it. We’re going to Fort Knox. That’s where the court-martial will be held. It’s going to take a while.”

Mac swallowed. “Court-martial?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Granger cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Robin… But there’s nothing I can do. You are hereby relieved of duty pending the outcome of the trial.”

Mac stood. She felt light-headed. “Are you going to cuff me?”

Wilkins eyed her. “Do I need to?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

Mac left the Conex with Wilkins in tow. Dark clouds were moving in from the north, and the air felt chilly. Suddenly, in less than half an hour, Mac’s world had been turned upside down. The future was bleak.