Seek and Destroy

CHAPTER 8

JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI

The Metrocenter Mall was filled with Saturday-morning shoppers. And why not? The war was a barely felt presence in the city of Jackson. Because of all the military spending, everybody who wanted a job had one—plus the air inside was cleaner than the stuff outside. And because the mall was the closest thing to neutral territory available, Victoria and resistance fighter Nathan Hale had agreed to meet at the mall.

Their first meeting, which had taken place electronically, had been an unmitigated disaster for Victoria. Instead of gathering more information about the anti-Confederate assassin called the Butcher and capturing Hale, she had come away with nothing.

Now, after apologizing to Hale via e-mail and days of groveling, he’d agreed to meet with her again. And in person. Rather than try to grab Hale, Victoria had decided to play it straight. The first priority was to obtain intel regarding the Butcher. Then, once El Carnicero was neutralized, she would find a way to smoke Hale.

Meanwhile, just in case Hale was planning to double-cross her, Sergeant Cora Tarvin and Private Roy Post were providing security. Victoria scanned her surroundings but couldn’t spot the operatives. And that was good. Because if she couldn’t see them, Hale’s people couldn’t either.

The Fountain Restaurant had indoor and outdoor seating. By prior agreement, the meeting was to take place outside, where the noise generated by the small fountain would make it difficult for other diners to listen in.

As Victoria neared the restaurant, she saw that roughly half of the outside tables were taken. Hale was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t surprising since she was five minutes early. Victoria went inside, requested a table near the fountain, and followed a girl out to a linen-covered table. After taking a seat, she began to eye the pretentious menu. It was heavy and loaded with items that would make her heavy, too. “May I join you?”

Victoria looked up to see that the fashionably dressed woman who’d been seated a few feet away was standing next to her table. She was about to say “No,” and realized her mistake. “Mrs. Hale, I presume?”

Hale laughed and took the other chair. Now Victoria could see through the makeup even though it was quite convincing. Hale smiled. “That’s right, honey… This isn’t the first time I’ve dressed as a woman. And one girl to another, I love your cropped jacket! It’s just enough to kick the outfit up a notch and hide a shoulder holster.”

Victoria couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.” And it was true. He’d been wearing a mask the last time she’d seen him. Now he was wearing a wig, pink lip gloss, and enough foundation to hide his beard. The disguise, plus some carefully chosen clothing, created a convincing picture. Was Tarvin snapping photos of him with a long lens? She’d better be.

After a waiter arrived, and their orders were placed, the maneuvering began. During the first meeting, Victoria had guessed, correctly as it turned out, that El Carnicero had been a member of the Union Underground before going rogue. Now the resistance fighters wanted him dead. So much so that they were willing to conspire with the Confederacy to get the job done.

But there was a limit on how cooperative Hale could be without revealing the sort of information that would help Victoria attack his organization. That’s what Hale claimed. But by the time lunch had been served, Victoria was beginning to get suspicious. Nothing had been accomplished up to that point—and Hale was too relaxed for someone with a lot at stake. Why?

Victoria was about to bail out when Hale opened his purse and removed a sheet of paper. He pushed it across the table. “There you go,” he said. “Now you have the Butcher’s real name, his last-known address, and a personality profile.”

The paper was folded into thirds. And when Victoria opened it, she saw that the page was blank! What the? Victoria looked up and was reaching for her pistol, when Hale shot her in the stomach. He was holding the Taser low, under the tabletop, where it couldn’t be seen.

Victoria felt the dart-like electrodes penetrate her clothing. That sensation was followed by something similar to a bee sting—and an electronic shock so strong that she lost control of her musculature. She jerked, slumped to one side of the chair, and was hanging there as Hale stood. “Bye, hon,” he said. “Sorry to eat and run.” Then he was gone.

Victoria’s body had been immobilized, and although her brain was foggy, it remained functional. She’d been suckered. Again. What was Hale trying to accomplish? Then it came to her. The resistance fighter knew that Victoria would have backup, and he hoped to draw them out so his operators could kill them. Then, as Victoria struggled to stand, they would nail her as well. And bingo… Not only would Hale have eliminated one of the Confederacy’s hunter-killer teams, but General Bo Macintyre’s daughter would be dead! A psychological as well as a physical blow.

All of that and more flashed through Victoria’s mind as she heard a gunshot! Post! Or Tarvin! One of them had seen Victoria slump over and rushed to the rescue. And that was the sniper’s signal to fire.

“No!” What was supposed to be a shout emerged as a croak. Victoria battled to stand, failed, and heard a second report. People were screaming by then—and a good Samaritan appeared at her side. “Can you breathe?” he wanted to know. “I called 911.”

As he leaned in to hear her reply, a bullet hit him in the head. The bang was like an afterthought. Victoria felt something warm splatter her face as the man collapsed on top of her. The chair went over, and both of them hit the floor.

Victoria’s muscles were starting to respond by that time and she struggled to roll free. Once on her knees, she stood. Only then did Victoria realize how stupid the move was. A follow-up shot would put her down for good! None came.

Victoria used a napkin to wipe some of the blood off her face as she staggered out into the mall. People were running every which way as police flooded the area. Someone called for a medic as Victoria knelt next to Tarvin’s body. They hadn’t been friends. Both of them knew better than to let that happen. But they’d been in some tight spots together, and Victoria would miss the noncom. “Don’t worry,” Victoria told the body, as an EMT arrived. “I’ll find the bastard. And he’s going to die.”

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

As Mac made her way across the sprawling base, she felt depressed. The previous night had been spent tossing and turning. Why had she been stupid enough to refuse a direct order?

Because you had every reason to believe that the country was in the shitter, her inner voice replied. And it would be, except for Sloan. The statement was true but brought very little comfort. Mac consulted the slip of paper in her hand, confirmed that she was standing in front of the correct building, and climbed a short flight of stairs. A door opened into a sparsely furnished reception area. Mac made her way over to a fortresslike desk. A bright-eyed corporal looked up from what she was doing. “Good morning, ma’am… How can I help you?”

“I’m Captain Macintyre, and I’m here to see Judge Advocate Sanders.”

The corporal consulted a screen. “Yes, ma’am. Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Mac found a place to sit. About a dozen people were seated around her. Did they know about the charges that had been lodged against her? No, that was absurd. What would her father think? Mac could imagine the disappointment in his eyes. The same disappointment she’d seen many times before. A major appeared and made his way over. “Captain Macintyre? I’m Judge Advocate Sanders.”

Mac stood. Sanders had thinning flyaway hair, a slight stoop, and was dressed in a uniform that appeared to be a size too big. They shook hands. “Please follow me,” Sanders said, and led the way.

Mac followed him through a maze of cubicles and corridors to a windowless room. “Please have a seat,” Sanders said, as he circled a cluttered desk. “Or should I say the seat, since there’s only one. They called me back to active duty two months ago and, as you can imagine, the regulars have the good offices.” It was said without rancor. As if such indignities were to be expected.

Mac forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s dispense with the formalities,” Sanders said, as he sat down. “Please call me George, and I’ll call you Robin. Now, allow me to bring you up to speed on the process. You’ve been charged with disobeying a direct order and threatening the life of a superior officer. Those are serious allegations, needless to say, so a general court-martial will be convened.

“The trial will involve a military judge, a prosecutor, and a defense counsel. By the way,” Sanders added, “you have the right to choose a defense counsel other than me should you desire to. And no, I won’t be offended.”

Mac felt a terrible emptiness where the pit of her stomach should have been. “I won’t need a defense attorney. I plan to plead guilty.”

Sanders frowned at her. “What? Are you crazy?”

“No,” Mac said miserably. “I’m guilty. Not only that, there were witnesses, plenty of them. So that’s that.”

“Maybe,” Sanders allowed, as he picked up some papers. “And maybe not. It’s true that Privates Wessel and Dooly gave statements that support the charges. But your driver, Corporal Garcia, said he couldn’t hear the interchange between you and Major Fitch. That in spite of the fact that he was outside the Stryker and standing a few feet away!

“Then there’s Dr. Hoskins. He said that Major Fitch appeared to be suffering from PTSD, and Private Hadley indicated that Fitch was threatening you with a machine gun. All of which can be used to attack Fitch’s credibility. Or lack thereof.”

The fact that Garcia, Hoskins, and Hadley had been there for her was heartening. “I’m glad to hear it,” Mac said. “But be honest with me. What are my chances?”

Sanders frowned. “Of going scot-free?”

“Yes.”

“I’d put the odds at five to one against it.”

Mac swallowed. “Okay, so why fight it?”

“Which would you prefer?” Sanders inquired. “Twenty years? Or two? A short sentence. That’s worth fighting for. I know things look dark… But you have an extraordinary record, and believe me, the court will take that into account. But only if we tell them the story. So what do you say? Do we fold? Or fight?”

Two years in prison. If she was lucky. Mac felt sick to her stomach. “Okay, George, we’ll fight.”

The smile made Sanders look younger. “Good. I’ll push for a speedy arraignment. Be sure to follow all of the rules and stay out of trouble during the interim.”

The next two weeks were difficult. Mac had to check in four times a day. But, other than occasional meetings with Sanders, she had no other duties. So rather than sit around and think dark thoughts, Mac put in two hours at the gym every morning. Then it was time to shower, eat breakfast, and do chores.

Once lunch was over, Mac had all afternoon in which to read. The Art of War by Sun Tzu was a favorite, and histories, including the four-volume A History of the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill.

And Mac had time for lighter fare as well… including both online and print publications. That’s how she came across a story concerning Sloan’s love life. “The love affair between the President of the United States and World News reporter Beth Morgan is over.” That’s how the article began. And, farther down, there was an equally interesting sentence. “According to people in the know, the president broke off the relationship, and Ms. Morgan is anything but pleased.”

Mac remembered the room, what Sam had said to her, and her reply. What part, if any, had the conversation played in ending his relationship with Morgan? And what would the president think of her now? Nothing good.

The arraignment was a good deal less dramatic than Mac had imagined. The charges were read, her rights were made clear, and a trial date was set. Rather than stall for time, Sanders was pushing for a speedy trial. “I don’t want to be morbid,” he said. “But what if Dr. Hoskins gets killed? As a physician, and someone who is clearly on your side, his testimony is very important to us.”

Mac understood the logic of that, even if it was a bit cold-blooded, and wanted to get the whole process over with. The sooner she was convicted, the sooner she could serve her time, and the sooner she’d be released. To do what? Mac didn’t know. But, she thought to herself, I’ll have plenty of time to think about that.

ABOARD THE VIRGINIA-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE JOHN WARNER

The President of the United States had never been aboard a nuclear attack submarine before. And he didn’t like it. Because, in spite of the fact that the boat was more spacious than its predecessors, the close quarters made Sloan feel claustrophobic. It was a sensation he was determined to conceal.

Sloan was standing in the control room next to Captain Rawlings. Each time the officer gave an order, Sloan could monitor changes on the screens located in front of the pilot and copilot. Only three people were required to steer, rather than the five or six that was standard in the Ohio-class subs. “We’re pausing just below the surface,” Rawlings said, “so we can take a look around.”

The rest went unsaid. Had the Confederates kept their word? If so, there wouldn’t be any vessels in the area other than the Ohio-class submarine Alabama. And it, according to Rawlings, was under the command of an old friend. A classmate from Annapolis who had chosen to fight for the Confederacy instead of the Union. “He’s trustworthy,” Rawlings had said. “But the people he reports to? Not so much.”

And that’s typical of this war, Sloan thought to himself. Friend against friend, brother against brother. God help us.

Like all Virginia-class subs, the John Warner was equipped with photonics masts rather than the hull-penetrating periscopes of yesteryear. As Sloan looked at the screen in front of him, he saw that the Caribbean sun was an orange smear in the dusty sky. At the water level, and directly ahead, a tropical island was visible. And not just any island… but an eighty-acre Balinese-style retreat that belonged to a British billionaire.

How the island had been secured for the meeting wasn’t clear because Sloan hadn’t been involved in the negotiations. But the why was obvious. The billionaire, not to mention the UK generally, would benefit in a multitude of ways if peace broke out. “There are no enemy aircraft in the area,” a disembodied voice said.

“We have an AWACS in the air,” Rawlings explained. “And they’ll warn us if rebel aircraft come this way. So far so good.”

After completing a careful 360-degree scan of its surroundings, the sub started to creep forward. “We have company,” a sonar operator announced. “The signature is consistent with that of an Ohio-class sub.”

“We have radio contact,” another voice put in. “They have the recognition code.”

“Okay,” Captain Rawlings said. “Take her up.”

It took the better part of an hour for both subs to send teams ashore, confirm that it was deserted, and radio in. Once the all clear was received, Sloan was instructed to climb up through the submarine’s conning-tower-like “sail” to the bridge, and make his way from there to the deck, where a life jacket awaited him. Then it was time to enter a RIB boat for the trip ashore. Six heavily armed SEALs grinned at him as he sat down. “Welcome aboard, sir,” one of them said. “We’ll have you there in no time.”

The twin engines roared, and the bow slapped the waves, as the low-lying island grew steadily larger. Off to the left, another inflatable was making the same journey, only it was equipped with a whip-style antenna. A Confederate flag fluttered in the breeze, and spray flew as the boat powered ahead.

What was Lemaire thinking? Sloan wondered. Could a deal be done? Sloan wanted to believe that it could. But Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison was doubtful, as was Secretary of State George Henderson. They were of the opinion that the Confederate president was simply going through the motions to appease the small clique of “accomodationists” who were members of his board.

The Confederate inflatable arrived first, and Lemaire’s security team was already gathered on the pier as the Union boat pulled in next to the floating dock. After getting rid of his life jacket, Sloan followed a ramp up to the point where Morton Lemaire stood waiting for him. They’d met before the war, down in Houston, where Lemaire and his cronies offered Sloan a job as puppet president. And when Sloan refused, Lemaire called him “…one stupid son of a bitch.”

But Sloan could detect no signs of animosity as Lemaire came forward to shake hands. The Confederate president had gray hair and a keen mind. So friends and enemies alike referred to him as “the silver fox.” His long, oval-shaped face would have been perfect had it not been for a mouth that was a little too small. “We meet again,” Lemaire said. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None,” Sloan said while managing to keep a straight face. “I enjoyed my stay in the swamp.”

Lemaire chuckled. “Shall we take a stroll?” the Southerner inquired. “Or find a place to sit down?”

“Let’s walk,” Sloan replied. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” The politicians followed a meticulously kept path up through lush greenery toward the buildings beyond. “So,” Lemaire began, “we’re here because we have a common interest in making peace.”

“True,” Sloan agreed. “But not at any price.”

“Of course,” Lemaire responded. “That’s understood.”

So far so good, Sloan thought to himself. “Do you have something specific in mind?” Sloan inquired. “Or do you see this meeting as an opportunity to explore the possibilities?”

“I have a plan I’d like to put forth,” Lemaire replied. “Or the general outlines of one. If you and I can agree on general principles, our staff people can collaborate on the details.”

Sloan was surprised by the reasonable tone. Especially in light of their last meeting. “That sounds good,” Sloan said. “What do you have in mind?”

“The first step would be to declare a cease-fire,” Lemaire answered.

“Okay,” Sloan replied. “That makes sense. The sooner the killing stops, the better.”

“Exactly,” Lemaire said. “The second step would be to announce peace talks. Our diplomats would work together to determine how the talks would be structured and when they would start.”

They stopped in the shade provided by the palm trees. Leaves rustled as a bird hopped across the path. “The devil would be in the details,” Sloan observed.

“I’m glad we agree,” Lemaire said. “I’ve been here before, you know… As a guest. It’s an amazing place.” They were standing twenty feet from the pool and the three-story Balinese-style house beyond.

So that’s why the island was chosen, Sloan thought to himself. Lemaire has a relationship with the owner. “I assume you could see the sun back then,” Sloan put in.

“Yes,” Lemaire replied. “And feel it. I miss the warmth… But enough of that. Where was I? Ah, yes. Peace talks. The moment talks begin, representatives from both sides will want to define how much territory will be held by each entity. I suggest that we adopt the New Mason-Dixon Line as the official border between North and South.”

Sloan felt a sudden surge of anger and battled to control it. “No way,” he responded. “As things stand now, Union forces control everything north of Spring Hill, Tennessee. If we pull back to the New Mason-Dixon Line, we will cede a large chunk of territory to you… And, should talks fail, we would have to spend thousands of lives to take it back.”

“I get that, Sam,” Lemaire replied. “But we need to set the table. There’s a whole lot of folks down my way who would oppose any sort of deal. But there are moderates, too… And if we can show them a genuine act of conciliation by the Union, that’ll go a long way toward securing the support I need. And if you genuinely believe in peace, then I think you’ll be better off betting on success instead of failure.”

Lemaire was one helluva salesman. So good that Sloan was tempted. But a lot of good men and women had died to take the ground south of the line. And to give it back would be a betrayal of them and their families. Sloan looked into Lemaire’s eyes. “I was with you right up to the territorial giveback. But, as you Southerners like to say, ‘that dog won’t hunt.’”

Lemaire frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sam. Real sorry. But if we agree to peace talks now, with Union troops in Tennessee, it will look like we’re losing.”

“You are losing,” Sloan said emphatically. “Not big-time, not so far, but bit by bit. And that’s why the accomodationists on your board want to cut a deal. They can see where this is going. So why not draw the line where it is? And get what you can? It’s bound to be better than the other possibility… which is an unconditional surrender.”

Lemaire’s features seemed to harden. His voice was tight. “I said you were a stupid son of a bitch when we met in Houston, and nothing has changed. Memorize this moment, Sam… And play it back to yourself when Confederate forces roll into Fort Knox.”

Sloan was about to reply when Lemaire turned his back and walked away. Peace would have to wait.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Mac felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience as she followed Sanders into the room where her court-martial would be held. It was large, but a good deal more spartan than the courtrooms that she’d seen on TV.

As Mac walked down the center aisle, she saw that the spectator seats were full and knew why. WAR HERO FACES COURT-MARTIAL. That was the headline over a story penned by Beth Morgan two days earlier. Farther down, in paragraph five, mention had been made of what Morgan described as “the special relationship between Captain Macintyre and President Sloan.”

There was no relationship other than the fact that Mac had been in command of the column that rescued Sloan’s ill-fated force from Richton, Mississippi. But Morgan’s story seemed to hint at something else—and her peers had been quick to seize on it. As a result, a routine disciplinary process, which would normally be of no interest to anyone outside the army, had become a cause célèbre. And as Mac passed the reporter, Morgan smiled broadly. The meaning was clear: “I can’t have him, but neither will you.”

A table for use by the defense attorney and the accused was located to the left of the central passageway—while the prosecutor and her assistant were on the right. The judge’s chair was located on a riser directly in front of the other participants, with the witness stand to the left, and the five-member “forum” on the right. Thanks to Sanders’s efforts, two members of the jury were female, three had seen combat, and all of them were officers.

As Mac sat down, she knew that everyone in the room was staring at her, and she felt an overwhelming sense of shame. Like most military personnel, Mac placed a high value on organizational integrity. So to sit there accused of disobedience, knowing that she was guilty, was the most humiliating moment of her life. All she could do was hide her trembling hands under the table and stare straight ahead.

Ten seemingly interminable minutes passed before the judge, a colonel named Elmore Apitz, entered the room. Everyone stood as Apitz took his seat, and the court-martial began. Mac experienced a sense of disassociation as the attorneys for both sides made their opening statements. Their words merged into a meaningless drone. Everyone, Mac included, knew what the verdict was going to be. The only question was the nature of the punishment. Would the officers of the forum give her a slap on the wrist? Or would they drop a bomb on her? All Mac could do was wait to find out.

Once the opening statements were over, the prosecutor made her case. And for the first time since meeting him in Idaho, Mac had a chance to see Major Fitch. The uniform fit him like a glove, rows of ribbons decorated his chest, and he was every inch an air force officer.

But Fitch looked even more gaunt now—and his eyes were like chips of obsidian. When questioned, he spoke like a regretful teacher referencing an errant child. “Captain Macintyre’s intentions may have been good,” he allowed. “But military discipline is the backbone of the armed forces and requires that we obey those placed over us. Captain Macintyre put her desires before the needs of the country. It’s as simple as that.”

But no, it wasn’t as simple as that. Not according to Sanders, who put Dr. Hoskins on the stand. It was good to see the navy officer again, and his presence gave Mac reason to hope.

“So, Doctor,” Sanders said, once Hoskins had been sworn in, “you were present when Captain Macintyre and Major Fitch met. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Hoskins replied. “It is.”

“And you could see both parties? And hear what was said?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Please describe Major Fitch’s manner.”

“The major was suspicious and aggressive,” Hoskins replied.

“Objection,” the prosecutor interjected. “The doctor had no way to know what was going on inside the major’s head. Appearances can be, and often are, deceiving.”

“All of us are aware that nonverbal communication can be very effective,” Sanders countered. “The doctor is a trained observer who is reporting on the way Major Fitch presented himself and could reasonably be perceived by Captain Macintyre.”

“You may proceed,” Judge Apitz said.

Sanders turned to Hoskins. “What else did you observe, Doctor? Was the major armed? And if so, with what?”

“He was,” Hoskins confirmed. “The major was carrying a light machine gun. It was pointed at the sky, but could have been dropped into firing position very quickly. That, combined with his caustic manner, caused me to believe that he was hostile.”

And so it went. The prosecutor put Fitch back on the stand to explain why he had reason to be suspicious of Mac’s unit, and any unit that happened along, given the overall circumstances.

Sanders introduced evidence that Fitch had been suffering from PTSD at the time. And the prosecutor countered with an expert who maintained that the diagnosis didn’t matter unless the major had been found unfit for duty prior to the encounter in Idaho.

Mac sat immobile throughout. She’d never been so helpless, and a supreme effort was required just to keep her head up. And even though she’d been in at least a dozen battles, and always found the courage to keep going, a feeling of hopelessness rose to consume her.

Hours dragged by. Summary statements were made, the case was given to the forum, and they left the room to deliberate. Everyone else was dismissed but given orders to remain on call in case the jurors came back with a verdict. “They won’t reach a decision today,” Sanders predicted. “We gave them a lot to think about.”

Mac hoped that was true. And, in keeping with the attorney’s prediction, the forum was still deliberating when 1700 rolled around and Mac was allowed to return to the BOQ. A gaggle of reporters and photographers was waiting outside. “Captain Macintyre! When did you last speak with the president? And what did he say?”

“How ’bout it, Captain…” a woman shouted. “Are you having an affair with the president?”

“Is it true that you’re pregnant?” a man demanded. “And if so, who’s the father?”

Mac pushed her way through the crowd and hurried away. The press would have been able to follow her if she’d been off base. But not on Fort Knox, where the reporters’ movements were restricted. That meant Mac could turn a corner and escape.

Mac walked and kept walking. She’d been holding the tears back all day. Now, as they rolled down her cheeks, she wiped them away. A sergeant saluted, and she responded. It was, Mac knew, one of the last such courtesies she would receive. More than that, it was her last night of freedom. How did other people handle that? Did they get drunk with friends? Did they eat their favorite foods? Or did they curl up in the fetal position and sob? Mac hoped to avoid the third option. Be tough, she told herself. Woman up.

There were a number of places to eat on base, and Mac chose the largest and most crowded chow hall, hoping to go unnoticed. And the strategy was successful as far as she could tell. Because if people were talking about her, they were hiding it well.

Mac didn’t have much of an appetite, though… And at least half of the chicken salad remained on the plate when she turned her tray in.

It was dark outside, and a heavy sleet was falling as she made her way to the BOQ. Once in her room, Mac found that a message was waiting. For the first time since returning to Fort Knox, she was to report to base’s security center in person.

Mac smiled grimly. Of course… The evening before the verdict. The night when she might decide to run. The next hour was spent trudging over to security, checking in, and walking back. It was about 1930 by the time she put her coat away, turned the TV on, and began to pack. The instructions from Sanders were explicit. “If a verdict comes in tomorrow, and if you’re found guilty, the MPs will take you to the stockade. At that point, they will dispatch someone to get your belongings. So make sure that everything is packed and ready to go.”

Mac was in the process of removing her underwear from the dresser when she heard the anchorwoman say her name. Mac turned just in time to see footage of herself as she broke through the press and fled. “Captain Robin Macintyre, who some claim is having an affair with the president, refused to take questions this afternoon as her case went to a military jury. The captain is accused of disobeying a direct order. Jury deliberations will resume tomorrow.” The TV snapped to black as Mac pressed the power button.

Mac slid into bed half an hour later, but sleep wouldn’t come. Would her father see the news reports? Would Victoria gloat? And what about Sloan? Did he know?

When the dreams arrived, they were tangled things, slippery with night sweat and filled with dread. And when the alarm went off, Mac experienced a sense of relief. More than that, she felt a lightness of spirit. As if something had changed. Did that flow from acceptance? Perhaps. But regardless of the reason, she felt better. Not happy, but better. And that would have to do.

Mac got up, showered, and dressed with care. What was it that the Green Berets liked to say? “No matter what happens, look cool.” Yeah, that would be her motto for the day. Mac eyed the image in the mirror and threw her shoulders back. You look good, she told herself. Work it.

Once Mac was ready, she performed an idiot check on the room, said good-bye to her belongings, and left. The sleet had stopped by that time, and there were occasional breaks in the clouds. Mac even caught a glimpse of the sun on the way and chose to interpret that as a positive omen.

A gaggle of reporters was waiting for her, and Mac could see them from a distance. But rather than attempt to avoid them, she walked up to the group and paused. Then, as they started to barrage her with questions, Mac said, “Quiet!” And the authority with which she said it had the desired effect. “All right,” Mac told them… “Here you go. I am not having an affair with the President of the United States. I have not spoken to him regarding my court-martial. And I am not pregnant. That will be all. Thank you.” And with that, she walked up the steps and entered the building. More reporters were stationed inside, but she ignored them.

As Mac entered the courtroom, it seemed as if all her senses were maxed out. She could see, hear, and feel everything with the same intensity she had experienced while in combat.

Sanders was waiting for her, and Mac saw what might have been relief in his eyes. Had he been afraid that she’d run? Probably.

Judge Apitz arrived on time, everyone stood, and the proceeding got under way. “We have a verdict,” Apitz announced, as he looked at a sheet of paper. “The defendant will rise.”

Mac felt sick to her stomach but managed to keep her face blank as she stood. No matter what happens, look cool. “It is the forum’s finding that Captain Robin Macintyre is guilty of both charges,” Apitz said, as his eyes came up to meet Mac’s. “A jury of your peers has found you guilty of violating Articles 90 and 92 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You could serve twenty years for those offenses. However, in light of your otherwise spotless record, and your well-documented acts of valor, I’m going to give you a sentence of four years to be served at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. Your attorney can file motions on your behalf and appeal the findings of this court should he find grounds to do so. This court is adjourned.”

Mac felt her heart sink. Four years! Sanders had been hoping for two. “I’m sorry,” Sanders said. “Hang in there. I’ll be in touch.”

A female MP stepped forward to take Mac into custody. “I won’t cuff you here,” she said kindly. “Not in front of the cameras.”

Mac said, “Thank you.” And, as she was led away, Mac saw Morgan standing against the wall. The reporter had a smirk on her face. She winked and turned away.