Into the Guns (10 page)

After placing the meal on the table, Molly withdrew. That was Lucy's cue to back out through the door. There was a metallic clang as the hatch closed.

The catfish dinner was excellent, but it went largely unappreciated because of the newspapers that had been delivered with it. There was a week-old copy of the
New York Times
, complete with coffee stains, and a two-day-old copy of the
Dallas Morning News
. Sloan read both of them from front to back as he hoovered up every scrap of information he could get. And that included the ads because the kinds of goods and services being offered made their own statement about postimpact America. Cold-weather clothing was popular . . . As were Mason jars, tools, and backup generators.

Tears ran down Sloan's cheeks as he read the latest assessment of what it would take to rebuild Washington, D.C. Had his mother been killed? Probably. And his staffers? Yes . . . Unless they'd been on vacation or something. And the president! He was dead, along with thousands of other government officials. The vice president had survived though . . . and, according to the
New York Times
, was hard at work trying to get the nation back on its feet.

But that's where things got interesting. After reading the
Dallas Morning News
, Sloan had the impression that many, if not most, Southern politicians were unhappy with the president's ambitious reconstruction plans. They objected to “higher taxes,” “big government,” and “too much regulation.”

Sloan was a creature of Washington, D.C., and recognized the rhetoric as being part of the long-standing philosophical divide between conservatives and progressives. Except now there seemed to be some ominous undertones. Prominent civil and business leaders talking about “more self-determination,” “state's rights,” and
“local autonomy.” One even went so far as to raise the possibility of secession! Was it vote-getting rhetoric? Or the real deal? It was impossible to tell from where he was. One thing was for sure, however: The person or persons in charge of Godbee's “repository” wanted to keep him in the loop.
Why?

Sloan put the papers aside to finish his meal. The food was cold by then, but he ate it anyway, and was polishing his plate with a chunk of corn bread when Molly came around to collect it.

The next three days were spent eating his fill, getting a lot of sleep, and watching Godbee's “ladies” come and go. During that time, Sloan was careful to follow every order they gave him without offering any pushback. The plan was to convince them that he wasn't a threat. Then, on the fourth day, Sloan made his move. He had chosen to escape at dinnertime, when there would be only a few hours of daylight remaining. That would help him to hide.

That was the theory, anyway. Although Sloan was well aware that the swamp was full of creatures that could find him even if humans couldn't! Still, he preferred to take that risk rather than sitting around waiting for who knows what.

So there he was, hiding behind the hatch when Molly pushed it open. She was holding the dinner tray with both hands. And as Molly entered the cabin, she could see that the bathroom door was ajar and hear the rush of water in the shower. That was the same scenario she'd seen for the past two days, except that Sloan wasn't in the bathroom this time.

Lucy followed Molly into the room. She was carrying the Taser barrel up as usual. Sloan brought the toilet seat up and around. It glanced off the side of Lucy's head, and the force of the impact knocked her down.

One down and one to go! Sloan felt a sudden surge of confidence as he went after Molly. But, as fast as he was, Molly was even
faster. The spin kick struck Sloan's right temple and sent him reeling. He was still trying to recover his balance when a flurry of kicks and blows put him down. So there he was, lying on his back, when Lucy loomed over him. Blood ran down the side of her face—and the Taser was pointed at his chest. “No!” Sloan croaked. “Don't . . .”

Lucy smiled as she pulled the trigger. Sloan jerked spasmodically as fifty thousand volts of electricity surged through his nervous system and caused his muscles to lock up. Then, as he lay helpless, the ladies began to kick him. The blows continued even as the effects of the Taser began to wear off. Sloan saw Molly pull her foot back, and saw the boot come at him, but that was all. The world ceased to exist.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

The Concho sanction had been successful if somewhat messy, and there had been little to no blowback thanks to the efforts of a New Order sympathizer inside the
Dallas Morning News
. Her header read: “Gang-style massacre in Richardson.” And that was enough to point most people in the wrong direction.

Now, as Victoria drove south on Interstate 35, she saw a steady stream of National Guard vehicles going the other way. There were trucks loaded with troops, platoons of Strykers, and tank transporters all headed north where they had orders to “restore law and order.” But, depending on how things went politically, Victoria knew there might be more to it than that. Much more.

After passing through Temple and Killeen, Victoria arrived in Fort Hood. Rather than stop by her condo, she drove straight to the base. The traffic lights were working, which meant that the power was on. And no wonder since the base had a very high priority.

Victoria was dressed in civilian clothes. But, when the corporal on the gate saw the sticker on the BMW's windshield, he threw Victoria a salute. “Good afternoon, ma'am . . . ID please.” After comparing the picture on the card to her face, the corporal waved her through.

Victoria had been stationed at Fort Hood for more than a year and knew the base well. The sports car seemed to drive itself to III Corps headquarters. The modernistic building consisted of two squares connected by a central triangle. Victoria drove past it, parked at the rear of the complex, and got out. The sun was an angry-looking disk that was barely visible beyond a brooding mass of low-hanging clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Victoria's heels made a clicking sound as she entered the building, showed her ID, and made her way through a maze of offices to the one her father occupied. He had two jobs at the moment. The one assigned to him by the Pentagon before it was destroyed and one reflected by the title on the door. That was
INTERIM COMMANDING GENERAL
. But everyone who was anyone knew that “interim” would disappear if the decision was made to secede and the New Confederacy came into being.

Bo had always been a conservative, and other conservatives knew that. So, when Southern elites began to discuss the possibility of a nation based on conservative principles, they'd been quick to approach him. And his oldest daughter was proud of that. As for Robin? Her views lay on the other side of the political divide.

Victoria entered a large reception area and made her way over to the fortresslike desk that barred the way. Mrs. Walters, Bo's longtime civilian secretary, looked up from her computer. “Good afternoon, Major Macintyre . . . The general is in a meeting at the moment. It should be over in ten minutes or so.”

Walters was fortysomething, blond, and well-groomed. She was
also efficient and extremely loyal. Was Walters more than a secretary? Victoria assumed so and understood the necessity. Her mother had been dead for a long time. “Thank you, Mrs. Walters . . . I'll wait.”

Other officers were waiting as well. Half a dozen of them. And none were very happy when a clutch of colonels left the office, and a civilian was ushered in ahead of them.

General Bo Macintyre was sitting behind his desk as Victoria entered and didn't bother to get up. True, they were at work, but Victoria knew it wouldn't make any difference if they weren't. Hugs, kisses, and all the rest of the emotional claptrap so important to her mother and sister weren't part of Victoria's relationship with her father. He nodded. “Nice job in Dallas, Major . . . Morton Lemaire sends his thanks. It looks like he'll take over as the New Confederacy's first CEO if things go that way.”

Victoria sat in one of four guest chairs. “Not Mr. Huxton?”

General Macintyre shook his head. “Huxton is too old and cantankerous. The public wouldn't like him. But enough politics . . . We have a problem, and you're the solution.”

Victoria looked him in the eye just as he had taught her to do when she was three. “Yes, sir. What's the problem? Another situation like the one in Dallas?”

“No,” her father replied. “Are you familiar with the Space X launch site near Brownsville?”

“No, I didn't know there was one.”

“Well, there is. It was built to provide the Space Exploration Technologies Corporation with the capacity to launch their Falcon 9 and Falcon Heavy launch vehicles on a moment's notice.”

“And?”

“And the Zapata drug cartel took control of the facility two days ago. There wasn't much to stop them, just some rent-a-cops, and they went down in a matter of minutes.”

Victoria frowned. “But why?”

“We aren't sure,” General Macintyre replied. “But here's an educated guess. A man named Felipe Cabrera runs the cartel. And if the reports are true, he has plans to reshape it.”

“Into what?”

“Into a narco state,” her father answered. “A narco state with its own communications, weather, and spy satellites. All launched and controlled from Brownsville. According to sources in Mexico, Cabrera sees this as the perfect opportunity to grab what he wants. He captured the port facility as well.”

“Okay,” Victoria said, “that's a serious problem. But what's he got? Some gangbangers armed with assault rifles? We'll throw a battalion of troops at him, send in some gunships, and boom! End of problem.”

“If only it were that easy,” General Macintyre replied as he raised a remote. “Take a look at this.” The video had been captured by a drone. The facility consisted of a circle divided into quadrants by crisscrossing streets. Notable features included clusters of small buildings, fuel tanks, and four spindly com towers.

Judging from what Victoria could see, the Zapatas were equipped with personnel carriers that had once been the property of the Mexican army, a variety of SUVs, and three pieces of towed artillery. Bulldozers and backhoes were being used to construct defensive barriers. And, as Victoria watched from above, a Zapata fired an RPG at the airborne camera. It missed. Then, as the UAV turned east, Victoria saw something that caught her by surprise. “Holy shit . . . What's
that
?”

“That,” her father said, “is the destroyer ARM
Netzahualcoyotl
D-102, formerly known as the USS
Steinaker
. She was commissioned on May 26, 1945, and transferred to Mexico on February 24, 1982. And, based on her presence in this video, we can assume
that the Zapatas seized control of the ship subsequent to the meteor strikes and intentionally ran her aground.”

The last part was certainly true. As Victoria watched the video, she could see that the destroyer's bow was way up on the beach—and that put her within a thousand feet of the Space X launchpad. “But
why
?” she wondered out loud.

“We figure that the Zapatas lack the skills and resources necessary to keep the
Netzahualcoyotl
at sea,” General Macintyre said. “Maybe they killed too many of the crew or maybe anything. So they ran her ashore. And the reason for that is mounted on the ship's bow. See that butt-ugly turret? That's a Russian-made Kashtan antiaircraft weapons system. The Russkies gave it to the Mexican navy a year ago in hopes that they'd buy some.

“It boasts
two
six-barreled 30mm rotary cannons and 9M311 launchers, equipped with four ready-to-fire missiles. They're fed by a reloading system that contains thirty-two missiles in ready-to-launch containers. And the whole thing is controlled by an integral scanning and targeting system. The basic idea is to throw so much ordnance into the air that nothing can get through it. And that's why we aren't sending any Apaches in to hose the place down. As for long-range artillery and surface-to-surface missiles, they would erase the facility . . . And we might need it later on.”

As if to illustrate the problem, the Kashtan turret swiveled toward the camera and fired. The screen went black, and as it did, Victoria understood Cabrera's plan. The destroyer was there to prevent air attacks while work on the fortifications was completed, and the gang leader brought more AA weapons in from the south. It was a brilliant example of guerilla warfare. There was a sardonic smile on his father's face. “Nifty, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Victoria answered. “And my orders are?”

“Take the launch facility back and hold it until you're relieved.”

Victoria stood. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” General Macintyre said as he made a steeple with his fingers. “Teach the Zapatas a lesson they'll remember. It's only a matter of time until the Northerners attack us. We need to lock the back door now.”

“I'll take care of it,” Victoria promised, and with that, she left the room.

BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS

Prior to the meteor strikes Brownsville, Texas, had been a major economic hub for shipping, a center of manufacturing, and home to a lot of poor people. The air was heavy with moisture as the task force rolled into town, and Victoria thought it might rain. Two days had passed since the conversation with her father, and most of it had been spent gathering the resources necessary to carry out her mission. The column consisted of two Abrams tanks, some smaller vehicles, and a long line of trucks.

The Zapatas had been using captured artillery to shell the city—and columns of black smoke were rising up ahead. Fortunately, the local National Guard unit, the Brownsville Police Department, and a makeshift army of citizens had managed to hold the northern part of the city. Victoria was counting on her tanks to clear the way to Highway 4, where Task Force Snake would turn east.