Into the Guns (20 page)

As darkness fell, Mac moved the perimeter over to include the helicopter, ordered the unit to dig fighting positions, and told Evans to establish OPs all around. With Strykers on three of the corners and a pickup on the fourth, she felt reasonably secure.

Mac took the first watch, hoping to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep after that. But her plan went to hell in a handcart when a soldier was sent to wake her at 0512. It seemed that Private Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” had dozed off and allowed Fitch to slip away.

Mac was pissed at Wessel since falling asleep constituted a serious dereliction of duty but was secretly glad to rid herself of Fitch. So she told Evans to place Wessel on latrine duty for five days. And being up, she chose to stay up and prepare for the day ahead.

Mac had been looking for a chance to pull her officers and NCOs together for a command conference. And with no immediate threat on the horizon, and relatively good weather, that morning represented a good opportunity.

So Mac put out the word, and all of the people E-5 and above gathered at 0730. Many had mugs of coffee, and some were eating
breakfast. The moving van made a good windbreak, and a fire offered some warmth.

The participants included Evans, Company Sergeant Ralston, Supply Sergeant Smith, UAV operator Esco, Medical Officer Hoskins, and both of the Apache pilots. Mac began by saying that the conference was long overdue—and that she planned to hold one a week from that point forward. The purpose of the sessions would be to facilitate communications, identify potential problems, and devise solutions
before
the shit hit the fan.

“So,” Mac began, “let's talk about the next segment of our journey. The way I figure it, we'll get on I-84 and follow it down to Salt Lake City.” Much to her surprise, a hand shot up. Company Sergeant Ralston had joined the unit in Pendleton, and Mac was still getting to know him. “Yes, Sergeant . . . Do you have a question?”

Ralston was a burly man and famous for the nonreg walrus-style mustache he wore. An affectation that Mac had been careful to ignore. “Not a question so much as a comment, ma'am . . . Salt Lake City is the obvious way to go, I get that, but it might be best to circle around it.”

Mac felt the first stirrings of annoyance—but knew better than to let her emotions show. “Okay, why would we do that?”

“Because the Mormons run Utah, ma'am,” Ralston replied. “That includes local government, the fire departments, the police departments, and so on. Plus each family has three months' worth of food on top of what the church has stored away. So while I don't know this for a fact—it's reasonable to assume that there weren't any food riots in Salt Lake City. And by now it's quite likely that a church-sponsored militia is guarding the city. If I'm correct, they'll be looking for looters, bandits, and mercenaries.”

Mac felt stupid. Not only was Ralston correct, most of his points were glaringly obvious. Yet she had failed to think of them. Yes,
she'd been busy . . . But that was no excuse. It would have been nice to save face somehow—but Mac couldn't think of a credible way to do it. “Holy shit, Ralston,” she said. “That didn't occur to me. Thanks for speaking up . . . There's no point in walking into what could be a buzz saw.

“Scratch what I said earlier,” Mac said, as her eyes roamed the crowd. “What we need is a route that will take us
around
Salt Lake City as efficiently as possible. Fuel being a serious concern.”

Another hand went up. This one belonged to Sergeant Smith. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“I have a suggestion, ma'am. If we follow Highway 93 down to Wells, Nevada, we could do some shopping at the local Caterpillar dealership. Then we could go east and connect with the freeway
south
of Salt Lake City.”

It took a moment for Mac to catch on. The Strykers were powered by Caterpillar engines. And it was only a matter of time before the unit would need to replace one of them. Plus, a dealer would have lots of spare parts, too.

Were Ralston and Smith double-teaming her? Both were from Pendleton after all. Probably . . . But that's what senior NCOs do. Often, but not always, for the betterment of their unit. Savvy officers knew when to listen and when not to. “I like it,” Mac said, “but let's say we capture some engines. How would we move them?”

Smith didn't have a ready answer but was quick to improvise. “The dealership will have a forklift,” he predicted. “As for transport, well, we'll have to liberate a semi from someone.” Mac thought the plan was a bit vague—but what else
could
he say?

The conference continued for half an hour and covered everything from the need for field showers, to the maintenance issues related to one of the U-Haul trucks, and the need for Vitamin D supplements. “We aren't getting enough sun,” Hoskins told them. “And that means
we can't make enough of our own Vitamin D to stay healthy. So please be on the lookout for supplies that we can buy, borrow, or steal.”

The convoy was on the road by 0900. After twenty minutes on I-84, they left the freeway for secondary roads that led them around Twin Falls to Highway 93. The surrounding countryside was flat for the most part, unrelievedly brown, and boring.

Thanks to the open terrain, and the fact that the Shadow was out in front of the column, Mac felt she could put Evans on point and ride in Roller-Twelve. The Stryker was the last vic in the convoy, and it was nice to shoot the shit with soldiers from her old platoon.

The first hour passed without incident. Then Esco put out a call for Mac to look at what he said was “some interesting video.”

So Mac ordered the column to pull over, authorized a bio break, and went to visit the Humvee. Esco's gear was set up in the back. “Take my seat,” he suggested, “and watch the screen. The Shadow is circling Wells.”

The Humvee's well-worn interior smelled like the men who rode in it, and Mac wrinkled her nose as she sat down and eyed the screen in front of her. Wells was a small town, and the streets were laid out grid-style. As viewed from above, the town's most prominent features consisted of a well-watered park and adjacent sports field. “Okay,” Mac said. “What's so interesting?”

“Zoom in,” Esco said. “Tell me what you see.”

Mac was surprised by what she saw. The streets were filled with motorcycles! There were hundreds of them. Some were parked in tidy rows—while others were racing down one of the main arterials. “That's Sixth,” Esco told her, as he put a grubby finger on it. “See the ramp? Watch what happens.”

The ramp was located in the center of town in front of what might be a café or bar. As Mac watched, two motorcycles raced up the ramp, flew into the air, and landed hard. One wobbled and
crashed. The other pulled a wheelie and continued on. “So a motorcycle gang took over the town,” Mac concluded.

“That's the way it looks,” Esco agreed. “And they aren't likely to welcome us with open arms. Of course, Peters and Omata could take them out in fifteen minutes.”

Mac could imagine how easy it would be for the Apache to chase the gang members down and grease them. But what if appearances were deceiving? What if the citizens of Wells
liked
having the gang there? Maybe the bikers were better than whatever the alternative was. She said as much to Esco. “I don't think that's the case, ma'am,” he replied. “Aim the camera at the athletic field and zoom in.”

Mac winced as the scene appeared. Rather than shooting down from directly overhead the drone's camera was at least a mile to the north. That allowed Mac to see the crosses, two rows of them, each with a body tied to it. “It's my guess that the bikers crucified anyone who objected to their presence,” Esco said.

That put a different light on things. But Mac was still reluctant to use the Apache, knowing how much collateral damage could result. “Where's the Caterpillar dealership?” she inquired.

“It's on the main drag,” Esco said, as his index finger landed again. “Two blocks from the ramp.”

“Okay,” Mac said, as she rose. “I'll give the problem some thought. Thanks for the heads-up. Do me a favor, Sergeant . . . Keep the Shadow up high, where those scumbags will be less likely to spot it.”

“Roger that,” Esco said.

It felt good to escape the crowded confines of the Humvee and breathe some fresh air. Mac had a lot to think about as she made her way forward. The Marauders were mercenaries, and mercenaries get paid, so why fight the bikers? But Mac couldn't shake the image of the crosses. Besides, Esco was correct. The gang
wouldn't let them waltz into town and take some Caterpillar engines without putting up a fight.

Mac climbed up onto Roller-One and told Sparks to pass the word. “Let's get going . . . We're headed to Contact, Nevada. Tell Peters to meet us there.”

It took forty-five minutes to reach Contact. It was little more than a house and a clutch of outbuildings on the east side of the road. There was a turnout on the west side of the highway, and that was where Mac told Garcia to stop. The helicopter was on the ground, and the JP8 truck went out to meet it.

Evans took a squad over to secure the house. Could the people who lived there communicate with the folks in Wells? If so, Mac didn't want them to do so.

Once the area was under control, Mac ordered the unit to hide all of the vehicles with the exception of the Strykers behind the outbuildings. Then, with machine guns positioned to cover the highway and the gun trucks ready to roll, she felt confident the group could defend itself.

Mac still felt qualms, however, since dividing the company in half entailed some risk. But what choice did she have other than to do nothing? Taking civilians and soft-skinned vehicles into Wells would be insane.

Once everything was as good as she could make it, Mac called a meeting. A cold wind whipped her hair around as she explained the necessity of going into Wells, the way the plan was supposed to go down, and contingencies if it didn't. Once all of the questions had been answered, it was time to mount up.

Mac chose to ride in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven. She was standing in the front air-guard hatch with a light machine gun positioned in front of her as the truck took off. Like the other top gunners, Mac was wearing a brain bucket, sunglasses to keep the
airborne grit out of her eyes, and a pair of gloves to keep her hands warm.

It took forty minutes to reach Wells. The ESV was in the lead by then. The vic swayed as it completed a hard right-hand turn, the other Strykers followed, and the column started to accelerate as it hit the straightaway. Mac eyed the scene ahead. There were clumps of trees; low, one-story buildings; and dozens of frozen mud puddles. It would have been better to attack at dawn. But Mac feared that the bikers would get word of the vehicles parked at Contact and have time to prepare.

As Seven followed the ESV into town, the external speakers came to life. Suddenly Mac found herself listening to “The Imperial March” from
Star Wars
. It struck Mac as corny at first, and she was about to order the truck commander to kill it, when she changed her mind.
This is it,
Mac thought to herself,
this is how Strykers are supposed to fight. We're going to kick some ass.

The town hadn't been fortified, and as far as Mac could tell, the bikers didn't have lookouts. From their perspective, it must have seemed as if the Strykers came out of nowhere. Tires screeched as the ESV led the other vics through a series of turns and onto Sixth. There was a long line of custom bikes parked side by side on the right. Lamm was driving the engineering vehicle and knew what to do. The dozer blade was up and angled to the right. Metal clashed with metal, and the hogs fell like dominoes.

Bikes were parked side by side on the opposite side of the street, too. And that gave the gunners an opportunity for some target practice. Mac fired her machine gun in long, sweeping bursts—and was rewarded by the sight of falling bikes and exploding gas tanks.

Mac felt Roller-Seven slow, swerve to avoid the wooden ramp, and speed up again. The gang had started to react by that time—and bikers opened fire as they poured out of bars, cafés, and other
buildings. They were armed with a wild variety of weapons—and Mac could hear the ping, ping, ping of bullets striking armor as she adjusted her aim. A man with white hair and a potbelly aimed an AR-15 at her and jerked spastically as half a dozen 5.56-by-45mm rounds tore his torso to shreds. The chatter of machine guns and the ominous music combined to create a symphony of death and destruction.

But just as Mac was beginning to believe that the battle was over, the situation took a turn for the worse. Not all of the motorcycles were lined up on the main drag. Mac heard a throaty roar and turned to see a trio of hogs accelerate out of a side street and join the fray. Roller-Three was the last Stryker in the column, so they went after it first. But Three was far from helpless. The lead bike went down as a burst of bullets chopped the rider's left arm off, and sparks flew as the hog slid west.

But bikes two and three managed to avoid the wreck and pull up beside Roller-Three. As Mac looked back, she could see that each motorcycle had a passenger. One of them fired a pistol at the Stryker's rear gunner, while the other leaned in to slap something onto the vic's protective birdcage. “Watch out, Three!” Mac yelled into the mike. “They . . .”

The rest of Mac's words were lost as the charge went off. The explosion produced a flash of light and a loud boom. The force of the blast was sufficient to lift the wheels on the left side of the Stryker up off the pavement. They came down with a thump, but the driver managed to retain control, and Three trailed smoke.

Mac had to change her focus at that point as
more
Harleys appeared, and the rear gunner engaged them. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “All units will proceed to the objective and secure it. Talk to me, Three . . . Can you make it? Over.”