Into the Guns (27 page)

Unfortunately, the follow-up attack was a complete disaster, which caused the deaths of 504 Union soldiers and left 1,881 wounded. Some were captured as well.

But Sloan's plan was different. After driving a tunnel in past the enemy's outer defenses, handpicked troops would surge up out of the ground and attack the enemy from the rear.

At that point, the defenders located in, and on top of, the flat-roofed depository would be able to fire at them . . . But not without hitting their comrades as well. In the meantime, they would be taking heavy fire from .50 caliber machine guns and AT4 rockets. A combination that was guaranteed to keep their heads down.

The plan should work. Nevertheless, Sloan felt something akin to a lead weight in the pit of his stomach as the appointed hour arrived, and the Roadheader was withdrawn. A tremendous amount of effort had gone into smuggling timbers in to support the tunnel's ceiling. But there was always the chance of a cave-in that would not only kill the coal miners who were running the Roadheader, but reveal the tunnel's existence. Either possibility would be disastrous. So it was important to use the passageway immediately.

At 0427, Sloan was standing at the back of the command center watching and listening. It had been his hope to go in with the troops, but Foster was opposed, as were the rest of them. Sloan might have dismissed their objections had it not been for McKinney. “I'm sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “But you're not good enough for this mission. And if you screw up, it could cost lives. Is that what you want?”

It wasn't what Sloan wanted. So all he could do was stand there and hope for the best as the feint went in, a platoon of Foster's best boiled up out of the ground, and a short battle ensued.

The defenders were caught flat-footed, took heavy casualties, and couldn't withdraw. When the survivors surrendered, that opened the way for one of Foster's Bradleys to roll up the driveway and fire on the heavily armored door with its chain gun. Sloan could see greenish footage of the action on the main screen and could hear the vehicle commander's voice. She said, “Open Sesame,” as her gunner blew the doors open.

Shouts of jubilation were heard in the command center—and Besom was there to congratulate Sloan. “Good work, Mr. President,” he said. “Here's what I'm going to send out: ‘The fighting president strikes again! Based on a plan conceived by President Samuel T. Sloan, the army of the North recaptured Fort Knox, and the 130 billion dollars' worth of gold bullion stored inside.'”

“You might want to wait until the battle is over before you send that out,” Sloan cautioned. “And don't forget to give credit to Colonel Foster, his officers, and their troops.”

Besom looked resentful. “Of course . . . What do you take me for?” Then he ran off. To add the missing text? Probably.

Sloan wasn't allowed to enter the depository until after sunup. By that time, General Cox had been found with a pistol near her hand and a single bullet wound in her temple.

More than seventy soldiers were imprisoned in underground vaults. Among them were individuals from each unit that Cox commanded, all being held to ensure the loyalty of their comrades, some of whom would have rebelled otherwise.

Once the hostages were freed, and sent into the neighboring base, Sloan figured that their comrades would surrender. Especially if they were offered amnesty, which they would be, so long as they swore allegiance to the North. It was what he believed Lincoln would do,
had
done, via his Proclamation of Amnesty and Reconstruction. And news of the North's even-handedness would help
prevent the Southern propaganda machine from turning Cox into some sort of a hero.

As for the gold, it was interesting to look at but held no allure for Sloan. The prize, the
real
prize, was to restore what had been taken. And that included the 700 million barrels of so-called black gold stored down south. A battle had been won. But the war had just begun.

Formula for success: rise early, work hard, strike oil.

—J. PAUL GETTY

NEAR MIAMI, ARIZONA

It was just after dawn—and the sky was pewter gray. Mac was lying on her stomach on top of a ridge ten miles west of Miami, Arizona, looking down into a canyon. A light dusting of snow covered the ground surrounding the do-it-yourself oil refinery, and half a dozen vehicles were parked around the cluster of multicolored shipping containers used to house the crew.

Five weeks had passed since the mercenaries had departed Camp Navajo near Flagstaff, Arizona, and driven south to Superior. Fortunately, they'd been able to make the journey without taking casualties. Unfortunately, the temperature was only five degrees warmer than it had been in Washington State. And Mac figured conditions would soon get worse. There was no point in whining about it, though . . . What was, was.

As Mac panned her binoculars from left to right, she could trace
the path of the muddy maintenance road that ran from one end of the canyon to the other. She knew that the dirt track followed the path of an underground pipeline that ran all the way from Canada down to Tucson. There were hundreds of such lines in the United States, and they went unnoticed unless one began to leak or caught fire.

But after the meteorites struck, and fuel became scarce, the good citizens of Miami decided to tap the pipeline and steal what they needed. The problem was that they had to refine the crude oil before they could use it. That might have put the kibosh on the idea somewhere else. But the citizens of Gila County were a resourceful bunch and had been able to construct their own refinery using tanks, pipes, and valves salvaged from local mining operations.

The process was simple though extremely hazardous. All they had to do was boil the crude and condense the resulting vapor at specified temperatures to produce what was called “straight run” gas and diesel. And that worked for a month or so.

Then a group of banditos called the 711s heard about the refinery, swept in, and took control. The locals attempted to take the refinery back, failed, and hired the newly arrived Marauders to handle the task for them. Now, after a week of planning, the attack was about to begin. “Damn it!” Ralston said. “The bastards are early!”

First Sergeant Norman Ralston was stretched out to Mac's left. Unlike most company sergeants, he rarely swore. So the “damn it” was strong stuff coming from him. Mac turned her binoculars north and saw why Ralston was angry.

The Marauders were supposed to enter the valley from the south. Then, if the 711s were smart, they'd flee north in an effort to escape. But just before they reached the exit point, the locals were supposed to block their path with a couple of graders.
And that's when the Strykers would hit them from behind. Except that the goddamned civilians were early!

And as Mac swung her glasses back to the refinery, she saw that the banditos were boiling out of their shipping containers and taking up positions behind the ten-foot-high berm that surrounded the refinery. Sparks Munroe was lying next to her. Mac spoke out of the right side of her mouth. “Tell Strike Force Hammer to . . .”

But it was too late. The trucks were already nosing their way into the valley, and the Stryker crews couldn't kill the defenders without destroying the very thing they'd been sent to recapture, and that was the refinery.

“Tell the Strykers to withdraw,” Mac said. “Then I want you to call Mr. Hanson and tell him to meet me at the FOB.”

Sparks said, “Got it,” and was still on the radio as Mac turned to Ralston. “We'll use the drones to keep an eye on the situation—but let's leave some observers here as well.”

Ralston nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

The forward operating base was a temporary affair, located on a ranch six miles from the canyon. What had once been a house was little more than a pile of charred wreckage. But the forty-two-foot-by-sixty-foot metal shed was intact and being put to good use. It stood on a rise guarded by two Strykers and was surrounded by a dozen well-dug fighting positions.

As the Humvee followed the curving driveway up to the building—Mac could see that Hanson's mud-splattered Ford pickup was already there. As she got out, the civilian hurried over to confront her. Hanson was short, stocky, and overdue for a haircut. Spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. “You ran! We want our deposit back.”

What happened next surprised Mac
and
the soldiers close enough to witness the incident. She was angry, and the pistol
seemed to draw itself. Then, with the barrel touching the center of Hanson's forehead, she pulled the hammer back. “Listen, asshole . . . Don't ever talk to me like that again . . . If you do, I'll blow your brains out. Understood?”

Hanson's eyes were huge. He nodded.

“Good,” Mac said as she eased the hammer down. “Your people arrived early, tipped the banditos off, and blocked their exit. That left us with two options. We could destroy the refinery or withdraw . . . It was my understanding that option one was unacceptable. If I have that wrong, just say the word, and we'll turn that sucker into a pool of burning sludge by lunchtime.”

Hanson's eyes tracked the pistol as it slid back into its holster. “Sorry,” he said. “We want to recapture the refinery intact.”

“I've said it before, and I'll say it again,” Mac replied. “We can seal the canyon off and starve them out.”

“Maybe,” Hanson allowed. “But that could take weeks . . . And we can't afford to have you sit here for that long.”

“Okay,” Mac said as she placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Let's go inside. We'll have a couple of drinks and work on a new plan.”

That appealed to Hanson, who allowed Mac to steer him up the slope and into the metal building. What followed was a two-hour session during which Hanson had three stiff drinks, and Mac took a few sips. And by the time it was over, Operation Fourth of July had been born.

The display of fireworks began at precisely 12:01
A.M.
and consisted of illumination rounds fired from an 81mm mortar located a hundred yards behind Mac's position. Mac heard a muffled bang, followed by a short period of silence. Then came a pop as a miniature sun appeared over the canyon and fell trailing smoke as it did so. Harsh light strobed the ground and threw shifting shadows
back and forth. And, because the banditos assumed that an infantry attack was under way, they opened fire.

Mac was lying on the same ridge as before, with Ralston on her left and Sparks on her right. She smiled. The more ammo the bozos burned, the better. The plan was to keep the bastards awake, scare the crap out of them, and force a bloodless surrender.

The 711s weren't stupid, however . . . When the attack failed to materialize, they stopped firing. Mac turned to Munroe. “Give Hadley permission to fire.”

He did so. But a full five minutes passed before the sniper squeezed his trigger. Mac knew that Hadley and his spotter were on the opposite ridge—and that the marksman was using a rifle equipped with a night-vision device. “Target down,” Munroe said, as he relayed the report. “He's lining up on another.”

“Good,” Mac replied. “Tell the special effects team to turn their lights on.”

Once Munroe passed the order along, it was only a matter of seconds before white lights appeared along both sides of the canyon. That gave the impression that soldiers occupied both slopes and were looking down on the refinery. The banditos fired at the lights until someone ordered them to stop. That was when another pair of illumination rounds went off.

Once that display was over, Mac gave the 711s half an hour to marinate in their own juices before ordering the flyover. The Apache arrived ten minutes later, entered the canyon from the south, and passed over the refinery at an extremely low altitude. The roar generated by the gunship's General Electric T700 turboshaft engines bounced off both sides of the valley and made a deafening statement. “Okay,” Mac said, “I think we have their attention. Tell Kho to deliver the offer.”

Forward Observer Lin Kho and Private Brown had worked their
way in close by then. Kho had a megaphone. “Listen up!” she said. “You are surrounded. We don't
want
to kill you . . . But if you refuse to surrender, we will. So put your weapons down and come out with your hands on your heads. You will be escorted out of the valley and allowed to go wherever you wish.”

Part of that was true—and part wasn't. The Marauders
couldn't
kill all of the banditos. Not without destroying the refinery. But they did intend to turn the 711s loose if they surrendered. Would they try to return? Quite possibly. But once the locals had control of the facility,
and
the high ground, the banditos wouldn't be able to roll over the refinery the way they had before.

Having received no reply, Kho repeated the offer, told the defenders which frequency to use, and gave them an ultimatum: They were to respond within half an hour or suffer the consequences. Mac was thinking about the potential cost of an infantry assault when Munroe interrupted her thoughts. “I've got a guy named Pasquel on the horn, ma'am. He wants to talk.”

Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief. Thank God! The plan was working. The next fifteen minutes were spent talking to Pasquel over the radio. The bandito said that he and his people were willing to surrender, but not until the sun rose, and they could see their surroundings. Then, if everything looked good, the 711s would walk north. Mac didn't like that but was forced to accept it, and an uneasy truce was born.

But it wasn't long before Mac's initial sense of joy gave way to serious misgivings. In retrospect, the “surrender” seemed too easy. And, according to Munroe, scrambled radio messages were flying back and forth between what he assumed to be the 711s—and some other party. The questions being
who
? And
why
?

Mac wanted to confide in someone. But there was no one other than Evans that she could share her doubts with, and her XO was
back in Superior, literally holding the fort. Besides, commanding officers were supposed to be strong, silent types similar to her father.

So all Mac could do was to make sure that the Marauders remained on high alert and wait for the sun to rise. The hours seemed to crawl by. But finally, as a pus-colored sun rose to backlight the clouds, Mac was free to act. She planned to push the 711s out through the north end of the canyon and bring her forces in from the south. To that end, four Strykers were ready to enter the valley on her command. “All right,” she said. “Tell Kho to order them out.”

Mac kept her binoculars focused on the refinery as Kho spoke. She and her assistant were in a well-dug fighting position behind a pile of rocks. “We kept our part of the bargain,” Kho said over the loudspeaker. “That means it's time for you to do likewise. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your heads.”

That was when the thunder of aircraft engines was heard, an ancient Douglas AC-47 swept in from the north, and two door-mounted 3-by-7.62mm General Electric miniguns went to work. The weapons could fire two thousand rounds per minute, and they were devastating.

Mac knew that ships like it had been used during the Vietnam War to provide close air support—and had been responsible for saving a lot of American lives in situations where units were surrounded by enemy forces. The modern version of the so-called Spooky was the Lockheed AC-130, but some third-world countries were still using the old AC-47s. And the 711s had one of them.

Gunfire raked the top of the ridge as the miniguns opened fire. That forced the Marauders to turn and slide down the opposite side of the hill as the steel rain swept toward them. Mac shouted into her mike. “This is Six actual! All vehicles will disperse . . . All dismounted personnel will take cover! Over.”

It was the best she could do. Except for the machine guns mounted on the Strykers, the group didn't have any antiaircraft weapons to call on. And that, Mac realized, was
her
fault. Because rather than consider all the possibilities, she'd been stupid enough to believe Hanson when he described the 711s as “a pathetic street gang.”

Now it was clear that the banditos had a backer with a lot of resources and a need for fuel. A Mexican drug lord, perhaps . . . Not that it mattered. All Mac could do was withdraw and hope to avoid casualties. The AC-47 roared past on its way to the south end of the canyon, where the Strykers had been waiting. Mac could hear the rattle of machine guns as the top gunners fired on the plane and could imagine the rooster tails of snow and mud the vehicles would throw up as the truck commanders put their accelerators to the floor.

Mac's heart was pounding as she scrambled back up the hill to the top of the ridge. As her eyes swept the valley, she could see that the banditos stationed inside the berm were pouring out. That didn't make sense at first. The 711s were winning . . . So why would they run? Then it came to her. The banditos were afraid that the Marauders would destroy the refinery! And that was a very real danger since her snipers were hard at work. “Watch your aim!” Mac said sternly. “Don't hit the refinery . . . It could blow.”