Into the Guns (28 page)

Rifles cracked, gang members fell, and the AC-47 circled back. Had the gunship been summoned by one of the 711s? That seemed likely. And if the Spooky managed to kill the snipers, the battle would be over. “This is Six,” Mac yelled. “Take cover! The gunship is going to make another run!”

The words were barely out of Mac's mouth when the plane arrived over the south end of the valley and opened fire. The pilot was unlikely to know where the snipers were—but could hose the
slopes down and hope to get lucky. Columns of snow and mud shot into the air as the miniguns went to work. Then something unexpected occurred.

The sound of the Apache's engines was obscured by the noise the Spooky was making. As the helicopter rose from beyond the east wall of the canyon, it was swiveling to the right. That was necessary because the gunship was carrying point-and-shoot rockets.

Mac watched in openmouthed amazement as Peters fired six of them. Not
at
the AC-47, but
ahead
of it, the way a hunter leads a duck.

Two of the missiles hit the starboard side of the plane. The fixed-wing aircraft exploded into a ball of flame, causing pieces of fiery wreckage to fall everywhere, the refinery included. That triggered a secondary explosion and a geyser of billowing flame. “Holy shit,” Munroe said as he looked out over the valley. “Did you plan that?”

“Hell, no,” Mac said, as a column of smoke poured up into the sky. “I wish I had.”

Roughly four hours later, Mac was sitting in the FOB on the other side of a makeshift table from Hanson and two of his cronies. They were pissed, and Mac understood why. The Marauders had been hired to capture the refinery, not destroy it. So she let them vent.

Finally, after the men ran out of gas, Mac offered her side of it. “Look,” she began, “here's the deal. I'm sorry about the way things turned out. We did our best to recapture the refinery and, if it hadn't been for the AC-47, I think we would have done so. And oh, by the way . . . you folks told us that the 711s were nothing more than a street gang!”

Hanson scowled and was about to respond when Mac raised a hand. “Hear me out . . . Both sides signed a contract. It provides for a per diem charge plus a bonus for capturing the refinery. We
failed to accomplish the primary mission, so you're off the hook there . . . But you still owe us three ounces of gold per day for twelve days. So pay up.”

That set off a round of recrimination that lasted for fifteen minutes. But the outcome was never in doubt. The mercenaries could waste Miami, Arizona, so the locals paid.

Mac spent the trip back to Superior brooding. Once again, she'd been tested, and once again, she'd been found wanting. Or so it seemed to her. What if Peters hadn't taken it upon himself to attack the AC-47 gunship? Would the idea of using his helicopter to attack a plane have occurred to her? Mac didn't think so.
But all of your people are still alive,
the voice told her.

Because I got lucky,
Mac replied.
What about next time?

The question went unanswered as the column entered Superior. It was a small town of about fifteen hundred residents. As Mac's Humvee led the rest of the column east along Main Street, there was very little to see other than some old, flat-roofed buildings and vertical cliffs in the distance. Historically, the town was known for two things. The first was its popularity as a location for movies like
How the West Was Won
,
Skinwalkers
, and
The Gauntlet
.

The second was the town's proximity to a major copper mine, which, because of the meteor strikes, was no longer in operation. And that had everything to do with why Mac had chosen Superior as the unit's home. She figured the mine would make a good base . . . And the fact that there
was
a town, no matter how small, helped, too. Because Superior could provide much-needed shopping for the troops and their dependents.

As for Superior's citizens, they were thrilled to host the unit since the mercenaries would have to protect them in order to protect themselves. Not to mention the much-needed cash that the soldiers would spend. So people waved as the vehicles passed by, and that
included a squad of Marauders who were out on patrol. Their presence was a sure sign that Evans was doing his job, which consisted of security, maintenance, and training. The latter was of particular importance as new people continued to join the unit.

A short drive took them to the mine. Two A-shaped steel structures marked the entrances to shafts nine and ten. A water tank was perched on a rise, outbuildings sat here and there, and a pile of slush-covered scrap loomed on Mac's left.

Meanwhile, some of the mining company's heavy equipment was being employed to excavate what was to become a subsurface vehicle park and maintenance facility. The company's living quarters were already underground—and impervious to anything less than bunker-buster bombs. And that was important since the unit was large enough to make a tempting takeover target for a warlord.

The company's vehicles were parked in walled revetments where they would be safe from anything other than a direct hit—and that included support vehicles like the fuelers, six-by-sixes, and gun trucks.

Evans was not only expecting the detachment but was there to greet it. He came to attention and tossed a salute as Mac's Humvee came to a stop, and she got out. “Welcome home, Captain.”

Mac returned the salute. “
Captain?
Since when?”

“Since you were promoted,” Evans said with a smile. “Some potential customers are waiting to meet you—and how many lieutenants command an outfit the size of this one?”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Mac said, “although we'll need to chew it over with the troops. But if I'm a captain, then you're a lieutenant. Congratulations, butter bar! You're overdue for a bump. Who are these people anyway?”

“They claim to work for the new president . . . A guy named Sloan. He was Secretary of Agriculture or something.”

“There is no government.”

“They claim there is,” Evans countered. “And they're here to recruit us.”

“For what?”

“To put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

Mac wasn't sure how she felt about that. That could be good, if it was for real, but what if Sloan was little more than a warlord? That would mean another step backwards. “Okay,” she said. “I'll take a shower and find a clean uniform. Can we invite them to dinner?”

“I'll pull something together,” Evans promised.

Mac was ready to meet with the government representatives an hour later. The delegation consisted of Interim Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison and an army major named McKinney. He had piercing blue eyes . . . And Mac feared that he'd see her for what she truly was: a lieutenant, masquerading as a company commander. But it couldn't be helped. All she could do was play the part and hope for the best.

The meeting took place in what had been the mine supervisor's office. A conference table dominated the center of the room, a makeshift bar occupied a wall, and a space heater purred in a corner. Evans was present . . . And wearing the bars Mac had given to him.

After a few drinks, and a discussion of the bad weather, Garrison took charge of the conversation. “Let's get to it,” he said. “Here's the situation . . . As you know by now, Washington, D.C., took a direct hit from a meteorite. That was a devastating blow. Our country was left without leadership, and that opened the way for a group of people who want to take over. They call themselves the New Confederacy, and they plan to run their country like a corporation. The president would be replaced by a CEO. He or she would report to a twelve-person board of directors, and citizens fortunate enough
to own land would become shareowners. The rest of the population would become disenfranchised.

“But as bad as that sounds to most of us . . . Plenty of so-called haves would vote for a system that puts them on top. That, plus a well-coordinated fear campaign, explains how the so-called New Order has been able to gain traction.

“Meanwhile as the A-holes who run the Confederacy sell their crap to anyone who will listen, they're busy stealing anything that isn't nailed down. Take the Strategic Petroleum Reserve for example . . . According to our sources, they're selling the oil abroad—and using the money to buy voters. In light of these facts, President Sloan plans to restore the federal government, and unify the country.”

Mac stared at him. “Even if that means starting a civil war?”

“Yes,” Garrison answered firmly. “And that's why I'm here. Military force will be required to stop the Confederacy—and that means we'll need units like this one. Units that shouldn't exist. You and your personnel swore an oath to defend the United States of America . . . Not to steal equipment from the army and go into business for yourselves.”

Mac opened her mouth to object, but Garrison raised a hand. “I know, I know . . . You were cut off and looked for a way to survive. I've heard that malarkey before. And we're willing to accept that explanation for the moment, realizing that the government won't tolerate mercenaries forever. Let's talk business. We want to hire Mac's Marauders . . . How much will that cost?”

“No offense,” Mac countered, “but how are you going to pay?”

“I guess you haven't heard,” Garrison replied. “The Third Continental Congress met and voted to reboot
all
federal agencies. That includes the IRS under the leadership of Interim Commissioner Marsha Rostov. So get ready to pay your taxes.”

“And there's another thing,” McKinney said as he entered the
conversation for the first time. “President Sloan's forces took Fort Knox away from a renegade general a few weeks back.”

“So you know him?”

McKinney nodded. “I work for him.”

“He's a soldier then,” Evans suggested.

“Yes,” McKinney said. “Although he has a lot to learn. The troops love him, though . . . Because he fought alongside them.”

Mac liked McKinney's style . . . And his frank assessment went a long way toward making her feel better about Sloan.

A civilian entered the room and said something to Evans. He thanked her and turned to the others. “Let's put the business discussion on hold until after dinner. Please take a plate from the back table and follow me. We'll get our food and bring it back here.”

The meal exceeded Mac's expectations. Steaks had been cooked on a smoke-blackened barbecue, a pot of baked beans was waiting, and there was plenty of fresh-baked corn bread. Vegetables were hard to come by, though, and nowhere to be seen. But it was a good dinner, with plenty of Mexican beer to wash it down.

Once the dishes were cleared away, negotiations resumed. Mac was unsure of herself. Not only did she lack business expertise, she had no way to know what the unit's overhead would be or what the competition was charging.

But eventually the discussion came down to a charge of four ounces of gold per day, which was one ounce more than the folks in Miami had paid. And that felt pretty good.
But what if there's a more generous client out there?
Mac wondered.
If we take this opportunity, we could miss out on that one.

When Garrison spoke, it was as if he could read her mind. “I'd like to remind you of something, Captain . . . The time is coming when units like Mac's Marauders will have to rejoin the United States Army or fight it. Which side of that equation would you like to be on?”

It was an important question. Would Sloan succeed or fail? Mac couldn't be sure.
But the unit will be no worse off if he fails,
Mac told herself.
Whereas you could be in a world of hurt if he succeeds and you are on the wrong side of history.
She stood and extended a hand to Garrison. “You have a deal. Let's kick some Confederate ass.”

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

The enormous white tent was Besom's idea. It had been purchased from a special-events company in Louisville and erected in front of the Fort Knox depository. That meant any photo of the tent would not only show the modest way in which Sloan had chosen to live but would remind people of the president's recent victory and the fact that the government was sitting atop a whole lot of gold. All of which made sense but meant Sloan had to wear a winter coat most of the time, even though strategically placed space heaters whirred around the clock.

Sheets of fabric had been used to divide the “new White House” into functional areas, one of which was Sloan's office. It was equipped with beat-up campaign-style furniture that was supposed to convey the sense of a general in the field. Sloan was seated behind his desk, reading an intelligence summary, when three people were shown into the “room.”

Sloan had interacted with all of them in his role as Secretary of Energy, but never in one place, and the fact that they'd chosen to come as a group was not only interesting—but part of why he'd been willing to fit them into a crowded schedule. Emile Durst represented the Coal Coalition, Joe Cobb worked for the shale industry, and Adele Eakins was a well-known lobbyist for the wind-power people.

Sloan circled around to greet each person, invited them to sit
on the canvas director's chairs that fronted his desk, and returned to his seat. “So,” Sloan began. “This
is
a surprise. Where are the biofuel folks? And the solar people?”

Cobb was dressed cowboy-style, in a barn coat, khaki pants, and hand-tooled boots. He'd spent a lot of time out in the sun back when it was still visible, and the lines on his face were reminiscent of a road map. “The biofuel people are selling what little bit of corn they have to food processors,” Cobb answered. “And the solar people are selling most of their panels to homeowners for pennies on the dollar.”

“That makes sense,” Sloan allowed. “But I assume you folks are doing well.”