Into the Guns (33 page)

Mac heard the machine gun stop firing as she dropped to the ground and went up to inspect the damage. The front right tire and wheel were a mangled mess. But, because the Stryker had
eight
wheels, it had been able to advance in spite of the damage.

The armor plate on the front of the vic was bent, buckled, and torn. One additional burst from the chain gun would have left all of them dead. Mac made a note to pay Martinez a bonus and promote her to corporal. “Well, Captain,” a male voice said. “You have some explaining to do.”

Mac turned to find that Major Granger had approached her from behind. “Sir?”

“I ordered you to examine the bridge and report what you saw . . . I
didn't
order you to capture it. Your top kick tells me that the rebs left a satchel full of C-4 strapped to one of the support beams. An EOD specialist is removing it now.”

So the rebs
were
preparing to blow the span. Mac had been lucky.
Very
lucky. “So charging across the bridge was a stupid thing to do,” Granger concluded.

Mac swallowed. “Sir, yes, sir.”

The look on Granger's face softened slightly. “It was also a brave thing to do . . . And one that's going to save us a lot of time. I'm going to see what I can do about making you a
real
captain . . . And that might come in handy when this mercenary crap is over.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You're welcome. Now, have your people move this wreck out of the way. A platoon of tanks will arrive soon.” And with that, Granger walked the rest of the way across the bridge. He was armed with a pistol and an umbrella. The reason for that became apparent when it started to rain. The battle for Bowling Green had begun.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

General “Mad” Mary Abbott stood a little more than five feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 110. But the tiny blonde had a personality large enough to fill the War Room from the moment she entered.

Sloan was there, as were General Hern and two dozen other officers, including Major McKinney. All of them paid close attention as Abbott gave her presentation. “Our forces are pushing into the town of Bowling Green,” she informed them. “The fighting is heavy, but elements of the 2
nd
Illinois Volunteers and the Oregon Scouts are about to flank the rebs. Once that happens, the bastards will be forced to pull back.”

As Abbott spoke, a red dot hopped from point to point on a huge map. She paused to look around. “But that isn't all,” she added. “As the rebs retreat from Bowling Green, we will attack Piggott, Arkansas. We'll stay just long enough to suck a lot of Confederate resources in that direction. Then we'll pull out.

“Meanwhile,” Abbott continued, “Operation Pegasus will get under way.” A detailed description of how helicopter companies were being assembled at small airports was followed by a discussion of how the Army Rangers would get to the strips, and which units would be in the first wave.

There was a lot of information to take in, and Sloan did his best to memorize it. When Abbott finished, she invited him to speak. Sloan made his way up to the front of the room, where he turned to scan the faces in front of him. “The Confederates not only seceded from the Union, their leaders are stealing oil from the American people and using it to line their own pockets. By taking control of the Richton Storage Facility, we can recover a large quantity of oil
and
send their so-called CEO a strong message. Maybe he'll listen, maybe he won't.

“But even if he doesn't, we'll have a forward operating base in the heart of the Confederacy. And I'll be aboard the third helo to land there.”

Sloan hadn't run that idea by his staff because he knew they'd object. But now, as the officers stood to applaud, he was committed. Sloan smiled. “Thank you . . . Don't worry, I won't try to micromanage General Abbott. This is
her
show, and she'll have the freedom to run it as she sees fit. Besides . . . based on what I've heard, she wouldn't listen to me anyway.” Abbott smiled, and the audience laughed.

“Should I fall,” Sloan continued, “Speaker of the House Duncan will assume my duties. Those of you who've had the good fortune to spend some time with the Speaker know that he's dedicated to our cause and will provide you with strong leadership.

“Finally, thanks to intensive training received from Major McKinney, I'd put the chance of shooting any one of you in the ass at no more than 5 percent.” That produced a roar of laughter as well as the perfect moment for Sloan to leave the podium.

After the meeting, Sloan went back to his spartan office, where all sorts of issues were awaiting his attention. There were judges to nominate, briefing papers to read, and a stack of executive orders to sign. All of which was enough to make him look forward to leaving for Richton. The wheels of war continued to turn.

We're surrounded. That simplifies the problem.

—GENERAL LEWIS B. “CHESTY” PULLER

BOWLING GREEN, KENTUCKY

As Major Victoria Macintyre dashed from building to building, she could hear the distant thump of artillery, the persistent rattle of machine-gun fire, and the occasional crack of a sniper's rifle. A stray dog had latched onto her five blocks earlier and followed Victoria as she crossed a rubble-strewn street. The drugstore had been looted, and she ducked inside.

The black-and-brown mutt followed in hopes of finding food, or collecting a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he wasn't going to get either one of those things from Victoria. She had entered the city of Bowling Green to meet with a Confederate spy—not to care for stray dogs. But, since so much of the town had been leveled, there was no way to know if the operative would be there. Victoria had to try, however . . . Because the agent might be able to shed some light on what the Union Army would do next. And
information like that would be of considerable value to General Bo Macintyre and his staff.

Victoria paused to check her map. She was supposed to meet her contact at a bar just off Fountain Square . . . And that was two blocks away. Victoria heard the dog bark as two men entered the store. She figured they were looters, going store to store, ready to grab the things that previous thieves had missed. Both carried shotguns.

One of the men caught a glimpse of Victoria in a mirror and was bringing his weapon to bear when she shot him in the throat. He let go of the pump gun in order to grab the wound. Blood spurted from between his fingers as he backed into a rack of reading glasses and sent it crashing to the floor.

The second man fired. But the blast went wide as the dog bit his right calf. Victoria shot him in the chest. He toppled onto his loot-filled pack and lay staring at the ceiling. The dog sniffed the corpse.

Like most urban pharmacies, the store stocked a little bit of everything, including canned goods. Most had been stolen, but Victoria found a solitary can of stew that was half-hidden under a supply case. She pulled the rip top free, dumped the contents onto a yellow Frisbee, and placed it on the floor. The dog was eating hungrily as Victoria left the store.

Engines roared as an Apache gunship swept overhead. Its nose gun was firing at a target that Victoria couldn't see—and there was no way to tell which side the pilots were on.

Victoria ran, paused behind a dumpster, and ran again. Bodies were sprawled outside a bank. Whose were they? Depositors? Fighting to get their money out? Or thieves shot by the police? Not that it mattered.

Victoria jumped a badly bloated corpse and made her way toward the Mint Julep Bar. One end of the wooden sign was hanging free, and the front window was smashed in. After crossing the
street, she paused to catch her breath. Her back was pressed against a brick wall near the broken window. Her contact might be inside waiting for her. Or he might be dead. But assuming he was inside, Victoria needed to warn him or risk taking a bullet. She whistled the first bars of “Dixie.”

There was a pause. Victoria heard the same tune from inside the bar. That didn't mean it was her contact. It could be a looter attempting to suck her in. So Victoria entered the bar with the pistol raised and ready to fire. “You're late,” a voice said from somewhere in front of her.

Victoria felt some of the tension drain out of her body and glanced at her watch. “Yeah, by three minutes.”

She heard a chuckle as Captain Ross Olson emerged from the shadows with both hands raised. “Hello, Major . . . You make those camos look good.”

Victoria slid the Glock into its holster. “And you are full of shit.”

Olson laughed. “So we meet again.” He waved her back. “Come on . . . I brought a picnic lunch.”

Victoria frowned. “I didn't come here to eat.”

“You're so damned serious,” Olson replied. “Just like your sister.”

“Robin?”

Olson raised an eyebrow. “You didn't know? I thought you knew
everything
. Robin and I are members of the same battalion.”

Victoria took it in. Robin . . . Only a few miles away and fighting for the other side. The
wrong
side. Her father would pretend it didn't matter. But it
would
matter, and that was fine with her. An artillery shell exploded two blocks away. Loose glass fell out of the window frame and made a tinkling noise as it hit the floor. “Lunch, huh? Lead the way.”

Broken glass crunched under her boots as she followed Olson back to a booth, where, true to his word, a picnic lunch was
waiting. It was romantic if somewhat calculated. Having struck out in Indianapolis, Olson was determined to get in her pants.

What about Robin? Was he trying to seduce her, too? Maybe he had.
Yes,
Victoria thought to herself,
I wouldn't be surprised.

They sat across from each other as the city of Bowling Green died around them. “We have fresh bread,” Olson announced, “some cheese, and a couple of very expensive apples. Oh, and there's
this
 . . . It's a nice Chardonnay bottled right here in Kentucky. Did you know that Kentuckians have been growing grapes since 1799?”

Victoria
didn't
know. Nor did she care. But she gave Olson points for doing his homework. And, as it turned out, the lunch was excellent. The wine was a nice accompaniment for the crusty bread, slices of apple, and bites of crumbly cheese.

By the time they were finished eating, Victoria knew everything Olson knew, or
believed
he knew, as the officer's access to Sloan's plans was quite limited. Still . . . given input from a lot of different people, the analysts in Houston would be able to stitch things together.

“Good,” Victoria said, as Olson poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “Now let's talk about the
next
step . . . And that's coming over to our side. Our forces are going to pull out of Bowling Green in the next forty-eight hours. That will generate positive press in the North and negative press down south. To counter that, we'd like to announce that an entire company of scouts came over to the Confederacy.”

“I see,” Olson said as he sipped his Chardonnay. “And then?”

“And then you will use your skills on our behalf, per the contract you agreed to in Indianapolis.”

Olson smiled. “That sounds good, Victoria . . . But I was hoping for something more . . . A memory that would keep me warm during cold nights.”

Vic nodded. “I get it . . . You want me to strip, lie on the table, and give you a ride.”

“That's not the way I would phrase it,” Olson replied. “But yes, that would be nice.”

Victoria smiled to take the sting out of her reply. “It's tempting, Ross, it really is, but I would find it difficult to enjoy the occasion knowing that a 105mm shell might land on us while we're having fun. So let's put that idea on hold. In the meantime, here's a slip of paper with your orders on it. Commit them to memory and destroy it.”

Olson accepted the piece of paper without looking at it. “Roger that. I'll see you soon.”

“Yes,” Victoria agreed as she slid out of the booth. “You will. Take care of yourself.” And with that, she left. The dog was waiting outside.

ABOARD ARMY ONE, OVER THE STATE OF MISSISSIPPI

Sloan couldn't stop yawning. He hoped that the eight men and two women seated around him would assume that he was sleepy rather than scared but feared that they knew the truth. And the fear made sense. The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk was already deep inside enemy territory. Sloan took a moment to look around. McKinney was aboard, as were Jenkins and eight Secret Service agents. All of them were accompanying Sloan over his objections. “Remember,” Jenkins had said two days earlier, “Napoleon had eight thousand bodyguards.”

“And not only was the man a tyrant,” Sloan had replied, “but he lost the war with England. Thanks a lot.” He looked to his right, saw Jenkins yawn, and smiled.

Both of the side doors were open, which allowed a steady stream of cold air to enter the cabin. But, like the rest of the team, Sloan was dressed for it. As the Black Hawk sped through the darkness, he could see the clusters of lights and knew that each marked a town. And why not? The rebs had no reason to expect an attack deep in their territory. That would change.

Sloan leaned back and closed his eyes for what he thought would be a few seconds and woke to find that he had fallen asleep. It was the copilot's voice that roused him. “We're five minutes out,” she said. “Check your gear. Lock and load.”

Sloan had a thing for John Wayne movies and knew where he'd heard the phrase “lock and load” for the first time.
The Sands of Iwo Jima
had been made in 1949. Now
he
was John Wayne, except this shit was for real.

There was a thump as the helicopter put down in the middle of the LZ established by the personnel on the first two helicopters. The presidential party jumped out, ready to fight. But the rebs didn't realize that they'd been invaded yet. Once the passengers were clear, the Black Hawk took off. Dawn was two hours away. That's when things would get interesting.

A DAY LATER NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

Confederate troops had been forced to pull out of Bowling Green and retreat to a point just south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. But because the rebs had a firm grip on Nashville, the relief force was ordered to swing east and wait for a swarm of missiles to destroy a defense tower. Then they were supposed to push through the hole and race south and west to Richton, Mississippi. And since
Granger's Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion was on the pointy end of the spear—it was their job to lead the way.

But it soon became apparent what would have been a seven-hour trip for a family on vacation was going to take a lot longer than that. In order to avoid Nashville, the relief force had to travel down Highway 231 just east of Music City. They passed through the towns of Bairds Mill and Silver Hill before they approached Murfreesboro and ran into trouble.

The Confederates knew about the airborne assault on Richton by then, and the effort to send reinforcements south. So although some of their resources were tied up dealing with the fake attack on Piggott—the rebs threw everything they could into the defense of Murfreesboro. And that brought the Union column to a halt.

As Abbott's tanks and the infantry required to support them went forward to deal with the defiant rebs—the lightly armed Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion had an opportunity to rest and regroup. They were camped in and around a middle school. And as Mac made the rounds, she could hear the mutter of cannon fire to the south. It was going to be a long night for the tank crews and the infantry units who were fighting for Murfreesboro.

Mac's thoughts were interrupted by a private. “Excuse me, ma'am . . . But Captain Olson would like to see you. He says it's important.”

“Okay, where is he?”

“Room 305, ma'am.”

Mac said, “Thanks,” and followed the pool of light produced by her headlamp over to a pair of double doors. A flight of stairs led up to the third floor and a wide hallway. The door marked “305” was on the right. She pulled it open and went inside. Most of the furniture had been pushed over against the west wall—but
a table was positioned at the center of the room. And there, sitting on top of it, was a cake. Olson looked up from lighting candles. “Happy birthday, Robin.”

Mac felt a surge of emotion. No one knew it was her birthday . . . Nobody except Olson, that is, who had clearly done some research. “I won't sing,” he promised. “And you wouldn't want me to.”

Mac felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. “Thank you, Ross. This is very sweet of you. Promise you won't tell. If people find out, I'll have to take shit about it for days.”

“It's our secret,” Olson assured her. “Now come over and make a wish. But, if it involves me, I'm already here.”

Mac laughed as she approached the table. The movement caused the flames to shiver. What would she wish for? Peace? Or something selfish? She chose peace.

“Way to go,” Olson said, as the last candle went out. “Now it's time for a drink and a slice of cake. Don't worry . . . According to the girl at the bakery, this puppy is only a week old. I hope you like chocolate.”

“I
love
chocolate,” Mac replied, as Olson held a chair for her.

“Good. Chocolate goes with Jack Daniels. Of course
everything
goes with Jack Daniels,” Olson added as he poured two generous drinks.

The cake
was
stale, but good nonetheless. And Mac knew that she would never forget that particular birthday. The first drink was followed by a second plus another surprise.

“No birthday party is complete without dancing,” Olson announced. “So I came prepared.” Olson's MP3 player was connected to a small speaker. “Unforgettable” flooded the room. And, once inside the circle of Olson's arms, Mac discovered that the man could dance. She allowed herself to relax as they circled the table.