Into the Guns (35 page)

Why?
Because the mercenaries had broken their contract with the Union and were classified as deserters. All of them would wind
up in a federal prison if captured by the North. Plus, they'd need their vehicles to escape. All Mac and her soldiers had to do was wait.

And sure enough, no more than a minute had passed by the time Esco got on the horn. “Here they come,” he warned. “About three dozen of them all headed your way.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “Over.”

Thirty-six fugitives would've been a lot to handle had they been armed. But that wasn't the case, so Mac figured that Poole and his soldiers could handle the job. She peered around the front of the Buffalo, and there they were, with Olson in the lead. He was running full out. “Wait for it,” Mac said. “Wait for it . . . Now!”

The soldiers charged into the open, where Poole ordered the escapees to stop and raise their hands. Most obeyed. But a few of them had weapons that had been taken off dead guards. They opened fire, and Olson was one of them. Mac cursed herself for failing to anticipate such a possibility.

She raised her assault rifle and was going to shoot Olson, when Munroe did it for her. Buckshot from his shotgun hit Olson's legs and dumped the mercenary onto the pavement. His weapon skittered away as Mac went forward to stare down at him. Their eyes met. Olson's face was screwed up in pain. “Robin? Hey, hon, how 'bout some first aid? I'm bleeding to death.”

Mac nodded. “That's too bad.”

Olson spoke through gritted teeth. “You're a stone-cold bitch . . . Just like your sister.”

Mac frowned. “You know Victoria?”

Olson had freed his belt by then—and was wrapping it around a thigh. “Yes, I do. She paid us to come over and double-crossed us when we did.”

Mac smiled thinly. “That sounds like my big sis.”

Olson made a face as he pulled the tourniquet tight. “Give me your belt,” he demanded. “For the other leg.”

“Sorry,” Mac replied. “I need my belt. It's holding my pants up.”

Olson's face was contorted with anger. “I screwed your sister.”

Mac nodded as she brought the rifle up. “And
she
screwed you.”

There was a loud bang, and half of Olson's face disappeared. “I saw that!” one of the Rats yelled. “You murdered him!”

The blood drained out of the man's face as the weapon swiveled around to point at him. “Not so,” Mac replied calmly. “My rifle went off by accident.”

“That's how it looked to me,” Munroe confirmed.

“I'll have the company armorer look at it,” Poole put in. “Maybe you need a new trigger assembly.” His soldiers chuckled.

Mac waited for the wave of remorse. It never arrived. She felt empty . . . sad and empty. An engine roared as one of the Strykers pulled up next to her. Sergeant Ralston jumped down. “The prisoners are on the trucks, ma'am. We took two casualties. Doc Obbie says both of them are going to make it.”

“Good. Search the prisoners for weapons and load them up. We need to get out of here pronto.”

Ralston responded, “Roger that,” and went to work. The Apaches continued to circle overhead as Mac returned to
MISS WASHINGTON
and climbed aboard.
Victoria.
They would meet one day . . . And one of them was going to die.

RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

The President of the United States was sleeping in a ditch six feet away from General Abbot's unburied corpse. His eyes flew open as cold raindrops hit his face and trickled down his cheeks. A flash
of light was followed by a loud boom as something struck the center of the compound. Lightning? Thunder? No. It was an incoming 81mm mortar round. The rebs fired one at the same spot every fifteen minutes. The purpose of the ritual was to prevent the Rangers from sleeping, and the plan was a success.

Sloan eyed his watch. It was 0947 on the fourth day of hell. General Abbott had been killed the day before, leaving Major McKinney in command. All because Sloan had been stupid enough to believe that he could use a shortcut to win the war. General Hern was correct . . . There was only one way to whip the Confederacy . . . And that was to push them back foot by bloody foot until they were ass deep in the Gulf of Mexico.

Sloan forced himself to roll over and stand. Sheets of rain were falling by then, and his uniform was covered with mud. He barely noticed as he followed the trench toward the bunker. Sloan heard the crack of a rifle shot as a Union sniper fired—followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire as enemy bullets raked the top of the berm. He was too tired to look back.

A ramp led him down into the stinking hole where the battalion surgeon and his medics were laboring to save as many lives as they could. Everything was in short supply—and that included blood volume expanders, dressings, and painkillers. Sloan heard a man groan as he followed the dangling flashlights past the aid station to the command center beyond. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots as he entered the room. McKinney was sitting on an ammo crate with a handset to his ear. He looked up, nodded, and pointed to a chair. “Yes, sir . . . Tomorrow by 1500. That sounds good. We'll save some rebs for the relief force to shoot at. Over.”

And with that, McKinney gave the handset to his RTO. “Good news, Mr. President . . . Colonel Foster believes the lead element of his relief force will arrive by midafternoon tomorrow.”

Sloan was sitting on a lawn chair with the assault rifle laid across his knees. “He
believes
? Or he
knows
?”

McKinney shrugged. “He believes that he knows . . . How's that?”

Sloan chuckled. “Can we hold on long enough for that?”

McKinney nodded. “Of course . . . This is
our
shit hole, and we're going to hold it until we're ready to leave.”

Sloan was reminded of what Abbott had said in response to the same question. He shook his head in mock despair. “You're one crazy son of a bitch.”

McKinney grinned. “Look who's talking, sir.”

A mortar round landed above them, and dirt showered their heads. Both of them laughed.

NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

“We broke through. The rebs had to pull back.” That's what Major Granger told Mac when she returned to the school. Captain Pearce and her staff had finished packing their gear and were loading it onto a truck as the two of them spoke.

“That means we can send a convoy south,” Granger continued. “Except that it isn't a relief force anymore. General Abbott was killed in action, and there's no way in hell that her plan will work. So we're sending an extraction team instead. But the opportunity to pull our people out of Richton won't last for long. Confederate reinforcements are on the way . . . And in a day, two at most, they'll roll over the airhead and erase it. That's where you and your people come in. I'm sorry to send you out so soon—but Charlie Company is all I have to work with at the moment.”

Mac felt a sense of relief. Granger was all business. If the major
knew about Olson's fate, which he almost certainly did, he'd chosen to ignore it. And that was fine with her. “Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “You can count on us.”

“Good,” Granger replied as he opened a map. “Here's how it's going to work. The relief force will rely on speed and brute force to get through. Wheeled vehicles can travel faster—so they'll take the lead. You'll have two Buffalo Cougars on point. They'll trigger any mines or IEDs that have been planted along the highway. Your Strykers will come next, followed by transportation for the Rangers.

“The heavies, including a company of tanks, will bring up the rear. Their job is to protect your line of retreat. But you'll outrun them pretty quickly. Then you'll be on your own.”

“Why not bring the president out by air?” Mac inquired.

“For the same reason we can't resupply the airhead,” Granger answered. “The airport is surrounded by AA batteries. Plus, the president said that if a helo managed to get through, he'd refuse to board it unless all the Rangers come with him.”

“The airborne idea was stupid,” Mac observed, “but he's staying with the troops. I like that.”

Granger nodded. “The president ain't perfect, but he's worth saving, so get your butt in gear.”

That had been four hours earlier. Mac's temporary command consisted of two Buffalos, six Strykers, a tanker loaded with twenty-five hundred gallons of fuel, and six M35 trucks. Fifteen vehicles in all. Since the convoy's departure US Route 231 had been “prepped” by A-10s and Apache helicopters. That allowed the quick-moving column to thread its way through a maze of still-smoldering vehicles even as they took sporadic fire from rebel troops.

Rather than give them a target, Mac chose to ride inside one-three's mostly empty cargo bay. She could hear occasional pings as bullets flattened themselves on the Stryker's armor. That didn't
bother her but would scare the crap out the people in the unarmored tanker and the M35s. It couldn't be helped, however . . . All she could do was hope for the best.

Even though the truck commander swore that they were doing a steady 50 mph, which was damned good given the conditions, Mac wanted to go even faster . . . And it took a lot of self-discipline to keep from checking on the convoy's position every five minutes. So it came as a relief when the TC announced that Shelbyville lay just ahead.

Mac ordered the fueler to the front of the column before telling all the other drivers to pull over. “Top off your tanks,” she instructed, “and pull forward. Make sure that at least one weapon in every vehicle is manned,” she told them. “Pee if you need to, but don't go more than twenty feet off the highway to do it. And pee quickly . . . We won't be here for long. Sergeant Poole, meet me at one-three, and let's get to work.”

Mac had the footlocker open by the time the ramp went down, and Poole arrived with two privates. “Grab some spray paint and flags,” Mac told them. “It's time to redecorate.”

The idea had occurred to Mac when she saw Pearce's people stuffing trophy flags into a garbage bag. By covering all of the Union designators with beige paint and flying Confederate flags from every antenna, they might be able to convince the rebs that the convoy belonged to them. And why not? Both sides were using the same kinds of vehicles and were dressed in nearly identical uniforms.

Once the changes were made, Mac ordered everyone to “mount up,” and the convoy got under way. Shelbyville had a population of sixteen thousand people. And as the “Confederate” military vehicles rolled through, the locals came out to wave. “Smile at them,” Mac said over the radio, “and honk your horns.”

They did, and the column of vehicles was able pass through town without being shot at. The good luck held as the convoy snaked through Fayetteville and across the border into Alabama. Then, in order to avoid Huntsville and the Redstone Arsenal located nearby, Mac ordered the lead Buffalo to turn west. The extraction team rolled onto I-65 south with flags flying.

Meanwhile, based on the reports that Munroe was receiving, the heavies had been able to establish a firebase just north of the state line. But tanks and the soldiers sent to protect them were attracting so many rebs that they might have to pull back. If that occurred, Mac's line of retreat would vanish.

Mac forced herself to ignore that possibility as the blood-red sun arced across the sky, and the column continued south. Everything went smoothly until Munroe received a message from HQ. Based on video captured by the Predator drone that was scouting ahead of them—a Confederate roadblock was blocking the freeway north of Birmingham. Perhaps it was a routine affair—or maybe it had been set up to stop the convoy. The reason didn't matter.

What
did
matter was the need to break through, and the fact that if they managed to do so, their disguise wouldn't work anymore.
But all good things must come to an end,
Mac told herself, as she stuck her head and shoulders up through the hatch.
It had to happen.
“This is Six actual,” she said, over the radio. “Shoot anyone who fires at you. Over.”

The checkpoint was a well-organized affair, with two lanes for civilians and an express lane for military vehicles. On orders from Mac, the first Buffalo began to accelerate as Confederate MPs sought to flag them down. The fifty-six-thousand-pound truck collided with the back end of a Humvee and sent the vehicle flying end over end. It landed on its roof, and sparks flew as it screeched to a stop. The Buf blew past. Rebel troops opened up on the rest
of the vehicles as they followed. Mac and the rest of the gunners fired back. The engagement was over less than a minute later.

Mac knew what would happen next. The rebs would pull out all of the stops to block the convoy. And, since they were still 230 miles away from Richton, it was going to get hairy. A knot formed in her stomach.

They were doing 60 mph as they left Birmingham on I-20/59. Mac eyed the lead-gray sky. They had no air cover other than the Predator. And she was well aware of the fact that a single A-10 could grease her tiny command in a matter of minutes. But the ceiling was low, and that might keep planes on the ground. Luck would play a big role in what happened next.

Fifteen minutes later, word came in that two tanks and a whole lot of infantry were waiting for them in Tuscaloosa. And there was no speedy way to bypass the city. “I have two Hellfire missiles hanging on my Pred,” the drone operator told her. “I'll take care of the big stuff. The rest of it belongs to you.”

As they entered town, Mac saw thick columns of black smoke ahead and knew the pilot had kept his promise. After passing the burning hulks, the convoy came under small-arms fire. What sounded like hail rattled against the Stryker's hull as Mac fired back. Empty brass flew sideways, bounced, and hit the road.

But the rebs had something more serious up their sleeves. The officer in charge had placed AT4 teams on overpasses, where they could fire down on the Union vehicles! Mac swore as a rocket struck the lead Buffalo's windshield and exploded. With no hands on the wheel, the enormous vehicle careened across the freeway and slammed into a concrete embankment. Fuel spilled and went up in flames. Mac shouted into her mike. “Those are unguided missiles! Take evasive action!”