Even though Mac was inside a Stryker, she could hear the explosion as the AT4’s high-explosive projectile hit the truck. A combination of curiosity and claustrophobia drove her up through the hatch to stand on the seat. A glance was enough to confirm that the rocket launcher had done its job. The front of the gigantic hauler was wrapped in flames, and civilians were bailing out of it. “Kill the runners,” she ordered, and watched as tracers found the fugitives.
The slaughter wasn’t something that Mac enjoyed. But it had to be done in order to protect her people and the base. Then it was over, and Mac felt a brief moment of satisfaction in knowing that the other haulers were too large to pass the burning wreck.
But the feeling was short-lived as Evans spoke over the radio. He was in charge of the base, and his voice was calm. Mac heard an explosion in the background. “This is Archer-One-Seven. We’re taking mortar and small-arms fire from the south. I have two KIAs and a WIA. Over.”
Mac felt surprise mixed with anger. Mortars? Maybe they got them from a National Guard unit, Mac thought to herself. Not that it mattered. She had to stay focused. The force protecting the base consisted of the ESV, a squad of infantry, and the five-person air crew. That was a small contingent of defenders. What orders had been given to the attackers? Were they trying to pin the soldiers down while they waited for the ore haulers to arrive? Or were they prepping the base for an infantry assault? There was no way to be sure.
Mac faced a choice. She could send one or more vics back to reinforce the base, thereby weakening the force located on the overpass, or she could order Evans to counterattack, using the ESV. That would involve sending an unsupported Stryker out to fight by itself. A definite no-no under normal circumstances.
Still . . . It seemed safe to assume that the locals weren’t trained or equipped to tackle armor—and that meant that the vic would have a good chance against them. Assumptions get people killed, the voice told her, but Mac chose to overrule it. “This is Six . . . Send the ESV after the bastards. And tell Tillis to keep moving, so they can’t put mortar fire on him. Over.”
“Roger that,” Evans replied. “Over.”
Having made what might be a fateful decision, Mac had to let go and turned back to the situation in front of her. There were three additional monster trucks to disable or kill. “This is Archer-One . . . Let’s put the rest of our boots on the ground. Once everybody is clear, one-one will lead the way, followed by one-two and one-three. Watch those intervals. Over.”
The first squad was riding on one-one, and Mac followed them out into the cold night air. By the time the second and third squads had deassed their trucks, one-one had entered the narrow gap that lay between the burning truck and the bridge. Truck Commander Lamm was forced to put a set of four tires on the sidewalk to get through. The rest of the Strykers followed with squads one, two, and three bringing up the rear.
Mac had to jog in order to keep up with one-three, and the rest of the platoon followed her example. She positioned herself to the left of the vic in order to see past it and ensure that the way was clear. A couple of minutes later, one-one cleared the bridge and began to close on the parking lot that Mac had seen earlier. Then she realized that the surviving ore haulers were spread out. As one-one passed between two of the behemoths, Mac felt a sudden sense of alarm. Something was wrong . . . But what?
The answer came in the form of a massive explosion as the truck on the far right was transformed into an orange-red ball of flame. It rose like an obscene balloon, which popped a hundred feet off the ground. Mac came to a halt and ordered her troops to do likewise. The smoke made it impossible to see. Sparks gave her the mike. “One-one? One-two? This is Archer-Six . . . Report. Over.”
“This is one-one,” came the halting reply. “One-two was caught in the blast. It’s gone.”
Mac felt her heart sink. It wasn’t the truck . . . Fuck that. Evitt was dead, plus his gunner, and Evans’s people. All to defend a base that nobody cared about. Mac felt nauseous but couldn’t throw up because people were counting on her. She forced herself to speak. “One-one and one-three will destroy the remaining ore trucks. As soon as that’s accomplished, the rest of the platoon will move in and mop up.”
The remaining vics were taking machine-gun fire but nothing big enough to matter. One of the ore haulers took off, or tried to, but didn’t get far as one-one’s vengeful gunner poured fire into the truck. It didn’t take long for a tracer to find a fuel line and spark a fire. Mac heard a thump as flames appeared, and the behemoth ground to a halt.
Meanwhile, one-three’s gunner was firing his 40mm grenade launcher at the remaining truck. It seemed to wilt as blast after blast hit the cab, engine compartment, and gigantic tires. Then it, too, was gone as the fuel tank blew—and one-three’s commander uttered a whoop of joy. Sergeant Ralston ordered him to “Cut the crap.”
Mac grinned. “Come on!” she shouted. “Follow me . . . Let’s get the rest of them!”
Machine-gun fire was coming from in and around the convenience store. Bullets dug divots out of the parking lot as Mac zigzagged forward. She was using cars and pickups for cover, and that wasn’t the brightest plan, since it was safe to assume that some of the vehicles had fuel in their tanks. And there was the possibility of another IED. But Mac was hating rather than thinking, so none of that occurred to her.
When a smoke grenade landed in front of the store, she charged through the fog, firing bursts from the M4. Then she was through the front door and inside. Mac saw shadowy forms turning her way and fired at the one off to her right. She saw the man stagger as the .223 rounds hit him but knew better than to watch because the other targets were still in motion. Each person was part of a race to see who would live and who would die.
Mac switched to full auto and held the trigger back as she sprayed the woman in front of her with bullets. The bitch fell, but it wasn’t going to be enough. A third defender had Mac dead to rights and was about to fire. That was when Mac heard a loud boom to her left, and saw half of the man’s face vanish. The force of the blast turned him around, and he collapsed. Mac couldn’t believe her good fortune, and turned to see Sparks work the action on his twelve-gauge pump gun. The RTO spit on the floor. “Asshole.”
Mac laughed and took note of how shrill it sounded. After thanking the RTO for saving her ass, Mac turned her attention to the things that had to get done. First, she ordered the remaining Strykers to provide security. Then she sent the first squad out to retrieve intelligence. That included electronic devices, documents, IDs, and pocket litter.
While they took care of that, Mac made the rounds with the second squad. Their job was to collect all of the weapons and ammunition that were lying around. Later, once the unit returned to base, the pile would be divided into two categories: keep and destroy.
Finally, after confirming that Hadley’s dead man was none other than Fred Wylie, Mac ordered the unit to pull out. She rode in one-three on the way back and understood why the mood was so somber. A battle had been won, but the price of victory had been high. Two men had been killed, and not only killed, but obliterated. Not so much as a dog tag had been found in the blast zone. It was depressing as hell, and all of them were silent as the vic rolled onto the base.
The good news was that one-four had been able to find and eliminate both of the insurgent mortar teams. One-four’s gunner had taken one group out while Tillis ran the other team down. They were holding the tube between them and running south when the vic caught up and crushed them. Some riflemen were killed subsequent to that—but Evans figured that a dozen of the bastards had survived.
Unfortunately, none of this could make up for the two people who’d been killed during the initial mortar attack. And as an orange disk rose in the east, and the bodies were lowered into what Private Wessel callously referred to as “a double wide,” it was Mac’s duty to say a few words. Her throat felt tight, and she wished there had bee
n time to prepare something.
“We’re gathered here to say good-bye to our comrades. Men who stood by their country in its darkest hour, who fought to keep it alive, and died protecting their fellow soldiers. We’re going to miss them . . . And keep them alive with the stories that we tell. May God take and keep them.”
Once the service was over, and the grave was filled in, half of the soldiers were sent to grab some sleep while the rest stood guard. And that included Mac, who flipped a coin with Evans and won. After a hot shower, she crawled into her bag and fell asleep. And when her alarm went off two hours later, it seemed as if only seconds had passed.
The generator was off, so the best Mac could do was to wash her face and brush her teeth prior to shuffling over to the Flight Center, where Evans was waiting to be relieved. After two cups of coffee and an MRE, Mac went to visit the dispensary. Dr. Hoskins was there to introduce Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. The noncom had sandy-brown hair, green eyes, and a ready smile. Mac saw him wince as he got up off a pillow. “Good morning, ma’am . . . The doctor tells me that you helped to pull me out of the Mescalero. Thank you.”
“Warrant Officer Omata got to you first,” Mac told him, “so it was a team effort. You’re lucky to be alive. We saw lots of bullet holes. Some of which were in you.”
“Yeah,” Esco said wryly. “A whole lot of bad guys were shooting at me as I took off from JBLM, and believe me, there’s nothing worse than getting shot in the ass. It’s embarrassing.”
Mac chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. But what you did took a lot of guts. Were you a pilot before you joined?”
Esco shook his head. “No, ma’am. Even though I’m a drone pilot, I had never flown a real plane until I took off from JBLM.”
Mac allowed her eyebrows to rise. “That’s amazing . . . And you flew over the mountains?”
“I followed Highway 410 most of the way . . . People shot at me as I flew over Chinook Pass.”
“Yeah,” Mac said. “We heard that a warlord controls it. I hear that travelers have to pay him in order to travel back and forth. So why come here? You could have gone anywhere.”
“Sergeant Poole is my cousin . . . Maybe the only family I have left. So, given the way things are going, I’d like to join your outfit.”
Poole was in charge of squad two—and a good man. Mac nodded. “Welcome to the platoon. Tell me, what’s going on at JBLM? Why can’t we reach anyone?”
Esco stared at her. “You haven’t heard?”
Hoskins spoke for the first time since making the introductions. “No,” he said, “she hasn’t.”
There was a hollow feeling in Mac’s stomach as Esco looked at her. What was that in his eyes? Sympathy? Pity? She wasn’t sure. “JBLM was overrun,” Esco said. “They call themselves ‘the People’s Army,’ but that’s bullshit. All they are is a consortium of gangs that came together to loot the base. We fought them for more than a month, but they grew stronger, and we had to fall back. Hundreds of our people were killed. Eventually, it came down to a choice between bombing most of Tacoma or pulling out. And we were about to do that when a mob broke through the perimeter. We fought, but not for long . . . All of us had been ready to go for days, so all I had to do was grab my AWOL bag and run. The Mescalero was parked near the building where I worked, so I took it. End of story.”
Mac turned so that the men couldn’t see the tears, wiped them away, and knew that Esco was wrong. The loss of JBLM and all that it stood for wasn’t the end of the story. It was the beginning.
CHAPTER 4
The liberties of our country, the freedom of our civil constitution, are worth defending against all hazards: And it is our duty to defend them against all attacks.
—SAMUEL ADAMS
OFF THE EAST COAST OF MEXICO
After twenty days spent paddling up Mexico’s east coast, Sloan knew that if he wasn’t in American waters, he’d arrive there soon. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind broken clouds, and there were moments when it looked as if he were dipping his paddle into molten silver.
But the otherworldly moments came to an end when Sloan heard the sound of powerful engines and felt the first stirrings of fear. He didn’t want to have contact with anyone . . . Especially drug runners. Fortunately, the kayak was so low in the water, it would be difficult to see. When the speedboat passed him, Sloan had to turn into its wake or run the risk of being capsized. As he completed the maneuver, a powerful spot came on, swept the surface of the water, and nailed him. The voice was amplified. “Levante sus manos—y mantenerlos allí!” (“Raise your hands—and keep them there!”)
Shit! Shit! Shit! Sloan dug his paddle into the water in a frantic attempt to escape. The light followed, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. Geysers of water shot up all around the kayak. Then there was a thump as a bullet passed through the hull. That left Sloan with no choice but to roll out as cold seawater flooded the kayak. Suddenly, the boat was there, looming above Sloan, as a black silhouette peered down. “Tirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.” (“Pull the fish in. Let’s see what we have.”)
Sloan had no choice but to cooperate as strong hands reached down to pull him up. Sloan heard one of the men address the helmsman in English. “Hey, Bob . . . Turn the bow into the waves. She’s rolling like a pig.”
Sloan grabbed onto a seat as his feet hit the deck and the boat lurched. “Are you Americans?”
There was barely enough moonlight to see by. A man looked at him and grinned. “Hell no,” he said. “We’re Texans! Who are you?”
“My name is Sloan . . . Samuel T. Sloan, the United States Secretary of Energy.”
“Do you have ID to prove that?” the man inquired.
“No,” Sloan admitted. “It was in the kayak.”
“That’s one possibility,” the man agreed. “Or, and this seems more likely, you belong to a drug cartel. Cuff him, Hank.”
Sloan could see their uniforms by that time along with their disk-shaped badges. Texas Rangers perhaps? It didn’t matter. All he could do was allow himself to be chained to an eyebolt and wait for the nightmare to end.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, night surrendered to day—and Sloan spotted a smudge of land. The United States? Yes, he thought so, and felt a renewed sense of hope. After going ashore, the authorities would free him. With that out of the way, he’d contact his staff. Would the president want to speak with him? Probably . . . Then he’d call the assisted-care facility to check on his mother.
That’s what Sloan was thinking as the gunboat rounded the south end of Padre Island. Sloan had been there numerous times and knew the area well. The boat slowed as they neared the Coast Guard station.
Once the gunboat was moored, Sloan was escorted up a ramp to a one-story building. A woman with two children stared at him. That was when Sloan remembered his bushy beard, ripped clothes, and bare feet. None of which would add to his credibility.
After being led through the scrupulously clean lobby, and past a reception desk, Sloan was escorted down a hallway to the holding cells located in the back of the building. The civilian clerk laughed when Sloan said he was the Secretary of Energy but wrote it down anyway. Then it was time to answer questions pertaining to his criminal record, health, and identifying marks if any.
Once the booking process was complete, and mug shots had been taken, an officer placed Sloan in cell 002. The six-foot-by-six-foot enclosure was equipped with metal bunk beds, a freestanding toilet, and a small sink. What light there was came from the single fixture located over his head—and a narrow gun-slit-style window. He heard a clang as the door closed. “Hey, dude,” the man in the next cell called out. “You got a smoke?”
“No,” Sloan replied. “I don’t.”
“Then fuck you,” the man said. “I hope you die.” Sloan was home.
After a day of questioning by a variety of people, Sloan was given
an airline-style personal-hygiene kit and allowed to shower and shave. Then he was required to don orange overalls that had the word PRISONER printed across the back. A pair of canvas slip-ons completed the outfit. After that, he was left in his cell to think and worry. Eventually, Sloan went to sleep. There were dreams . . . Lots of dreams. And all of them were bad.
When morning came, he received a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee, an orange, and some sort of egg McMuffin thing. He couldn’t get it down.
Shortly after breakfast, Sloan was removed from his cell and taken out through the front door. The Coast Guard station had a small helipad. And as Sloan was escorted along a walkway, he saw that the civilian version of a Huey was sitting on the concrete slab, with its rotors turning. Two men were waiting for him. Both wore Glocks, blue polo shirts, and khaki pants. Who were they? There was no way to know, as the man with the flattop and aviator-style shades pointed at the open door. “Get in!” He had to shout in order to be heard over the helo’s engine.
Sloan had no choice but to get in. The interior was set up to transport cargo—but fold-down seats were bolted to the bulkheads. Once he was seated, the second guard was there to secure his seat belt. The helicopter took off two minutes later. There weren’t any doors. That meant that the slipstream could enter the cabin and pummel Sloan’s face. He turned to the man with the flattop. “Where are we going?”
When the man smiled, his lips pulled away from a set of teeth that were shaped like white tombstones. Then he held a finger up to his lips as if to shush a child. That was that.
Time crawled by. Sloan could see out through the starboard door, but there wasn’t much to look at. Just the dull gray water of the gulf, a few fishing boats, and an occasional glimpse of an oil rig in the hazy distance. The monotony combined with the drone of the engine put Sloan to sleep. And when he awoke, it was to see verdant vegetation below. Trees mostly, but marsh grass, too, and lots of water. Freshwater from the looks of it—that filled lakes, ponds, and hundreds of serpentine channels. A swamp! They were flying over a swamp . . . But where? The southeast corner of Texas seemed most likely since it was only a few hours from Padre Island, and the sun was behind them.
Into the Guns Page 7
