Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  A flock of birds took to the air as the helicopter lost altitude and skimmed the treetops. Sloan couldn’t see what lay directly ahead. But as the helo entered into a wide turn, an oil rig appeared. The blocky superstructure was three stories high and sitting on a steel barge. Though barely legible, the name HUXTON OIL could be read on the side of the rig, and that was interesting—since the Texas-based company was one of the largest in the world. Or had been anyway. Judging from how rusty all the running gear was, the derrick mounted on the bow hadn’t been used in a long time.

  Such were Sloan’s thoughts as the Huey settled onto the circular pad affixed to the barge’s stern. “Get out,” Flattop shouted, as he pointed at the door.

  Sloan pressed the release on his seat belt and stood. Two women stood waiting on the cluttered deck. Both had black hair, dark skin, and were dressed in blue overalls. One held a Taser barrel up, with her index finger resting on the trigger guard. “Welcome aboard, Secretary Sloan,” she said. “Please follow Molly . . . Mr. Godbee wants to meet you.”

  Sloan took note. They knew his name! Finally . . . But why was he being held against his will? Out in the middle of a swamp? Hopefully, Godbee would tell him.

  Sloan had no choice but to follow Molly under a platform, past a blowout preventer, and up a set of steel stairs to the deck above. A walkway gave access to a large office, which was surprisingly clean and tidy.

  A man rose from his desk and came forward to meet Sloan. He had a limp, which forced him to use a tree-root-style cane. His clothing consisted of a tasteful Hawaiian shirt and white slacks. “Welcome to the Belle Marie, Secretary Sloan . . . It’s a strange name, don’t you think? This rig was never pretty. My name is Walter Godbee, and I’m in charge here. You can remove Mr. Sloan’s cuffs, Molly. Please don’t do anything unpleasant, Mr. Sloan . . . Lucy doesn’t like troublemakers.” Sloan looked at Lucy. The Taser was still in her hand.

  “Understood,” Sloan said, as the cuffs came off. “So why am I here?”

  Godbee smiled. “This is a repository of sorts. A place where individuals like yourself can be stored.”

  “By Huxton Oil?”

  Godbee shrugged. “What difference does it make? You’re here, and you’re going to remain here, and that’s what matters. My staff and I will do what we can to make your stay tolerable. As for you? Well, I suggest that you consider the serenity prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr: ‘God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ And this, Mr. Sloan, is something that you cannot change. Take Mr. Sloan to his cabin, ladies. I’m sure he’d like to shower after his journey. Oh, and Mr. Sloan . . . Don’t waste your time trying to seduce Molly or Lucy. They play for the other team.”

  Sloan followed Molly out of the office and up another flight of stairs, to the third deck. From there, it was a short trip to the hatch labeled CABIN 3.

  The mechanism on the outside surface of the hatch was common to larger vessels that had watertight doors. It consisted of a wheel and four spoke-like “dogs” or rods that could extend to hold the slab of steel firmly in place. The chances of breaking out? Zero.

  Molly turned the wheel, waited for the dogs to clear, and pulled the door open. Then she stood to one side, so Sloan could enter. The cabin was nicer than he had expected. The bulkheads were covered with light green paint. The full-sized bed was nicely made and topped with two large pillows. There was an easy chair, too . . . And a side table. A small bathroom could be seen through an open door.

  “Your dinner will arrive at six,” Lucy told him. “I hope you like fish.” And with that, the women withdrew. Sloan heard a series of clanking sounds, followed by near silence.

  The cabin boasted a single curtain-covered window. Sloan went over to peer out. He could see bars and mangrove trees beyond. Okay, he thought to himself. I’ll find another way to escape. The next fifteen minutes were spent exploring the nooks and crannies of his cabin. There were two orange jumpsuits in the dresser, both of which had the word PRISONER on the back and would make it that much more difficult to evade capture should he manage to escape. No, when he escaped.

  A radio was sitting on the table next to the chair, and it worked! That meant he could listen to the news once he managed to find some. The only station he could get was playing country-western music at the moment. Where were the rest? Off the air as a result of the meteor impacts? Maybe.

  A closer inspection of the bathroom turned up a set of toiletries, and that led him into the shower, where he spent ten glorious minutes under a powerful stream of hot water. Sloan felt clean and reinvigorated as he put a fresh jumpsuit on. He was about to fiddle with the radio when the hatch opened.

  Molly entered first. She was carrying a linen-covered tray. Lucy came next with the Taser at the ready. She was about five-eight or so, and in good shape. But Sloan had four inches on her and was in tip-top condition after weeks of paddling. So, if he could get behind Lucy, Sloan felt sure that he could take her down. Will take her down, he told himself. And soon, too.

  After placing the meal on the table, Molly withdrew. That was Lucy’s cue to back out through the door. There was a metallic clang as the hatch closed.

  The catfish dinner was excellent, but it went largely unappreciated because of the newspapers that had been delivered with it. There was a week-old copy of the New York Times, complete with coffee stains, and a two-day-old copy of the Dallas Morning News. Sloan read both of them from front to back as he hoovered up every scrap of information he could get. And that included the ads because the kinds of goods and services being offered made their own statement about postimpact America. Cold-weather clothing was popular . . . As were Mason jars, tools, and backup generators.

  Tears ran down Sloan’s cheeks as he read the latest assessment of what it would take to rebuild Washington, D.C. Had his mother been killed? Probably. And his staffers? Yes . . . Unless they’d been on vacation or something. And the president! He was dead, along with thousands of other government officials. The vice president had survived though . . . and, according to the New York Times, was hard at work trying to get the nation back on its feet.

  But that’s where things got interesting. After reading the Dallas Morning News, Sloan had the impression that many, if not most, Southern politicians were unhappy with the president’s ambitious reconstruction plans. They objected to “higher taxes,” “big government,” and “too much regulation.”

  Sloan was a creature of Washington, D.C., and recognized the rhetoric as being part of the long-standing philosophical divide between conservatives and progressives. Except now there seemed to be some ominous undertones. Prominent civil and business leaders talking about “more self-determination,” “state’s rights,” and “local autonomy.” One even went so far as to raise the possibility of secession! Was it vote-getting rhetoric? Or the real deal? It was impossible to tell from where he was. One thing was for sure, however: The person or persons in charge of Godbee’s “repository” wanted to keep him in the loop. Why?

  Sloan put the papers aside to finish his meal. The food was cold by then, but he ate it anyway, and was polishing his plate with a chunk of corn bread when Molly came around to collect it.

  The next three days were spent eating his fill, getting a lot of sleep, and watching Godbee’s “ladies” come and go. During that time, Sloan was careful to follow every order they gave him without offering any pushback. The plan was to convince them that he wasn’t a threat. Then, on the fourth day, Sloan made his move. He had chosen to escape at dinnertime, when there would be only a few hours of daylight remaining. That would help him to hide.

  That was the theory, anyway. Although Sloan was well aware that the swamp was full of creatures that could find him even if humans couldn’t! Still, he preferred to take that risk rather than sitting around waiting for who knows what.

  So there he was, hid
ing behind the hatch when Molly pushed it open. She was holding the dinner tray with both hands. And as Molly entered the cabin, she could see that the bathroom door was ajar and hear the rush of water in the shower. That was the same scenario she’d seen for the past two days, except that Sloan wasn’t in the bathroom this time.

  Lucy followed Molly into the room. She was carrying the Taser barrel up as usual. Sloan brought the toilet seat up and around. It glanced off the side of Lucy’s head, and the force of the impact knocked her down.

  One down and one to go! Sloan felt a sudden surge of confidence as he went after Molly. But, as fast as he was, Molly was even faster. The spin kick struck Sloan’s right temple and sent him reeling. He was still trying to recover his balance when a flurry of kicks and blows put him down. So there he was, lying on his back, when Lucy loomed over him. Blood ran down the side of her face—and the Taser was pointed at his chest. “No!” Sloan croaked. “Don’t . . .”

  Lucy smiled as she pulled the trigger. Sloan jerked spasmodically as fifty thousand volts of electricity surged through his nervous system and caused his muscles to lock up. Then, as he lay helpless, the ladies began to kick him. The blows continued even as the effects of the Taser began to wear off. Sloan saw Molly pull her foot back, and saw the boot come at him, but that was all. The world ceased to exist.

  FORT HOOD, TEXAS

  The Concho sanction had been successful if somewhat messy, and there had been little to no blowback thanks to the efforts of a New Order sympathizer inside the Dallas Morning News. Her header read: “Gang-style massacre in Richardson.” And that was enough to point most people in the wrong direction.

  Now, as Victoria drove south on Interstate 35, she saw a steady stream of National Guard vehicles going the other way. There were trucks loaded with troops, platoons of Strykers, and tank transporters all headed north where they had orders to “restore law and order.” But, depending on how things went politically, Victoria knew there might be more to it than that. Much more.

  After passing through Temple and Killeen, Victoria arrived in Fort Hood. Rather than stop by her condo, she drove straight to the base. The traffic lights were working, which meant that the power was on. And no wonder since the base had a very high priority.

  Victoria was dressed in civilian clothes. But, when the corporal on the gate saw the sticker on the BMW’s windshield, he threw Victoria a salute. “Good afternoon, ma’am . . . ID please.” After comparing the picture on the card to her face, the corporal waved her through.

  Victoria had been stationed at Fort Hood for more than a year and knew the base well. The sports car seemed to drive itself to III Corps headquarters. The modernistic building consisted of two squares connected by a central triangle. Victoria drove past it, parked at the rear of the complex, and got out. The sun was an angry-looking disk that was barely visible beyond a brooding mass of low-hanging clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Victoria’s heels made a clicking sound as she entered the building, showed her ID, and made her way through a maze of offices to the one her father occupied. He had two jobs at the moment. The one assigned to him by the Pentagon before it was destroyed and one reflected by the title on the door. That was INTERIM COMMANDING GENERAL. But everyone who was anyone knew that “interim” would disappear if the decision was made to secede and the New Confederacy came into being.

  Bo had always been a conservative, and other conservatives knew that. So, when Southern elites began to discuss the possibility of a nation based on conservative principles, they’d been quick to approach him. And his oldest daughter was proud of that. As for Robin? Her views lay on the other side of the political divide.

  Victoria entered a large reception area and made her way over to the fortresslike desk that barred the way. Mrs. Walters, Bo’s longtime civilian secretary, looked up from her computer. “Good afternoon, Major Macintyre . . . The general is in a meeting at the moment. It should be over in ten minutes or so.”

  Walters was fortysomething, blond, and well-groomed. She was also efficient and extremely loyal. Was Walters more than a secretary? Victoria assumed so and understood the necessity. Her mother had been dead for a long time. “Thank you, Mrs. Walters . . . I’ll wait.”

  Other officers were waiting as well. Half a dozen of them. And none were very happy when a clutch of colonels left the office, and a civilian was ushered in ahead of them.

  General Bo Macintyre was sitting behind his desk as Victoria entered and didn’t bother to get up. True, they were at work, but Victoria knew it wouldn’t make any difference if they weren’t. Hugs, kisses, and all the rest of the emotional claptrap so important to her mother and sister weren’t part of Victoria’s relationship with her father. He nodded. “Nice job in Dallas, Major . . . Morton Lemaire sends his thanks. It looks like he’ll take over as the New Confederacy’s first CEO if things go that way.”

  Victoria sat in one of four guest chairs. “Not Mr. Huxton?”

  General Macintyre shook his head. “Huxton is too old and cantankerous. The public wouldn’t like him. But enough politics . . . We have a problem, and you’re the solution.”

  Victoria looked him in the eye just as he had taught her to do when she was three. “Yes, sir. What’s the problem? Another situation like the one in Dallas?”

  “No,” her father replied. “Are you familiar with the Space X launch site near Brownsville?”

  “No, I didn’t know there was one.”

  “Well, there is. It was built to provide the Space Exploration Technologies Corporation with the capacity to launch their Falcon 9 and Falcon Heavy launch vehicles on a moment’s notice.”

  “And?”

  “And the Zapata drug cartel took control of the facility two days ago. There wasn’t much to stop them, just some rent-a-cops, and they went down in a matter of minutes.”

  Victoria frowned. “But why?”

  “We aren’t sure,” General Macintyre replied. “But here’s an educated guess. A man named Felipe Cabrera runs the cartel. And if the reports are true, he has plans to reshape it.”

  “Into what?”

  “Into a narco state,” her father answered. “A narco state with its own communications, weather, and spy satellites. All launched and controlled from Brownsville. According to sources in Mexico, Cabrera sees this as the perfect opportunity to grab what he wants. He captured the port facility as well.”

  “Okay,” Victoria said, “that’s a serious problem. But what’s he got? Some gangbangers armed with assault rifles? We’ll throw a battalion of troops at him, send in some gunships, and boom! End of problem.”

  “If only it were that easy,” General Macintyre replied as he raised a remote. “Take a look at this.” The video had been captured by a drone. The facility consisted of a circle divided into quadrants by crisscrossing streets. Notable features included clusters of small buildings, fuel tanks, and four spindly com towers.

  Judging from what Victoria could see, the Zapatas were equipped with personnel carriers that had once been the property of the Mexican army, a variety of SUVs, and three pieces of towed artillery. Bulldozers and backhoes were being used to construct defensive barriers. And, as Victoria watched from above, a Zapata fired an RPG at the airborne camera. It missed. Then, as the UAV turned east, Victoria saw something that caught her by surprise. “Holy shit . . . What’s that?”

  “That,” her father said, “is the destroyer ARM Netzahualcoyotl D-102, formerly known as the USS Steinaker. She was commissioned on May 26, 1945, and transferred to Mexico on February 24, 1982. And, based on her presence in this video, we can assume that the Zapatas seized control of the ship subsequent to the meteor strikes and intentionally ran her aground.”

  The last part was certainly true. As Victoria watched the video, she could see that the destroyer’s bow was way up on the beach—and that put her within a thousand feet of the Space X launchpad. “But wh
y?” she wondered out loud.

  “We figure that the Zapatas lack the skills and resources necessary to keep the Netzahualcoyotl at sea,” General Macintyre said. “Maybe they killed too many of the crew or maybe anything. So they ran her ashore. And the reason for that is mounted on the ship’s bow. See that butt-ugly turret? That’s a Russian-made Kashtan antiaircraft weapons system. The Russkies gave it to the Mexican navy a year ago in hopes that they’d buy some.

  “It boasts two six-barreled 30mm rotary cannons and 9M311 launchers, equipped with four ready-to-fire missiles. They’re fed by a reloading system that contains thirty-two missiles in ready-to-launch containers. And the whole thing is controlled by an integral scanning and targeting system. The basic idea is to throw so much ordnance into the air that nothing can get through it. And that’s why we aren’t sending any Apaches in to hose the place down. As for long-range artillery and surface-to-surface missiles, they would erase the facility . . . And we might need it later on.”

  As if to illustrate the problem, the Kashtan turret swiveled toward the camera and fired. The screen went black, and as it did, Victoria understood Cabrera’s plan. The destroyer was there to prevent air attacks while work on the fortifications was completed, and the gang leader brought more AA weapons in from the south. It was a brilliant example of guerilla warfare. There was a sardonic smile on his father’s face. “Nifty, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Victoria answered. “And my orders are?”

  “Take the launch facility back and hold it until you’re relieved.”

  Victoria stood. “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”