“See if you can buy it,” Mac told him. “Offer some of the stuff we found at Mountain Home. After what they’ve been through, these folks might put a pretty high value on a couple of light machine guns and some ammo. Not too much, though . . . And it wouldn’t be a good idea to deliver the ordnance until we’re ready to leave.”
“And if they say, ‘no’?”
Mac sighed. One of the reasons she’d joined the army was because the people who belonged to it were trying to do the right thing even if they failed occasionally. That’s what her father claimed, anyway. Now she was up to her butt in moral ambiguity. “If you can’t buy it, then call me. We’d better be ready for a fight if we’re going to take it.”
Smith nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he was gone.
It took the better part of two days for the Marauders to bury Dinkins with full honors, buy the tractor-trailer rig, and catch up on deferred maintenance. Then it was time to get back on the road. Their destination was a base called Camp Navajo, which was located just west of Flagstaff, Arizona. Assuming the information Mac had was correct, a wide variety of supplies could be found there, including fuel for the Apache. The latter was of critical importance because the JP8 truck was running low.
They took 93 south. Then, rather than enter Las Vegas, which was said to be under the control of a warlord, the Marauders went east. After three days of zigzagging across northern Arizona, they wound up on I-40 headed for Camp Navajo. Looted cars lined both sides of the highway, there were crosses on the median, and the overpasses were covered with graffiti.
Rather than show up at Camp Navajo hoping for the best, Mac led the convoy off the interstate north of the base and entered the tiny town of Parks. The Flagstaff area was known for its skiing, but there shouldn’t have been any snow this time of year. The evergreens were loaded with the white stuff, however—and there was six inches of it on the ground. That was a disappointment since the Marauders had been hoping for better weather in Arizona. Maybe it will be, Mac told herself, especially at lower elevations.
About a thousand people were supposed to be living in and around Parks. But they were nowhere to be seen as the Marauders rolled into town and took control of a church.
Evans was busy setting up a security perimeter when Mac went to meet with Esco. “Put the Shadow up,” she told him, “and give me all the intel you can. Meanwhile, I’m going to send Brown and Kho out for a ground-level view of what’s going on. If the situation warrants, we’ll go in. Otherwise, we’ll bypass the base and continue south.”
Once the drone was up, and scouts were on the way, all Mac could do was wait. To pass the time, she made the rounds and paused to admire the small track hoe Smith had purchased in Wells. Evans was right . . . The machine made short work of digging fighting positions and latrines. That was a definite plus.
Esco called for her an hour later. “Take my seat,” Esco said, as Mac entered the Humvee. “Rather than make you sit through the whole mission, I cut some of the footage together.”
The UAV operator crouched behind Mac where he could provide her with a running narration. “So here’s Flagstaff,” Esco said, as the drone circled over the snow-clad city. “Notice the smoke coming out of chimneys . . . That suggests that the power grid is down. And look at the streets. There’s very little traffic. Why? Because people are afraid to go out, that’s why.”
Esco leaned in to put a finger on the screen. “See this? And this? They’re barricades. It appears that the town has been Balkanized.”
Esco was correct. Mac could see the way cars, RVs, and piles of junk had been used to seal entire neighborhoods off. That seemed to suggest that the local government had collapsed, leaving citizens to fight among themselves.
“And here’s Camp Navajo,” Esco added. “It’s about thirty miles west of Flagstaff. You’ll notice that it’s sealed off as well . . . You can see vehicles inside the perimeter. That suggests that the Guard is still there, but nothing is moving. So where are the troops? Inside drinking hot chocolate?”
Where indeed? Mac wondered. There should have been lots of activity given the nature of the situation. Maybe the scouts would be able to provide some answers.
A six-hour wait followed the meeting with Esco. Mac knew that Kho and Brown had been able to reach the base, and were okay, because they had orders to report in every thirty minutes. But the frequencies available to them were available to the local Guard unit as well. That made it necessary to keep the transmissions short and cryptic.
At first, Mac killed time by wandering around, sticking her nose in where it wasn’t welcome, and offering unnecessary suggestions. That pissed everyone off. A problem she failed to recognize until Evans told her about it.
The temperature fell as the sun went down and a stygian darkness claimed the land. It was snowing by then—and Mac was worried. Maybe Brown and Kho had been ambushed. Maybe the scouts were lost. Maybe she should send the quick-reaction force out to find them. Maybe . . . “The scouts are back,” Sparks announced as he appeared at her side. “And they have a prisoner.”
Mac felt a tremendous flood of relief, thanked Munroe, and hurried toward the church. She could see her breath, feel the snow give under her boots, and hear the purring sound the generator made. Half a dozen jury-rigged lights were on inside, it was at least ten degrees warmer, and the odor of cooking hung in the air. Food was another thing they needed more of.
Pews had been moved to make way for rows of sleeping bags—and some of the children were playing a game in the middle of the chapel. All of them were wearing coats. Evans waved her over. “They’re in the office,” he told her. “Both are fine.”
“Good,” Mac said as she followed him through a door and into a room equipped with three mismatched desks, some metal filing cabinets, and a bulletin board filled with childish drawings. There were muddy tracks on the floor—and a pile of gear sat where the scouts had dumped it. Brown was standing off to one side, Kho was perched on the corner of a desk, and a stranger was seated on a plastic chair. He was twentysomething and wearing an Indian-style headband. Long black hair fell to his shoulders. Kho smiled. “We brought you a present.”
“That’s a present?” Mac inquired.
“Yup,” Brown responded. “He sure is. Lieutenant Macintyre, meet Corporal Vickers.” Vickers continued to stare at the floor.
“A corporal?” Mac inquired. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Brown responded. “This piece of shit is a corporal. It says so on his ID card.”
“But he’s also a deserter,” Kho put in. “Which is how we came across him. There we were, scouting the base, when Vickers cut a hole in the wire and walked into our arms.”
“And no one noticed?” Mac inquired.
“Not while we were there,” Brown answered. “That’s because Vickers was on guard duty—and he left through the section of wire he had responsibility for.”
“Wow,” Mac said as she looked Vickers up and down. “You are a piece of shit. So let’s get to it. I want to know everything there is to know about conditions inside the base.”
Vickers looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and arcane symbols were tattooed on his forehead. The letters were uneven and clearly the work of an amateur. “What will you give me?”
“That’s ‘what will you give me, ma’am,’” Evans put in. “As for what we’ll give you, how about a bullet?”
Vickers turned to Mac. “Like I said, ma’am, what’s in it for me?”
Evans was playing bad cop, which left Mac free to be the good cop. “That depends,” she said. “If you cooperate, and if you want a future, there might be a place for you in our unit. Not as an NCO, however. Not yet. You’d have to earn that.”
Vickers glanced at Evans, then back. He shrugged. “Okay, but understand this . . . Some bad shit went down on base . . . I didn’t lead it, but I was there, and if you plan to go army on me,
let’s finish it now. Shoot me in the face. I want to see it coming.”
Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Some bad shit went down.” What did that mean? It wasn’t her job to play judge and jury, however. “You have my word,” Mac assured him. “Tell us what you know. And so long as you tell the truth, you can join or take a walk.”
It didn’t take much to make Vickers talk. He wanted to get some things off his chest. And they weren’t pretty. The problems began shortly after what Vickers called “the big hit.” It wasn’t long before some of the unit’s junior officers went AWOL, or were MIA, depending on what a person chose to believe.
Meanwhile, one of Flagstaff’s city council members tried to take control of the government, one of his peers shot him six times, and the rest of the survivors divided the city into small fiefdoms. Each neighborhood had its own militia—and each was intent on garnering support from the local Guard unit. Because if a council member could secure that—they’d be able to seize control of Flagstaff.
The XO wanted the company to align itself with the area she lived in, and roughly half of the soldiers agreed. But after the CO refused to go along, he was found dead of what might or might not have been a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. That put the XO in charge.
Her reign came to an abrupt end when troops loyal to the CO shot her and sealed themselves inside a heavily fortified maintenance facility where, according to Vickers, they still were. “So which faction did you belong to?” Mac inquired.
“The CO was a good man,” Vickers replied.
“So what’s with the long hair and all that crap?” Evans demanded.
Vickers shrugged. “Things went tribal. The XO’s people began to dress like cowboys. So we called ourselves the Indians. We let our hair grow, took new names, and went on the warpath every now and then. Some people wanted to leave but had no place to go. Flagstaff is fucked-up, and so is the rest of the country, according to what the ham-radio guys say.”
“But you decided to leave anyway?” Mac asked.
“Yes,” Vickers replied. “There have been a lot of fights lately, conditions are getting worse, and I was sick of it.”
Once the interrogation was over, Vickers was placed under guard, and Mac called her officers and noncoms into the office. After briefing them on the situation at Camp Navajo, she presented her plan. “Based on what Vickers told us, the troops inside the base no longer have unit cohesion, are largely leaderless, and at a low state of readiness. I think we should strike immediately since it’s hard to imagine how the situation could improve.
“Rather than do battle with them, I plan to minimize casualties by pinning both groups down. Then, once they’re under control, we’ll take everything that isn’t nailed down! And if some of these folks want to join, then so much the better, so long as it’s a number we can handle without compromising security.”
Mac’s eyes scanned the faces in front of her. “In order take full advantage of what we find, I’ll ask our civilians to pitch in as loaders and drivers. The children will be left in the care of two adults, with five soldiers to protect them. That’s the plan in a nutshell. Are there any questions, suggestions, or comments?”
There were, but none of them were deal breakers, and after making the necessary adjustments, Mac dismissed the group. There was a lot of work to do before the attack element could depart at 0300, and only four hours to do it in. But, thanks to the processes already in place, they managed to finish on time. The Strykers led the way.
It was snowing heavily by then, which Mac saw as a plus since the white stuff would serve to limit visibility and muffle the sound of the convoy’s engines. Because Kho had traveled through the area earlier, she was able to direct the convoy along back roads to the well-fortified main gate. “There’s a good point of entry west of here,” she told Mac.
And that prediction was borne out. The women were standing in hatches aboard the ESV truck as Kho ordered the driver to stop. “Look to the right,” she told him. “See the fence? Can you break through it?”
“Can a bear shit in the woods?” Lamm replied. “Hang on . . . We’re going in.”
After backing away a bit, Lamm put his foot to the floor. The dozer blade was raised, and Mac felt nothing more than a slight hesitation as steel sliced through the wire mesh. The vic bucked wildly as it passed over a mound of earth and plowed ahead. At that point, they were inside the base, and not a shot had been fired.
Vickers was riding in the three truck and helped to guide them through a maze of low-lying buildings, vehicle parks, and other obstacles. And it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived at the building where his group was holed up. Mac saw snow-filled craters out front, empty fighting positions, and a façade that was pockmarked with bullet holes. It wasn’t long before automatic weapons began to chatter, and bullets hit the vics.
That was Vickers’s cue to address the defenders over his Stryker’s PA system. “Hey, shitheads, this is Vick . . . Stop shooting! We aren’t firing on you, but we can . . . I hooked up with a company-sized force that includes three Strykers and plenty of heavy weapons. You can remain where you are, or you can come out. It’s up to you. And, if you want to join this unit, the CO is looking for some good people. But if you continue to fire, we’ll grease you. You have five seconds to stop.”
There were more shots, but not many, and it wasn’t long before a dozen soldiers came out with their hands over their heads. A squad was sent forward to search and secure them while Mac, Vickers, and two Strykers departed for building two. It belonged to the people who’d been loyal to the XO—and they saw Vickers as a traitor and an enemy combatant.
So Mac spoke to the cowboys over the PA, ordered them to hold their fire, and to remain where they were. It didn’t work as first. But they stopped firing once the Strykers opened up on them.
Despite the fact that she could use more troops, Mac knew it would be dangerous to try to integrate potentially unstable soldiers into the unit, because of how much trouble they could cause. Plus, even if the cowboys were able to get along with the Marauders, it seemed unlikely that they’d manage to make peace with the ex-Indians. So the Strykers remained on station while the rest of the Marauders went to work.
As the snow stopped, and the sickly-looking sun rose in the east, it soon became apparent that the amount of material available to the Marauders was beyond Mac’s wildest dreams. Weapons, ammo, food, fuel, clothing, and much-needed medical supplies were all sitting on pallets waiting to be taken. That was good. But there was more! The haul included four Strykers, two M35 trucks, and half a dozen other vehicles. Not to mention some additional UAVs for Esco.
But wonderful though the wealth of supplies was, they presented a problem as well. That stemmed from the need to distribute critical materials throughout the convoy lest all of a particular item be lost when or if a vehicle was destroyed. Ammo was an excellent example of that. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith was up to the job and was using a laptop to track everything. Still, it took time to bar-code and load the incoming material, which meant that the Marauders would have to stay in Camp Navajo for a couple of days.
Mac made use of the time by setting up a panel of people to interview the ex-Indians. The committee included her, Dr. Hoskins, and Corporal Cassidy. Their job was to determine if the volunteers would be a good fit or not. In the end, nine of the volunteers were accepted—while the rest were placed in temporary detention. “You’ll be freed when we leave,” Mac assured them. “And at that point, you can do whatever you choose.”
By dawn of the third day, the children and their caretakers had been reunited with the rest of the unit, all of the new vehicles had been integrated into the column, and the supplies had been properly allocated. The convoy was longer now—and would be more difficult to protect. But it was also stronger . . . And better able to defend itself from most criminal gangs.
Mac
felt good about that as she stood in the forward air-guard hatch on the lead Stryker and looked back at the convoy. Mac’s Marauders had everything they needed now except for one thing, and that was a home.
CHAPTER 8
It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
THE NEW MASON-DIXON LINE
It was just after five in the morning when the rain stopped and a cold fog appeared. It hovered just above the ground and shivered as a breeze nudged it. The patriots froze as Sam McKinney raised a fist. It had been three days and four hundred miles since they’d departed the relative safety of the Ouachita National Forest. The group had traveled by car at first. And now, as they neared the Mason-Dixon line, they were on foot.
Sloan saw McKinney push his hand down and knew that was his cue to take a knee. He heard voices as the ground fog rose to envelop him—and his right hand went to the pistol that was holstered under his left arm. A man laughed as dimly seen figures passed off to the right. Sloan counted six of them. “You’ve got to be kidding,” a voice said. “What did you say?”
The patrol was gone before Sloan could learn the answer. He allowed himself to exhale and saw his breath fog the air. Sloan wanted to stand but knew that would be a mistake. McKinney was an ex-Ranger and a harsh taskmaster. He had a sharp tongue and spared no one. “Your other right, Mr. President,” McKinney liked to say, along with “Keep your butt below the skyline, Howell,” and “What the hell’s wrong with you, Allston? My grandmother can shoot better than that.” But painful though the process was, Sloan felt grateful. Like the others, he had no military training and understood the need to learn.
When McKinney stood, that meant the rest of them could as well. And as Sloan looked back over his shoulder, he could see Howell, Allston, and Jenkins in that order. The latter was an ex–deputy sheriff and McKinney’s star pupil.
Into the Guns Page 18
