Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  A picture began to emerge. As civil order disintegrated, and military units were fragmented, some soldiers had gone into business for themselves. And with all manner of bandits roaming the land, there were plenty of customers. They were small towns mostly, which would hire a unit or combination of units to protect them, or to attack a neighboring community.

  But the people camped in the parking lot knew that change was in the air. What if the North managed to restore the federal government? It would need to defend itself against warlords and the Confederacy. And the new structure wouldn’t be able to rebuild the military overnight. It would take time, giving the mercs an opportunity to cash in. All of which presented Victoria with the perfect chance to assess the players and look for the kind of assets the Confederacy could use.

  But where to start? The answer presented itself in the form of an ex–cavalry officer named Captain Ross Olson. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair, a boyishly handsome face, and hazel eyes. Olson had put together a company of scouts. They were equipped with dirt bikes, armed rat rods, and a platoon of M1161 Growlers. The unit was too lightly armed to battle a warlord toe-to-toe—but just right for intelligence gathering and lightning-fast raids. That meant that Olson’s clients would be likely to employ other mercenary units as well.

  After some verbal foreplay, Victoria began to probe. They were standing next to the bus-sized RV that served Olson as a mobile command post, drinking coffee laced with rum. “So, what’s your preference?” she inquired. “Are you rooting for the North or the South?”

  Olson smiled. “Some of my folks are from the South, and some are from the North, so we swing both ways. It’s about the money so far as we’re concerned.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Victoria said. “There are all sorts of opportunities to be had these days.”

  “Such as?”

  “Things are going to get complicated soon.” Victoria predicted. “I work for a group of people who would like to establish ongoing relationships with outfits like yours.”

  Olson took a sip of coffee. “Can you be more explicit?”

  “Sure,” Victoria answered. “What if we paid you a fee each month? A retainer, so to speak. In the meantime, you would be free to work for the North.”

  “Free to work for the North? Or your employer would like us to work for the North?”

  “They would like you to work for the North,” Victoria admitted.

  “Okay, I like it so far,” Olson said. “Then what?”

  “Then,” Victoria continued, “we’d like to hear from you on a regular basis.”

  “You want me to spy for you.”

  “That’s part of it,” she admitted, “but there’s more. The time could come when we would ask you to come south and fight for us. In that case, we would pay you what the North paid you, plus the monthly retainer, plus a hefty bonus for every member of your unit.”

  Olson produced a low whistle. “That’s a very tempting offer.”

  “And?”

  “I need to consult with my team.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I should know by this evening. We could discuss it over dinner.”

  Victoria could tell that Olson was hoping for something more than dinner. She smiled. “Okay, when?”

  “There’s a place called Rosa’s a block east of here. Would 1800 work for you?”

  Victoria drained the coffee cup and gave it back. “You’re on. I’ll see you there.”

  People were filing into the convention center by then, and Victoria followed the crowd. The meeting was scheduled for the largest room that the complex had to offer and every seat was filled by the time Victoria arrived. That forced her to stand in back with the other latecomers while a woman from a little-known rock group sang the national anthem. To her credit, the woman not only got the words right but hit the high notes as well.

  That was followed by the Pledge of Allegiance and introductory remarks from the master of ceremonies. He was a state senator and liked to talk. It took him a full fifteen minutes to introduce dozens of dignitaries who were seated in front—and an equal amount of time to explain what the Third Continental Congress was there to do. And that was “to fully restore the United States government, including all the functions thereof, and to put a stop to the second secession.” An initiative that would be of considerable interest to CEO Lemaire and his newly formed cabinet.

  “But,” the senator continued, “before we convene the Congress . . . I have the enormous honor of introducing Reginald Allston, the country’s newly named interim Attorney General!” None of the audience had heard of the man, so the applause was muted.

  Victoria watched with considerable interest as a good-looking man in a rumpled suit mounted the stage, shook hands with the senator, and took his place behind the podium. “Good afternoon. As many of you know, the former Secretary of Energy, Samuel T. Sloan, was in Mexico on May 1, and was forced to paddle his way home in a kayak.

  “Meanwhile, Vice President Wainwright was sworn in as president. But now, in the wake of her untimely death as well as that of many others, Sloan is the next in line for the presidency. It was his intention to be here today . . . But, I’m sorry to say that a rogue general has taken control of Fort Knox, which means it was necessary for our new president to go there to reclaim what is rightfully ours.” That statement produced a lot of enthusiastic applause—and Victoria had to join in or look suspicious.

  Allston went on to say that other precious resources had been stolen from the country as well, including all of the southern oil reserves, billions of dollars’ worth of infrastructure, and the nation’s future. Those who were sitting stood to applaud, and Victoria had seen enough. The mood in the room plus the news regarding Fort Knox would go into her next report. But she had more “assets” to recruit. So she left the building and ventured out into the cold. Sleet was angling in from the west, and the Thermo suit was a blessing.

  During the earlier stroll, she’d seen a six-gun artillery battery and some support vehicles parked near Olson’s unit. What if they went to work for the North? Then, at a critical moment, turned their guns on their employer? Victoria smiled. Her father would love that! She went off to visit them.

  With the exception of the convention center and a nearby hospital, the city was dark by the time Victoria finished her last meeting. She returned to the BMW and wiped a layer of slush off the seat before swinging a leg over it. The ride to Rosa’s took less than five minutes. Would Olson be there? Victoria felt pretty certain he would. And that expectation was borne out as she entered the restaurant. It was lit with dozens of candles, and Olson came forward to greet her. “There you are,” he said. “Can I help remove your clothes?”

  It was a joke, or a flirtatious comment passed off as a joke, and a clear indication that Olson had more than business on his mind. What about her? What did she want? Victoria wasn’t sure yet.

  Once the Thermo suit was off, Olson took her to a table where a bottle of wine and two glasses were waiting. They ordered an appetizer, and rather than go straight to business, Olson inquired about her day. Victoria responded with some generalities regarding the Congress and some deliberately vague comments about the meetings she’d had. The last thing she wanted was for the mercs to collude where fees were concerned.

  Then it was time to order dinner. And once that was accomplished, talk turned to business. “So,” Victoria began. “What did your team have to say?”

  “Money matters,” Olson replied. “And the devil’s in the details. But, assuming we can agree on a price for each component of the deal, we’re in.”

  It took the better part of an hour and most of the meal to pencil out an agreement that was acceptable to both parties. And after Victoria went to the ladies’ room, she returned ready to hand over six of the one-ounce gold wafers she’d been carrying in her money belt. Each had been v
alued at $1,200.00 on May 1. Now they were worth ten times that amount. “There’s your down payment,” Victoria said. “I’d like a receipt please. Oh, and one more thing . . .”

  Olson made the gold disappear—and was reaching for a leather briefcase. “Yes?”

  “If you breach our contract, we will kill you. And not just you—but every person in your unit.”

  Olson looked into her eyes. “Understood. We aren’t going to have sex, are we?”

  “No,” Victoria answered. “But don’t give up. Try often enough, and you might get lucky.”

  Olson laughed and raised his glass. “To the Confederacy, a beautiful woman, and getting lucky.” Victoria sipped her wine. The North didn’t know it yet—but a battle had been fought and won.

  EAST OF CENTRAL CITY, KENTUCKY

  The only vehicle that the presidential party had been able to borrow was a yellow school bus owned by a local church. In order to fill the tank with gas, the pastor had been forced to ask her congregants for donations. Sloan had been there to personally thank each person who gave a gallon, half a gallon, and in one case a Mason jar filled with carefully hoarded fuel.

  Finally, after two dozen such contributions, most of the party was able to set off for Fort Knox. The exceptions were Interim Attorney General Allston and Cindy Howell, who were sent north to represent Sloan at the Congress in Indianapolis.

  The trip went smoothly at first. Jenkins was at the wheel and managed to maintain a respectable 40 mph as he wound his way through all manner of slow traffic. Sloan was thinking about the past as he peered through the droplets of rain that covered the window. His father had been a Civil War geek—and passed the affliction along to him. So he knew that Kentucky had been a border state during the last civil war. A state so vital to President Lincoln that he said, “I hope to have God on my side, but I have to have Kentucky.” And eventually, after the Confederates were stupid enough to attack them, the citizens of Kentucky fought for the Union.

  Sloan felt the same way Lincoln had. And there was reason for concern. Kentucky had been a so-called “red state” for many years, and that meant the population had a lot in common with people who lived in bastions of the South like Texas and Mississippi.

  And the problem was more than theoretical. If the locals chose to support General Cox, and she were to cut some sort of deal with Lemaire, then 130 billion dollars’ worth of gold could fall into Confederate hands! All of which made Sloan feel antsy and irritable as the bus suddenly started to slow. “Uh-oh,” Jenkins said, as a sign appeared on the right. “What’s up with that?”

  As Sloan peered through the beads of rain, he read the hand-lettered sign: TOLL BRIDGE AHEAD. Then, in smaller type: YOU WILL PAY . . . NO EXCEPTIONS. And when Sloan peered through the windshield, he could see that traffic was backed up as people waited to cross. The situation was clear. Bandits, or the equivalent thereof, had taken control of a public bridge and were charging a fee to cross it. Just one of the countless problems the new government would have to cope with. “Let’s pay it,” Sloan proclaimed. “I need to reach Fort Knox as quickly as possible.”

  “Maybe we will, and maybe we won’t,” Jenkins said, as he pulled over. “I think we should eyeball the situation before going any farther.”

  “He’s right,” McKinney agreed. “No way are we going to drive into a shit show we might not be able to get out of.”

  Sloan felt frustrated. “That’s bullshit. I’m the president, and what I say goes.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jenkins replied. “Not if what you say is stupid and could get my ass blown off. Thanks to Besom and his people, there are thousands of Samuel T. Sloan photos out there . . . What if the people who control the bridge recognize you? What if they take you prisoner? And sell you to the rebels? Or shoot you in the head? Sit tight. We’ll take a look.”

  Once Jenkins and McKinney were gone, all Sloan could do was sit and fume. They were clearly in a hurry when they returned fifteen minutes later. “We’re out of here,” Jenkins said, as he slipped behind the wheel.

  “Damned straight,” McKinney agreed. “Those bastards have a Bradley—and it’s armed with an M242 chain gun. That sucker could kill a light tank, never mind a school bus!”

  Sloan knew he owed them an apology. “Sorry guys, I’m glad you ignored me.”

  “Anytime, Mr. President,” Jenkins said cheerfully. “It was our pleasure.”

  The group had to backtrack in order to reach the last turnoff, and follow a lesser road to the northeast, where they crossed the river unimpeded.

  Then Jenkins turned south, and it wasn’t long before they arrived in the town of Rosine, where the bus could get on 62. It led them east to Elizabethtown, the city that Confederate General John Hunt Morgan and three thousand of his men had attacked in 1862. Did the locals remember that? Did they care? Sloan hoped so, as Jenkins took the beltway north and turned onto 31 west.

  It was almost dark by the time they passed through Radcliff and ran into a roadblock comprised of two Abrams tanks, half a dozen Bradleys, and a company of troops. A hand-lettered sign ordered them to execute a U-turn and head south. There were two vehicles in front of the bus and both chose to turn back as Jenkins pulled forward. “Stay on the bus,” McKinney ordered. “I’ll find out who these people are. Then, if it’s safe, you can get out.”

  Sloan chafed at the increasing number of restrictions that were being placed on him, but he knew it was necessary. So he sat and made conversation with Rostov and Besom until the ex-Ranger returned. “They’re ours,” he announced. “And Garrison gave orders for the company commander to watch for you.”

  Sloan got up out of the cramped seat, took his pack off the rack above, and made his way forward. “What’s the roadblock for anyway?”

  “To prevent rogue army units or Confederate forces from linking up with General Cox,” McKinney replied. “It appears that Colonel Foster has the area surrounded.”

  Sloan didn’t know Colonel Foster. But it was nice to know that at least one senior officer was on his side and willing to take action. It was cold outside, and as Sloan stepped down onto the frozen ground, flashes lit the horizon. What followed sounded like thunder. “That’s artillery,” McKinney volunteered. “It looks as if a full-scale battle is under way.”

  An army officer materialized out of the surrounding gloom. “I’m Captain Pierce,” he said. “Colonel Foster’s adjutant. Please follow me.”

  The presidential party followed Pierce through the roadblock to the Humvees waiting beyond. A short ride took them past a well-protected vehicle park to what looked like a mound of dirt—but was actually the roof of an underground command post.

  Sentries stood at attention, and the visitors had to stop as a sergeant stepped out to block the way. “Please leave your weapons here . . . They’ll be waiting when you exit.”

  “General Cox managed to get an assassin into the bunker three days ago,” Pierce explained. “He shot three officers before an MP gunned him down. That’s why no one is allowed to enter the command post carrying a weapon, and that includes me.”

  A clatter was heard as a small arsenal of weapons was placed on the table. “What you described sounds like a suicide mission,” Sloan commented. “I assumed Cox’s troops were in it for the gold.”

  “Some of them are,” Pierce admitted. “But General Cox is a very charismatic person. And based on what deserters have told us, a lot of her troops believe the story she fed them. They expect the real president to show up any day now.”

  Pierce led the group through a metal detector and down a flight of wooden stairs into the command center below. A map of Fort Knox was displayed on a large flat-screen. Sloan could see that the base was much larger than the depository and hung from the other end of what looked like a lopsided barbell. The “bar”-shaped corridor served to connect the two facilities. “Come on,” Pierce said. “Secretary Garrison is down fro
nt.”

  Pierce led the group past two rows of soldiers all seated in front of glowing screens. They were wearing headsets, and their overlapping conversations combined to create a low-level buzz. “Good evening, Mr. President,” Garrison said, as he stood. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It’s good to see you, Frank,” Sloan said, as they shook hands. “Where did the Secretary of Defense stuff come from?”

  “It’s interim Secretary,” Garrison replied. “Someone had to step in, and I was handy. Or would you prefer to let the military create policy?”

  Sloan knew Garrison was right. Someone had to fill the Secretary of Defense role. And, with no other candidate on the horizon, Garrison would do. “You were right,” Sloan agreed. “Thanks for jumping in. This is a critical situation.”

  “That’s for sure,” a basso voice agreed. Sloan turned to find himself face-to-face with an army officer. He had short white hair, a square chin, and a steely gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President, I’m Colonel Foster.” They shook hands.

  “I want to thank you, Colonel,” Sloan said. “From what I’ve heard, you were trying to retake Fort Knox when Secretary Garrison came along.”

  Foster shrugged. “You’re welcome, sir. It seemed like the right thing to do. We’re going to need that gold to support our currency—and it would be an unmitigated disaster if the Confederates got ahold of it. Unfortunately, my attack failed.”

  Sloan looked the other man in the eye and was met with an unblinking stare. “I’m going to ask you a tough question, Colonel. But I need to know the answer. Why did that attack fail?”

  “It’s a fair question, sir,” Foster answered. “The first thing you need to know is that my command consisted of the 213th Ordnance Company, the 372nd Missile Maintenance Company, and the 200th Civil Engineering Squadron—along with the Ohio Military Reserve.”