Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  “The what?”

  “The Ohio Military Reserve, sir. It’s a lightly armed militia that was formed back in 1803—and serves side by side with the National Guard. And that’s where I was going, sir. We were up against a larger and better-equipped force. General Cox commands half a dozen units including the Fourth Cavalry Brigade. And it consists of infantry, cavalry, and some aircraft.

  “That said, the responsibility for the failed attack was mine,” Foster said. “Simply put, I bit off more than we could chew. Cox had a cordon around the base and the depository. I thought we could go in, snatch the general, and end the siege that way.

  “Looking back, I realize that I should have focused my attention on capturing the bullion depository. That’s what matters . . . And once we have it, we can starve the rest of the mutineers out.”

  Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Colonel. That analysis was both clear and honest. So, what’s our next step?”

  “We’re going to attack the bullion depository at 0500 in the morning,” Foster answered simply.

  “Good,” Sloan said. “I plan to join you.”

  That set off a round of protests from Jenkins, Rostov, and Besom. “Don’t do it,” Rostov said. “You aren’t a soldier, and even if you were, there’s no one to succeed you.”

  “I understand that,” Sloan replied. “But here’s the flip side . . . We’re outnumbered and outgunned. So it’s my hope that if our soldiers see that I’m there, taking the same chances that they are, they’ll fight all the harder.” Yes, the inner voice agreed, and it will help to build your reputation as well. But you can’t say that . . . It would sound calculating.

  “I agree with the president,” Garrison put in. “And I have a feeling that Major McKinney does, too.”

  McKinney nodded. “There’s a lot of risk, I grant you that, but the president is correct. This would be a good time to lead from the front. I’ll do my best to keep him alive.”

  Foster looked at him. “And you are?”

  “Major McKinney. The president’s military attaché, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’ll give you a fire team for support. I’d like to provide a larger force, but we’re short of people.”

  “I continue to think that this is a bad idea,” Besom said. “But since we’re going to do it, I suggest that you inform the troops now. Tell them that President Sloan is here . . . Tell them that he’s going to fight alongside them.”

  Foster turned to Pierce. “Make it happen, Captain—and have someone pull a set of gear for the president.”

  After eating an MRE, Sloan went to bed. Colonel Foster had a tiny bedroom just off the command and control center, which he insisted that Sloan use. That meant Sloan had the best quarters available. He couldn’t sleep, though . . . Not knowing that he might be killed the following morning. Was that how Foster’s soldiers felt? Of course it was.

  All Sloan could do was toss, turn, and think about the prospect of dying until the alarm next to his cot went off, and it was time to get up. For one brief moment, Sloan considered being sick, or claiming to be sick, but could imagine the contempt that would appear in McKinney’s eyes.

  That was enough to get Sloan up and out of bed. He brushed his teeth at a tiny sink, forced himself to shave, and put on the uniform Pierce had given him. It was the first time he’d worn one, and he didn’t want to sully it. Then he ducked under the combat vest, which he fastened into place. He was still making adjustments when McKinney announced himself. “It’s McKinney, sir . . . May I come in?”

  “Please do,” Sloan replied. “How do I look?”

  “Not very good, sir,” McKinney said. “Stand still while I tweak some things. There . . . That’s better. Jump up and down.”

  “Why?”

  “So the enemy won’t hear you coming,” McKinney said patiently.

  Sloan made a face and did as he was told. Gear rattled and McKinney sought it out. Sloan was ready five minutes later. “Take this,” McKinney said, as he gave Sloan a shotgun. “It’s just like the ones you grew up with except that the magazine holds eight rounds. If you need to shoot someone, and come up empty, go for the Glock. You can pull that faster than you can reload the scattergun. Copy?”

  “Copy,” Sloan said. “Lead the way.”

  General Cox had a number of drones at her disposal, not to mention troops who were equipped with night-vision gear. So the chances of catching the enemy unawares were slim to none. But by sending five Bradleys down Ramey Road and into the base, Foster hoped to divert the general’s attention long enough to cut the link between the base and the depository. Once that was accomplished, the actual attack would begin.

  Foster had been moving troops around for the last six hours. Some of the movements were necessary, like positioning the Bradleys to attack and placing soldiers within striking distance of the supply corridor. Other troop movements were random and intended to keep Cox guessing.

  As Sloan and McKinney left the command center, Sloan shivered and wished he had a pair of gloves. Trucks were waiting, and when Sloan sought to enter the back of a six-by-six, willing hands reached down to pull him in. “Welcome to Delta Company,” a burly sergeant said. “We’ll show those bastards.”

  Sloan smiled as he shook the noncom’s hand but felt mixed emotions. “Those bastards” were his fellow Americans . . . And the need to kill them ate at him. Yes, some were after the gold, and yes, others had fallen under the spell of what everyone claimed was a charismatic personality. But was there a third group? Soldiers who would fight Cox if they could? There was no way to know. Sloan heard a voice via his headset. “This is Delta-Six actual,” she said. “Stand by . . . And don’t be surprised when you hear something go boom. Over.”

  McKinney was seated next to Sloan. He leaned in to talk. “After the Bradleys launch their attack, three tactical missiles will strike the supply corridor. That will open a hole for our troops. They will split, turn their backs to each other, and dig in. We expect Cox to attack them from two directions in an attempt to close the gap. That’s when we go after the depository. Boom! We’re in.”

  That was the first time Sloan had heard about the missile strike. McKinney made it sound so easy. But the enemy was going to fight back, and good people were going to die. Would he be among them? Sloan feared that he would and hoped his death would be quick.

  Even though Sloan knew the missiles were coming, he wasn’t prepared for the overlapping explosions that shook the truck and resulted in what seemed like a single flash of light. As the truck jerked forward, he knew that Cox was trying to process the information coming at her. Would she make a mistake? He hoped so.

  The trip to the depository didn’t take long, and it seemed as if only a couple of minutes had passed before the noncoms began to shout, “Out! Out! Out!” and all hell broke loose.

  Had Sloan chosen to remain in the command center and watch the battle unfold, he would’ve been able to grasp the big picture. But that wasn’t the case. Suddenly, his world consisted of muzzle flashes, a loud boom as a rocket hit the gate, and McKinney’s voice. “Run! Drop! Get up! Run!”

  Bullets snapped past, a grenade went off, and a woman screamed. Geysers of dirt flew up all around them as McKinney zigzagged forward, and Sloan followed. There was no cover taller than a blade of grass. Cox was too smart for that. And her machine guns were sited to put the attackers in a lethal cross fire. Soldiers fell like wheat to a harvester. “Get that machine gun!” a noncom shouted. And Sloan saw a flash of light as a rocket struck home.

  They were well inside the fence by then but a long way from the depository, as fresh troops surged out to meet them. Sloan tripped and fell. As he got back on his feet, he realized that the defenders were closer. Much closer. McKinney was to the right, firing from one knee. The private to Sloan’s left was shooting at targets to his left. Sloan realized that he had to hold the center as an enemy soldier charged at
him!

  The shotgun seemed to fire itself, and the load of double-ought buck blew half of the man’s face away. Sloan was thinking about what he’d done, and trying to come to terms with it, when soldiers appeared to either side of him. “We’re pulling back, sir,” one of them said. “The captain wants you to . . .”

  Sloan never got to hear the rest of it as a bullet hit the corporal and turned him around. Sloan caught him and helped the other soldier drag the noncom back to the fence. Bullets buzzed and snapped all around them as McKinney paused to return fire.

  The trucks were parked in a line outside the fence—and troops were digging fighting positions behind them. Sloan and the private half carried the corporal around the front of a six-by-six and laid him down. A medic appeared. “I’ve got this,” he said as he went to work.

  Sloan was exhausted. He sat down and let his weight rest on a gigantic tire. McKinney came to join him. “What happened?” Sloan demanded.

  “We got our asses kicked,” McKinney replied.

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, sir. You did good though . . . Word of that will get around.”

  Sloan felt a momentary flush of pleasure, followed by sorrow. More people were dead on both sides. And all of them were Americans.

  A full six hours passed before Colonel Foster was in a position to report. He, along with Sloan, the presidential party, and senior officers were gathered in the underground command post. Foster’s expression was grave. “I have good news, and I have bad news. Here’s the good news. We cut the base off from the depository. And, in spite of repeated counterattacks, we kept enemy forces from linking up again.

  “Secondly, we kept General Cox’s forces bottled up inside their defensive positions. And, since they know we can drop missiles on them whenever we choose to, they’re likely to stay where they are. Thirdly, we were able to push the forces around the depository back, giving us control of the ground up to the fence. It isn’t safe to stroll around in that vicinity mind you . . . General Cox has some excellent snipers.”

  Foster’s eyes swept across the faces in front of him. “Here’s the bad news. Our attempt to take the depository failed—and we lost sixty-two soldiers. Another sixteen were wounded, and two aren’t likely to survive. What we have now is a standoff . . . One that could last for a long time unless we’re willing to drop bombs on them or use missiles. And even though that might be the logical thing to do, it might be perceived as draconian since Cox and her soldiers are American citizens. The last thing we want to do is create another Alamo that the Confederates can rally around.”

  A discussion ensued. But when the meeting came to an end twenty minutes later, nothing had changed, and Sloan felt depressed. He went back to the tiny bedroom to lie down. He was exhausted, and it didn’t take long for sleep to pull him down.

  When Sloan woke up four hours later, it was with the sense that he’d been dreaming. But about what? An explosion. He’d been in combat, so that made sense. No, there was more to it than that. Something important.

  Sloan lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember. Suddenly he had it. The siege of Petersburg in 1864! Sloan sat bolt upright, swung his feet over onto the pea-gravel floor, and hurried to pull his boots on. He had to tell Foster.

  The officer was skeptical to say the least. But Sloan was the commander in chief and, for the very first time since becoming president, chose to assert that authority. Foster was forced to capitulate.

  It took three weeks to build a temporary structure, bring the drilling machine in under the cover of darkness, and put the Roadheader to work. In his role as Secretary of Energy, Sloan had gone down into a dozen Kentucky coal mines where he’d met hundreds of workers and seen firsthand what their machines were capable of. And that was to bore tunnels like the one Union forces drove in under the Confederate lines during the Battle of the Crater in 1864.

  It was a hand-dug tunnel, the purpose of which was to place explosives under the enemy troops and kill as many of them as possible. That would open the way for an infantry assault and bring the siege of Petersburg to an end.

  Unfortunately, the follow-up attack was a complete disaster, which caused the deaths of 504 Union soldiers and left 1,881 wounded. Some were captured as well.

  But Sloan’s plan was different. After driving a tunnel in past the enemy’s outer defenses, handpicked troops would surge up out of the ground and attack the enemy from the rear.

  At that point, the defenders located in, and on top of, the flat-roofed depository would be able to fire at them . . . But not without hitting their comrades as well. In the meantime, they would be taking heavy fire from .50 caliber machine guns and AT4 rockets. A combination that was guaranteed to keep their heads down.

  The plan should work. Nevertheless, Sloan felt something akin to a lead weight in the pit of his stomach as the appointed hour arrived, and the Roadheader was withdrawn. A tremendous amount of effort had gone into smuggling timbers in to support the tunnel’s ceiling. But there was always the chance of a cave-in that would not only kill the coal miners who were running the Roadheader, but reveal the tunnel’s existence. Either possibility would be disastrous. So it was important to use the passageway immediately.

  At 0427, Sloan was standing at the back of the command center watching and listening. It had been his hope to go in with the troops, but Foster was opposed, as were the rest of them. Sloan might have dismissed their objections had it not been for McKinney. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “But you’re not good enough for this mission. And if you screw up, it could cost lives. Is that what you want?”

  It wasn’t what Sloan wanted. So all he could do was stand there and hope for the best as the feint went in, a platoon of Foster’s best boiled up out of the ground, and a short battle ensued.

  The defenders were caught flat-footed, took heavy casualties, and couldn’t withdraw. When the survivors surrendered, that opened the way for one of Foster’s Bradleys to roll up the driveway and fire on the heavily armored door with its chain gun. Sloan could see greenish footage of the action on the main screen and could hear the vehicle commander’s voice. She said, “Open Sesame,” as her gunner blew the doors open.

  Shouts of jubilation were heard in the command center—and Besom was there to congratulate Sloan. “Good work, Mr. President,” he said. “Here’s what I’m going to send out: ‘The fighting president strikes again! Based on a plan conceived by President Samuel T. Sloan, the army of the North recaptured Fort Knox, and the 130 billion dollars’ worth of gold bullion stored inside.’”

  “You might want to wait until the battle is over before you send that out,” Sloan cautioned. “And don’t forget to give credit to Colonel Foster, his officers, and their troops.”

  Besom looked resentful. “Of course . . . What do you take me for?” Then he ran off. To add the missing text? Probably.

  Sloan wasn’t allowed to enter the depository until after sunup. By that time, General Cox had been found with a pistol near her hand and a single bullet wound in her temple.

  More than seventy soldiers were imprisoned in underground vaults. Among them were individuals from each unit that Cox commanded, all being held to ensure the loyalty of their comrades, some of whom would have rebelled otherwise.

  Once the hostages were freed, and sent into the neighboring base, Sloan figured that their comrades would surrender. Especially if they were offered amnesty, which they would be, so long as they swore allegiance to the North. It was what he believed Lincoln would do, had done, via his Proclamation of Amnesty and Reconstruction. And news of the North’s even-handedness would help prevent the Southern propaganda machine from turning Cox into some sort of a hero.

  As for the gold, it was interesting to look at but held no allure for Sloan. The prize, the real prize, was to restore what had been taken. And that included the 700 million barrels of so-called black gold stored down south. A batt
le had been won. But the war had just begun.

  CHAPTER 9

  Formula for success: rise early, work hard, strike oil.

  —J. PAUL GETTY

  NEAR MIAMI, ARIZONA

  It was just after dawn—and the sky was pewter gray. Mac was lying on her stomach on top of a ridge ten miles west of Miami, Arizona, looking down into a canyon. A light dusting of snow covered the ground surrounding the do-it-yourself oil refinery, and half a dozen vehicles were parked around the cluster of multicolored shipping containers used to house the crew.

  Five weeks had passed since the mercenaries had departed Camp Navajo near Flagstaff, Arizona, and driven south to Superior. Fortunately, they’d been able to make the journey without taking casualties. Unfortunately, the temperature was only five degrees warmer than it had been in Washington State. And Mac figured conditions would soon get worse. There was no point in whining about it, though . . . What was, was.

  As Mac panned her binoculars from left to right, she could trace the path of the muddy maintenance road that ran from one end of the canyon to the other. She knew that the dirt track followed the path of an underground pipeline that ran all the way from Canada down to Tucson. There were hundreds of such lines in the United States, and they went unnoticed unless one began to leak or caught fire.

  But after the meteorites struck, and fuel became scarce, the good citizens of Miami decided to tap the pipeline and steal what they needed. The problem was that they had to refine the crude oil before they could use it. That might have put the kibosh on the idea somewhere else. But the citizens of Gila County were a resourceful bunch and had been able to construct their own refinery using tanks, pipes, and valves salvaged from local mining operations.

  The process was simple though extremely hazardous. All they had to do was boil the crude and condense the resulting vapor at specified temperatures to produce what was called “straight run” gas and diesel. And that worked for a month or so.