Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  But many of the other vehicles had to be forced into the slow lane by Private Atkins, who was riding shotgun on Roller-One and spent most of his time shouting through a megaphone.

  None of which surprised Mac. What did surprise her was the volume of traffic. There was more of it, as if the nation’s pulse had started to quicken, and things were improving.

  Could President Sloan take credit for that? Or had the postcatastrophe shock begun to wear off? Resulting in more activity? The two theories weren’t mutually exclusive, however, so maybe there was some truth to both of them.

  They pulled into a rest area just after noon to eat lunch. Then, upon returning to the freeway, the Marauders were forced to pass many of the same slow movers they’d overtaken earlier. The convoy was ten miles outside of Albuquerque when Sergeant Esco warned Mac about the roadblock ahead. “Two tanks are sitting in the middle of I-40 with concrete barriers behind them. It looks like some of the traffic is being allowed to enter the city, but most of it is being shunted onto a side road. Over.”

  “Are there any signs of combat? Over.”

  “No. Traffic is stop-and-go. But other than that, everything looks good. Over.”

  “Can you tell who the tanks belong to?”

  “No. But the people around them look more like cowboys than soldiers. Over.”

  “Okay . . . Well done. Follow the detour and see where it goes. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Esco replied. “Over.”

  The UAV pilot called in fifteen minutes later to tell Mac that the detour was going to take them around the city to a point where they could access I-25 north. It was possible to swing wide and use a secondary road to circumvent the area, but time was money . . . And the Marauders had to conserve fuel. So Mac chose to remain on 40 and deal with the roadblock.

  It wasn’t long before Roller-One came up on the traffic jam. It was start and stop from that point forward, a fact well-known to local entrepreneurs, who sold all manner of goods and food from brightly painted shacks that lined both sides of the highway.

  Doc Hoskins was worried about food safety, and Mac was worried about security, so the Marauders weren’t allowed to leave the convoy. It was a decision that was certain to generate a lot of griping—but it was for their own good.

  Eventually, after forty-five minutes of incremental progress, the roadblock appeared. A professionally painted sign hung over the freeway. It read WELCOME TO THE NAVAHO NATION and seemed to suggest that Native Americans were in charge of Albuquerque.

  The tanks Esco had mentioned were parked so they could fire on the highway, and from where Mac was sitting, it looked as if both 105mm cannons were aimed at her.

  Two dozen soldiers were standing around burn barrels, assuming that was the correct way to classify the men and women who were dressed cowboy-style and armed with a wild assortment of weapons. Three were mounted on horses and appeared to be on standby, should there be a need to enter traffic and handle a dispute.

  A man stopped to talk to the soldiers in Roller-One before making his way back to the Humvee. Mac got out and circled around the front of the vehicle. The local was wearing a flat-brimmed hat, sheepskin coat, and faded jeans. A pair of beat-up boots completed the outfit. Teeth flashed as he smiled. “Are you Captain Macintyre?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man looked back along the column. “That’s a lot of firepower, Captain. Where are you headed?”

  “Fort Knox, Kentucky.”

  His eyes were like gun barrels. “Why?”

  “We’re under contract to the federal government. I can show you the paperwork if you wish.”

  The man smiled. “Why bother? I wouldn’t know if the document was real or forged. I hear the North is going to attack the South.”

  Mac shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “We’d like to see that,” the man said. “The Confederates don’t like us—and we don’t like them. Will you be allowed to speak with the president?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, if you do, tell him this: You tell him that Chief Natonaba and the Navaho Nation will stand next to him in battle. But if he tries to take Albuquerque, we will fight him to the death. Got it?”

  Mac thought about Secretary Garrison. Maybe she could pass the message to him. “Yes, Chief . . . I’ve got it.”

  “Good. You have a nice day, Captain. Walk in beauty . . . And remember the old ones.” And with that, he turned away.

  Mac returned to the Humvee, got in, and gave Roller-One permission to proceed. The detour took them onto Atrisco Vista Boulevard, which led them across arid land and past an airport. Then, after a long and winding journey through some suburbs, the mercenaries were able to get on I-25 and follow it north.

  It was late afternoon by the time the Marauders entered the bedroom community of Rio Rancho. Based on the intel provided by Esco, Mac sent Roller-One ahead to inspect a possible bivouac site just east of the freeway, and directly across from a casino. The report came in ten minutes later. The site didn’t have access to water but it was unoccupied, and only yards from an on-ramp. And that would make for a quick start in the morning.

  The last vehicle in the convoy was towing a M149A2 “water buffalo.” That gave Mac the freedom to spend a night without a water source, so she gave the go-ahead. It was her desire to have all the unit’s defenses in place before darkness fell. And, thanks to her NCOs, they were.

  The night passed without incident, and the convoy was back on the road by 0630 in the morning. The plan was to follow I-25 north into Colorado. Then, near Trinidad, Mac was going to take the unit off I-25 and follow a secondary highway to the northeast.

  The Marauders made good progress over the next couple of days. From Rio Rancho they drove to Limon, Colorado, where they spent the night in a deserted RV park. From there it was a five-hour trip to Junction City, Kansas. It was a small town, with an active militia, the leader of which was none too happy about the prospect of allowing a heavily armed group to stay overnight. But unlike Chief Natonaba down in Albuquerque, he found the written contract signed by Interim Secretary of Defense Garrison to be very reassuring. He even went so far as to invite Mac and her officers to dinner in his home.

  Mac didn’t have any officers other than Dr. Hoskins, so she took Sergeants Esco and Poole along as well, leaving Ralston in command. It was an excellent, home-cooked meal. And Mac felt guilty about dining on meat loaf and mashed potatoes while the rest of the unit ate MREs.

  The Marauders were on I-70 just after dawn and entered the outskirts of Kansas City three hours later. A checkpoint sat astride the freeway and was defended by a mercenary outfit called the Devil’s Kin. The Devs had six Bradleys. So when one of the mercs ordered Roller-One to pull over, the driver had no choice but to obey. The rest of the column followed, and Mac placed them on high alert.

  If memory served, a hard-fought Civil War battle had taken place nearby. Union forces eventually won and forced Confederate General Samuel R. Curtis to retreat. Was the city still in Union hands? Mac discovered that it was.

  After showing her contract to the major in command of the Devil’s Kin, she was given permission to continue on. “We’ve got a contract just like yours,” the major told her. “So who knows? Maybe we’ll fight side by side one day. Let’s drink to that.”

  Mac was expecting him to produce a bottle of hard liquor, and wasn’t looking forward to downing a drink so early in the day. So she was pleasantly surprised when he pulled two cans of Coke out of a cooler, wiped one of them off, and gave it to her. After popping the tabs, and bumping cans, they drank. Mac hadn’t had a Coke in months. The ice-cold liquid felt wonderful going down. She was back on the road fifteen minutes later.

  There was a lot of traffic, most of which was slow—so it took two hours to creep through Kansas City. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Marauders were able to put t
he hammer down and log some serious progress. Enough progress to arrive in St. Louis before nightfall. That was when Mac began to believe that there really was a Union Army . . . Even if it was totally fucked-up.

  The local military command assigned a specially equipped Humvee to the unit for the express purpose of getting them through the city in a timely manner. Mac was grateful and decided to ride in the Humvee. The man behind the wheel was a sergeant named Taber, and he was a talker. And since Mac was eager to learn whatever she could, that was fine with her. In between burps of sound from the vehicle’s siren, Taber gave a guided tour. “See the troops up ahead?”

  As the Humvee drew abreast of them, Mac was surprised to see what looked like a battalion of World War I doughboys marching along. They wore Smokey the Bear hats and carried bolt-action rifles. She frowned. “What’s up with that?”

  “They’re volunteers,” Taber replied. “Reenactors who dress up and play soldier on the weekends. Some of them are in their seventies. From what I hear, they’re going to protect small towns just north of the New Mason-Dixon Line. That will allow the rest of us to go down south.”

  And there were more volunteers including a gang of middle-aged motorcyclists armed with American flags, a troop of blue-uniformed cavalry who were riding horses, and a float carrying a fifteen-foot-tall Statue of Liberty.

  When they crossed the Mississippi at 10 mph, there was time to look down on hundreds of barges and improvised gunboats tied up three or four abreast along the banks of the river. Were they prepping for an invasion? That’s how it looked. But the whole thing had an extemporaneous feel. As if someone was throwing things together on the fly . . . And that scared the crap out of her. The last thing Mac wanted was to see a bunch of incompetents piss lives away. Especially the lives that belonged to her people.

  Once on the east side of the city, Mac thanked Taber, switched over to Roller-Two, and wished it wasn’t so late. That couldn’t be helped, however . . . And for once, they had been assigned to a bivouac area just off I-64.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that Jones Park was almost full. Other military units had arrived and set up camp, leaving only a small patch of ground just off Argonne Drive. “I want to double the number of sentries we put out tonight,” Ralston told Mac. “Chances are that our fellow campers will send teams of scroungers out to steal anything they can.”

  The possibility hadn’t occurred to Mac, who gave the go-ahead. And a good thing, too . . . Because three attempts were made to sneak in and steal equipment during the hours of darkness. The would-be thieves were taken prisoner and left tied to trees when the Marauders departed the next morning.

  The trip from St. Louis to Louisville promised to be a straight-ahead affair, followed by a turn to the south. That would put them in Fort Knox by nightfall if all went well. Unfortunately things didn’t go well. A persistent rain began to fall after lunch, a truck broke down, and it took the wrench turners more than an hour to get it running again. Mac was tired and frustrated by the time they reached Louisville and were forced to stop at a checkpoint, where she was required to deal with some officious bullshit.

  It was dark by the time the unit arrived at Fort Knox. Or it would have been dark if it hadn’t been for hundreds of flickering campfires. “We might as well send the Confederates a message telling them where to drop their bombs,” Mac griped, as a motorcycle rider led the column through a maze of streets.

  Private Adams, who was driving the Humvee, chose to remain silent as their guide came to a stop and pointed into the darkness. “It’s all yours,” he shouted. “Welcome to Fort Knox!” Then the soldier was gone. Mac swore, opened the door, and got out. The headlights from a passing truck swung across a sea of mud. The Marauders had arrived.

  CHAPTER 10

  Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.

  —SUN TZU

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  Most of the night had been spent moving the unit’s vehicles into place, erecting tents, and establishing a perimeter to keep thieves out. That meant Mac only logged two hours of sleep before the noise generated by passing vehicles, the persistent rattle of a power tool, and occasional shouts woke her up.

  It would have been nice to stay in the sleeping bag. But at least a hundred things required Mac’s attention, including the need to check in. Because then, and only then, would the Marauders begin to collect full pay.

  So Mac kicked the bag off and swung her feet over onto the floor. The four-person tent was one of the few perks she permitted herself. It was furnished with a cot, a flimsy lawn chair, a folding card table, a much-abused footlocker, a bulging duffel bag, and a five-gallon jug of water supported by an upended ammo crate.

  As Mac crossed the tiny room to the plastic bowl that served as a sink, she could feel the mud under the tent’s floor give with each step. None of the external moisture had been able to penetrate the fabric, however, for which she was thankful.

  After completing her morning ablutions, and donning her cleanest uniform, Mac made her way to the door, where a pair of mud-caked boots was waiting. She sat on the lawn chair to pull them on. Then Mac threw the tent fly to one side and stepped out into the cold air. That’s when she discovered that a sentry was posted outside. Ralston’s work? Yes, of course. The private came to attention—and Mac smiled at him. “As you were, Wang . . . You can rejoin your squad now.”

  Mud sucked at the soles of Mac’s boots as she made her way over to the female latrine. That was the moment when she realized that the sun was out! It was visible through breaks in the clouds. The slight increase in temperature was enough to create a layer of mist. It hugged the ground the way a shroud hugs a corpse. Mac shivered and shoved her hands in her pockets.

  After visiting the latrine, she made her way over to the cook tent, which, in spite of the name, was little more than an A-shaped awning supported by three poles and some guylines. There was a table, though . . . And a gas-powered stove. Three Marauders were seated on lawn chairs. They stood as Mac appeared, and she waved them back into their seats. “As you were. Where’s the buffet?”

  Corporal Prevo grinned. “Over there, ma’am,” he said, and pointed to a stack of MREs. “There ain’t nothing better than turkey chili for breakfast.”

  Mac laughed, poured some hot water over instant coffee, and ate the Hershey bar that Private Sanchez gave her. After five minutes of shooting the shit with the troops, she could feel the combination of caffeine and sugar enter her bloodstream. With cup in hand, Mac went looking for Ralston.

  Thanks to the first sergeant, and the rest of the NCOs, significant progress had been made during the night. And Mac took pride in the fact that their bivouac was well organized even if the surrounding encampment was a gigantic shit show.

  The company’s scroungers had been able to steal two dozen pallets somewhere. They’d been used to create an elevated sidewalk that ran between the first-aid station and the HQ tent. “Nice job,” Mac said. “Now I can wear my high heels to work.”

  Her voice was intentionally loud so that all of the soldiers working on the project could hear. The line got a laugh, just as it was intended to, and would make the rounds soon. It was easy and made Mac feel guilty.

  Ralston was exhausted, and she could see it on his face when he forced a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. We have to show these other outfits how it’s done. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith is an accomplished thief.”

  Smith was standing a few feet away. He smiled. “Thanks, Top . . . I love you, too.”

  Mac chuckled. “It’s time for you to grab some shut-eye, Sergeant Ralston, and that’s an order. Sergeant Smith can take charge here. Once I find Sparks, I’m headed for HQ.”

  “I’m here,” Munroe announced, and Mac turned to find that the radio operator was standing behind her. Together, they made their way out to the point where their
chunk of real estate fronted George S. Patton Avenue. If the stretch of churned-up mud could be dignified as such.

  The duty driver was a private named Isley. He was slouched behind the wheel of a Humvee—listening to music through a pair of earbuds. When Isley saw Mac, he made the buds disappear. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning,” Mac replied as she settled into the passenger seat. “Do you know where HQ is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Take me there.”

  As Isley navigated his way through the untidy maze of bivouacs, Mac had a chance to eyeball some of the other units that had been assembled for whatever it was that Sloan had in mind. At one time or another, she saw tanks, a field hospital, com wagons, a wrecker, half a dozen fuel tankers, a clutch of infantry carriers, a pair of medevac vehicles, and a smoke-generator-equipped recon vehicle that was sitting all by its lonely self. The whole thing was FUBAR. Or so it seemed to Mac.

  Once they arrived, Mac saw a sign that read: 2ND EXPEDITIONARY FORCE. She got out, told Isley to wait, and followed a lieutenant inside. Then Mac had to trudge from desk to desk, and from corporal to corporal, showing the company’s contract to each one—and answering the same questions over and over. Each stop meant that at least one form had to be filled out, and Munroe offered to pitch in. That was a big help—and cut the process down to an hour and a half.

  Finally, after clearing the last desk, Mac was sent into an office with plywood walls. A haggard-looking lieutenant colonel was seated behind a table strewn with paperwork. The hand-printed tent card in front of her read: LT. COL. COLBY.

  Colby wore her mostly gray hair in a bun. Her close-set eyes were like chips of obsidian. And she had a cold, judging from how red her long, thin nose was. Mac came to attention, stated her rank followed by the name of her unit. She finished with, “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”