Colby blew her nose with a handkerchief and made a face. “It’s impossible to find Kleenex anymore,” she complained. “And that’s a sure sign that the country is going to hell in a handcart. Macintyre, huh? I used to know a general named Macintyre . . . Any relation?”
Mac swallowed. “My father, ma’am.”
Colby had overplucked eyebrows. They rose incrementally. “Are you aware that he’s fighting for the Confederacy? In fact, from what I’ve heard, he’s one of their most important generals.”
Mac wasn’t aware. Ever since the visit to the house near Kuna, Idaho, she’d wondered where he was and what he was doing. But the possibility that he might side with the Confederacy hadn’t occurred to her. It should have, though . . . The New Order’s brand of Darwinian politics would appeal to him. Survival of the fittest. That was the essence of Bo Macintyre’s personal and political perspective. Mac remembered how he had stood, hands on hips, after she took a spill. “Never wait for a helping hand,” he told her. “Take care of yourself.”
“No, ma’am,” Mac said as she stared into coal-black eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, this war is going to divide a lot of families,” Colby predicted. “But enough of that . . . Let’s get you checked in.”
After skimming Mac’s contract and reviewing the paperwork the multitude of corporals had prepared, Colby signed two identical documents and handed one to Mac. “There you go . . . Your unit is on the payroll . . . The next step is to visit Major Renky. He’ll set up a draw for your company.”
“A what?”
“A draw . . . Meaning an account you can use to draw supplies. Payment is due on the last day of each month. Please remember that if you’re more than thirty days in arrears, the government has the right to seize all of your equipment, including your vehicles. And, since you have a cavalry unit, you won’t be able to fulfill the terms of your contract without them. That would trigger standard clause 32b.”
The air around Mac was chilly, but she was starting to sweat. She’d read the contract and knew that Marauders would have to buy supplies, but clause 32b? No, nothing came to mind. “I’m sorry, ma’am . . . Please remind me of what’s in clause 32b.”
Colby blew her nose. Her thin lips looked even thinner when she smiled. “Clause 32b states that if a unit loses the means to fulfill the terms of its contract, all members of said unit who were on active duty as of May 1 this year will automatically revert to active status in the branch of the military to which they previously belonged. So if you want to be a mercenary, be sure to pay your bills. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
Mac took notice of the way in which Colby had mentioned her real rank. An indication that the 2nd Expeditionary Force had at least some predisaster personnel records. “Yes, ma’am. Very clear, ma’am.”
“Good. Go see Major Renky . . . Oh, and one more thing.”
“Ma’am?”
“If you run into your father, shoot him in the face.”
The Marauders spent the next two days performing deferred maintenance on the unit’s vehicles, their bodies, and their uniforms—all of which were filthy. Fortunately, some local entrepreneurs were running an off-base laundry service that offered pickup and delivery.
Mac also held meetings about the need for cost control—and made Smith responsible for staying on budget. Would the supply sergeant send scroungers out to “requisition” “free” parts in the middle of the night? Of course he would. And Mac planned to ignore it.
On the morning of the third day, Mac was sitting in the HQ tent reading the sick-call report when a rain-drenched private entered. “I’m from battalion HQ,” he announced. “I have a message for Captain Macintyre.”
“That would be me,” Mac replied. “Battalion HQ? What battalion?”
“The one you’re part of,” the private answered, as he proffered an envelope. After reading the contents, Mac discovered that not only was she a member of the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion, she was in command of Charlie Company and expected to attend a command briefing that was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes! And she was supposed to bring her XO.
After hurrying to don a clean uniform and telling Private Isley to “Step on it,” Mac and Ralston were still ten minutes late when they entered the large tent. A dozen people were seated on folding chairs, and the major who was standing at the far end of the conference table paused in midsentence. His carefully combed hair was graying, his nose was slightly bent, and his blue eyes were clear. “Well, well . . . Captain Macintyre, I presume.”
Mac swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“I know you’re a mercenary,” the major said, “but I won’t tolerate slackness. If a meeting is scheduled for 0900, you will arrive on time or be penalized. My name is Granger. Have a seat. Now, where was I? Ah, yes . . . Our mission.
“The Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion consists of three companies at the moment. That includes a headquarters company under Captain Pearce, a scout company under Captain Olson’s leadership, and a Stryker company commanded by Captain Macintyre. Our job is to find the enemy, identify targets, and assess battle damage. The latter is more important than you might think because of the hazardous flying conditions.
“In addition, we’ll be called upon to participate in search-and-rescue missions, to support special-operations teams, and to assist the military police if that’s necessary.” Granger’s eyes roamed the room. “Do you have any questions?”
Captain Pearce wanted to know if she would get some additional staff, and Mac took the opportunity to sit down. The chair was next to Olson’s. He winked as if to say, “What a load of bullshit.” Olson had slicked-back hair, boyish good looks, and hazel eyes.
“What we need is a combination of speed and muscle,” Granger continued as he went over to an easel. “So let’s review the vehicles we have—and how they can support the overall mission.”
The presentation lasted for more than an hour. The plan was for Olson’s motorcycles, armed rat rods, and M1161 Growler Strike Vehicles to conduct lightning raids into enemy territory. As they pulled back, the Strykers would be there to support them.
That was fine with Mac, who had nothing to prove and no desire for glory. Her goal was to keep her people alive, make some money, and go home.
Over the next week, Mac learned that although Granger was a stickler for detail, he was fair and determined to succeed. To that end, he asked for and was granted permission to take the battalion out of Fort Knox and into the countryside for a series of exercises. Mac knew that the Marauders were in for some long, difficult days. But if the shit hit the fan, the training would pay off. Work began.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Sloan was sitting in the spacious green room backstage at the Arie Crown Theater. The 4,249-seat venue was part of the McCormick Place convention center located adjacent to Lake Michigan. Sloan knew that the room was packed with newly elected congressmen and -women, all of whom had been sworn in earlier in the day. Most were members of the Patriot Party, thank God. But Whigs were present, too . . . Lots of them. And because Speaker of the House Duncan was working with a thin majority, there would be trouble in the days ahead.
But this is now, Sloan reminded himself. First things first. Did Lemaire and his so-called “board of directors” agree to our offer? If not, the dying is about to begin. The door swung open, and Besom stuck his head in. “Interim Secretary of State Henderson is here, Mr. President.”
Sloan searched the press secretary’s face for any hint of what Henderson was going to tell him. There wasn’t any. So Henderson had chosen to keep the information to himself. “Please show him in.”
Henderson was balding, jowly, and short. Sloan had chosen him as Secretary of State because he was from the South, understood the culture, and had been the Assistant Secretary of State for Western Hemisphere Affairs prior to May 1. Sloan stood as the other man entered an
d went forward to shake hands with him. “Don’t keep me waiting, George . . . What did they say?”
The pain in Henderson’s eyes was obvious. “They said, ‘no,’ Mr. President. They claim to control a nation called the Confederacy of American States. And, according to them, the countries of Mexico, Cuba, and Haiti have formally recognized their government. I’m sorry, Mr. President. I know this is the last thing you wanted.”
Sloan looked away, swallowed, and forced his eyes back again. “Thank you, George. They’re waiting for me. I guess I’ll have to give them the news.”
Henderson nodded. “Tell them we tried . . . Tell them we’ll win.”
“I will,” Sloan promised, and made his way over to the door. Besom was waiting outside. Their eyes met. “Which script do you need, Mr. President? Number one? Or number two?”
“Two,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry, Doyle.”
Besom shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Don’t worry, Mr. President . . . Congress will back you.”
“They will tonight,” Sloan agreed. “But what about later? When the casualty reports come in? We’ll see.”
Sloan didn’t plan to use the script unless the teleprompter went down but accepted it anyway and followed a stagehand to the point where he could see Congressman Duncan. The Speaker of the House was stalling and thrilled to see Sloan from the corner of his eye. “And here,” Duncan said, “is the man you’ve been waiting for . . . Samuel T. Sloan, the President of the United States!”
A small band played “Hail to the Chief” as Sloan made his way out onto the stage, shook hands with Duncan, and went over to greet the newly named minority leader as well. That wasn’t necessary, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
The applause was thunderous, and understandably so, because in addition to members of the House, the Senate, and the reconstituted Supreme Court, more than three thousand citizens were present—all selected through a lottery. That was another one of Besom’s ideas—and it was sure to generate coverage in their hometowns. Sloan raised both hands. “Thank you . . . Thank you, very much . . . Please be seated.
“First,” Sloan said, as people took their seats, “I would like to congratulate all of our newly elected representatives and senators. Thank you for running . . . We are going to need your strength and wisdom during the days ahead.
“Second, please join me in a minute of silence as we remember the government workers both elected and unelected who lost their lives during the tragic events of May 1.”
A hush fell over the crowd as Sloan closed his eyes and counted to sixty. Everything seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare. But when he opened his eyes, the audience was still there. “Thank you.” His eyes sought and found the first line on the teleprompter. “I had hoped to bring you good news tonight. Sadly, that isn’t the case. Just before I came onstage, I received word that the so-called Confederacy of American States has chosen to secede from the Union.”
That produced a loud gasp of horror from the audience, a gabble of conversation, and a shout of, “God damn those bastards! We’ll take those states back!” The statement was met with a smattering of applause.
Sloan nodded. “I agree with the gentleman in the second row. To paraphrase the provisions of the Insurrection Act of 1807, as amended in 2006, the President of the United States has the power to suppress, in a state, any insurrection, domestic violence, unlawful combination, or conspiracy. And, ladies and gentlemen, that is precisely what I’m going to do!”
Members of the Patriot Party stood first . . . Soon followed by the Whigs, who, though less than enthusiastic about the prospect of a civil war, didn’t want to be seen as pro-Confederate. Even though many of them were. The applause lasted for the better part of a minute before Sloan raised his hands, and the politicians took their seats.
“This is not the end of our country’s story,” Sloan told them. “It’s the start of a new chapter . . . And one that will eventually lead to a happy ending. Tonight, I will instruct all branches of the federal government, including the military, to take all actions necessary to regain control of those states that signed the articles of secession. And I will direct them to do so with an eye to minimizing casualties on both sides.
“My staff will work with leaders from both parties to initiate, review, and pass the legislation required to support the unification effort. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting all the new members of Congress at the reception later this evening. Thank you for your support—and may God bless America.”
The audience stood, and the walls of the theater shook in response to the applause. Sloan waved as he left the stage, hurried past Besom, and entered the men’s room. That was where he threw up. He believed that America would rise again . . . But he knew that a lot of people would have to die first.
NEAR MILLERSTOWN, KENTUCKY
The unincorporated town of Millerstown, Kentucky, consisted of cleared farmland, mixed with sizeable patches of timber, all separated by a crisscrossing maze of country roads. There were hills, too, along with lots of streams and rivers. That made the area ideal for war games even if the local inhabitants didn’t like to have vehicles churning up their fields and spooking their animals. However, given the extent to which the consistently bad weather had ruined their crops, a timely visit from the battalion’s paymaster went a long way toward easing the pain.
A smear of sunlight was visible through a thin layer of bruised-looking clouds—and a cold breeze caused the pennant flying from one-two’s aerial to snap every now and then. The Stryker was parked on a logging road that ran parallel to the paved road below and was partially screened by trees.
“War games” was a misnomer, of course. That’s what Major Granger said. He preferred the term “military simulation.” And in this case a simulation of what military theorists referred to as “maneuver warfare.” The goal was to defeat the enemy by limiting its ability to make good decisions.
Theoretically, that could be achieved by attacking command and control centers, supply depots, and fire-support assets. Under normal circumstances, airpower would play an important role in accomplishing those objectives. But since foul weather was keeping a lot of fixed-wing aircraft on the ground, the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion would have to fill the gap. Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as Munroe spoke. “Here they come,” the RTO said. “And, according to Bravo-Six, the enemy is catching up.”
Mac was standing near Charlie One-Four’s engine and enjoying the heat it produced. She swiveled her glasses to the south. The highway was empty at first. Then she heard the roar of engines, and three off-road motorcycles appeared. The lead bike, the one that Olson normally rode, performed a wheelie as it went by. That was the sort of thing Mac had come to expect of Bravo Company’s CO. But somehow, in spite of the fact that Mac didn’t like show-offs, the combination of bravado and boyish charm was starting to grow on her. Focus, Mac told herself. Pay attention.
The next vehicles to pass Charlie Company’s position were so-called rat rods which, unlike hot rods, were anything but pretty. Function ruled form, and the function was war. Olson’s crudely modified vehicles were armed with machine guns, grenade launchers, and, in one case, an M252 mortar bolted into the bed of a pickup. They were followed by a squad of army Growlers reminiscent of WWII jeeps.
“This is Six,” Mac said into her mike. “The enemy is coming on fast . . . Check to ensure that your weapons are clear—and that the safeties are on. Your cameras should be rolling. Over.”
Mac heard a flurry of affirmative clicks as she watched the road. The first “enemy” vehicle to appear was a Humvee. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Let the Humvee pass . . . Bravo Company will be lying in wait for it up the road. Over.”
The next vehicle was a Bradley. It arrived a full minute after the Humvee was gone. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Hold, hold, hold. Let’s get as many units into the kill zone as we can. All right . . . F
ire!”
None of the Strykers fired. But later, when Granger and the rest of the brass reviewed the video, Charlie Company’s victory would be obvious. Positioned where they were, the cannon-equipped Stryker MGS M128s would have obliterated the Bradleys. Mac turned to Munroe. “Contact the enemy and tell them this: ‘Bang, you’re dead.’”
It was cold in the barn, but the walls offered some respite from the wind, a place for two-two’s mechanics to work on the Stryker’s faulty fuel pump. Mac didn’t know how to make the repair but had decided to learn, much to the amusement of her wrench turners. There was more to it than that, of course. Her presence meant a lot to them.
The repair was nearly complete when Olson entered the barn carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He knew all of the mechanics by name, could tell what they were doing at a glance, and immediately offered to hire them. They ate it up.
That annoyed Mac for two reasons. First, good mechanics were hard to find, and she couldn’t afford to lose any. Second, how did Olson manage to make everything look so effortless? She felt awkward by comparison.
Mac was wiping oil off her hands as Olson ambled over. “Hey, Robin . . . I brought you some coffee.”
“Robin.” When was the last time she’d heard someone call her that? Back at JBLM, most likely. And why was Olson using her first name? Given that last names were the standard way to address someone in the army? Lighten up, the voice said. It’s no big deal.
“Thanks,” Mac said as she accepted the mug. “Come on . . . We can sit in my office.” She led Olson to the bench seat that was all that remained of a long-gone truck. It was positioned against a stall.
“Nice,” Olson said as he sat down. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
Into the Guns Page 26
