Mac sat next to him. “Thanks. So what’s on your mind?”
“I was up at the house when Granger got the word. This shit is for real.”
Mac heard herself say, “I’m sorry to hear that.” But was that entirely true? She’d been expecting it. Everyone had. And the sense of foreboding was real. But what about the slight tinge of excitement? Because wrong though it might be—there was part of her that enjoyed combat. A biochemical gift from her father perhaps.
Whatever the reason, Mac didn’t feel as sorry as she should have. She sipped some coffee. It was laced with rum. “How do you feel about that, Ross? Do you want to fight?”
The other officer shrugged. “It’s what the army trained me to do . . . And it’s what I get paid for.”
“That’s it? You don’t care which side you fight for?”
“I do care,” Olson responded. “I think what the Confederates are doing is wrong. But I’m a mercenary now, and it doesn’t make sense to get emotionally involved.”
That was similar to how Mac felt. She hoped the North would win but had doubts about its capacity to do so and was trying to remain objective. “Yeah,” Mac agreed. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“So,” Olson said, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a barn like this?”
“Is that a come-on?”
“Do you want it to be?”
“No.”
Olson grinned. “Okay . . . It isn’t.” And with that, he got up and walked away. Mac felt as if an opportunity had been lost. But an opportunity for what? To be Olson’s plaything? Because she was the only eligible woman in the battalion? That was the sort of opportunity she could live without. Mac got up. There was work to do—and lots of it. Mac’s Marauders were going to war.
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
Now that war had been declared, Sloan was no longer permitted to live in the big white tent because the Secret Service couldn’t protect him there. So he was living underground, two stories below the Fort Knox army base, and just down the hall from the War Room.
There was one advantage, though . . . He could sit in the War Room and stare at the maps, charts, and plans projected on three of the four walls while he ate dinner. It consisted of meat loaf with mashed potatoes, which had been his favorite as a boy. Sloan wished he could go back in time and be a boy again, but that was impossible. This was now . . . And he had a job to do.
According to Article II, Section 2, Clause 1 of the Constitution he was the commander in chief of the United States armed services. Except that the states weren’t “united.” Not anymore. And he wasn’t qualified to be commander in chief.
This was nothing new, since only twelve past presidents had been generals prior to taking office. Yes, others had served. But Ronald Reagan’s stint in the army air force’s public-relations department during World War II didn’t qualify him to run a war.
Of course by that measure, Sloan was even less qualified since he hadn’t worn a uniform until recently. Yet there he was, eating meat loaf and preparing to attack the South. So which strategy should he choose? The methodical approach that General Whitaker Hern favored? Or the daring “balls to the wall,” “deep leap” plan that General “Mad” Mary Abbott was so enthusiastic about?
Hern recommended that the Union Army drive south, make contact with the enemy, and engage them. Then the two sides would slug it out for however long it took.
Abbott’s plan was very different. She favored an airborne assault by Army Rangers. They would land in Richton, Mississippi, and seize control of the largely undefended oil reserve located there. And, because the element of surprise would be on their side, the Rangers would have a two-day period of time in which to dig in before Confederate forces attacked them.
Meanwhile, as the Rangers dug in, a task force led by Abrams tanks would lead the invasion force south through Nashville on Highway 65 even as surface-to-surface missiles neutralized the defense towers straddling the highway.
Once a path was cleared, the Northern army would surge across the New Mason-Dixon Line and drive south, killing anyone who got in the way. Then, at the conclusion of a five-hundred-mile journey, the regiment would link up with the Rangers in Richton.
But, according to General Hern, Abbott’s plan had a number of weaknesses. First, Hern believed it was going to be more difficult to destroy the Confederate defense towers than Abbott claimed. Second, Hern feared that it might take the defense force a full three or four days to fight its way to Richton. That would seem like forever to the Rangers.
Finally, even if Abbott was successful, she’d have a five-hundred-mile-long supply line to defend. Mad Mary was known for her foul mouth, and called “bullshit” on Hern’s criticisms. She planned to resupply the Rangers by air.
Hern scoffed at that and pointed out that the weather would keep Abbott’s Chinooks grounded most of the time. And, when the skies cleared, the Confederate Air Force would have an opportunity to blow the lumbering helicopters out of the air. Never mind the fact that the Richton-Perry County Airport was too small for the volume of traffic that Abbott proposed. Point and counterpoint.
Hern had graduated near the top of his class at West Point. Mad Mary had worked her way up through the ranks from private. Both had led troops into combat, both had been decorated for bravery, and both were respected by their peers. So which plan should Sloan choose?
As Sloan prepared to take another bite, he realized his plate was empty. He put the fork down next to the single surviving pea. He was going to go with Mad Mary. Why? Because her strategy could cut months if not years off the war and save thousands of lives on both sides.
Sloan felt a sense of relief. The decision had been made, and he would share it with his staff in the morning. He stood, removed his plate, and took it away. No one else knew it yet, but the first battle of the Second Civil War was already under way.
NORTH OF BOWLING GREEN, KENTUCKY
Granger’s Scout and Reconnaisance Battalion had been given the “honor” of heading south first. Everyone knew that while the New Mason-Dixon Line lay just south of Bowling Green, the Confederates had attacked and occupied the town a month earlier to give themselves some pad.
Olson’s people were on point and likely to make first contact. Mac’s Marauders were in the two slot—and ready to provide support. But for what? The answer was classified. There were plenty of theories, however—one of which was that General Hern was going to lead the invasion. If so, most observers figured he’d do it by the numbers.
Not that it mattered. Mac was reminded of the famous quote from Lord Tennyson: “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.” Strategy had never been the province of mere captains and never would be.
Prior to the Confederate attack, the city of Bowling Green had a population of more than sixty thousand people. Since then, many had gone north, and some told stories about Confederate atrocities. Most of those accounts weren’t true but had come to be accepted as fact thanks to the Union’s twenty-four/seven propaganda machine. And that helped to turn southern Kentucky against the rebs.
That meant the Scout and Reconnaisance Battalion was traveling through mostly friendly country as it rolled south past communities like Rocky Hill, Smiths Grove, and Oakland. Proof of that could be seen in the fact that people poured out of the tent cities that lined both sides of the freeway to wave American flags as the Strykers passed by.
Mac was riding on one-one, which was in the two slot, just behind the lead Humvee. She was standing in the forward air-guard hatch, and when people waved, she waved back.
But as the column neared the outskirts of Bowling Green, the crowds disappeared. And no wonder. Confederate patrols had been probing the city’s northern suburbs, making it a dangerous place to be. That’s what Mac was thinking about when the radio came to life.
“This is Bravo-Six actual,” Olson said. “We have contact. The freeway i
s blocked at the Barren River. We’re in the trees on the north side. It looks like the enemy has two, repeat two, Abrams tanks parked on the south end of the bridge. And they’re firing on us now. Over.”
Mac could hear the distant sound of big 105mm guns firing—and could imagine the bright flashes as shells exploded in the trees—and sent splinters flying in every direction. But none of that was apparent from the tone of Olson’s dry, matter-of-fact report. The scout was brave . . . No doubt about that.
“This is Thunder-Six actual,” Granger replied. “Pull back from the river, follow old Porter Pike west to Highway 68, and eyeball the Louisville Road bridge. Over.”
“Roger that,” Olson replied. “Over.”
Then Mac’s orders came in. “Charlie-Six, this is Thunder-Six actual . . . Follow 446 to 31 west to 68. Take the old, repeat old Louisville Road south and tell me if the two-lane bridge is intact. Over.”
Mac acknowledged the order, eyed her map, and saw that the interchange with 446 was coming up fast. A quick check was sufficient to ensure that the truck commander was watching for the turnoff. Then she gave orders for the lead Humvee to fall back. It was thin-skinned compared to the Strykers.
Mac turned to look back. The column was traveling at about fifty miles per hour, and the intervals between the trucks were perfect. That was good. And she was going to say as much when two Apache gunships popped up from behind a hotel and opened fire. Hellfire antitank missiles struck two-two. There was a flash of light, followed by a loud boom, and the Stryker vanished in a ball of flame.
“Take evasive action!” Mac ordered. “And put some fire on those helicopters!”
Mac radioed for help as every machine gun in the column opened fire. “This is Charlie-Six actual . . . We’re under attack from two Apache gunships. Over.”
“This is Bigfoot Five and Six rolling in hot,” a male voice said. “We will engage. Over.”
The Warthog pilot was as good as his word. Less than thirty seconds had passed when two A-10s swooped out of the clouds and fired rockets at the helicopters. All of them missed. But that was enough to send the Apaches running for cover as Charlie Company continued to speed down the freeway.
Mac was painfully aware that two-two had been carrying an eight-person squad of soldiers in addition to the vic’s crew. Eleven people in all. The reality of that hit hard. She couldn’t take time to grieve however . . . Not yet.
Mac’s eyes scanned her surroundings, looking for directional signs. There weren’t any! The Confederates had taken them down. Shit! Shit! Shit! It was too late to count side streets. All she could do was take a guess.
She ordered Lamm to turn off the freeway and found herself on Frontage Road. Damn! That wasn’t what she wanted. Wait . . . What was that? A sign that said OLD LOUISVILLE ROAD! It seemed that Frontage Road had morphed into Old Louisville Road. And there, visible in the distance, a bridge could be seen.
A Confederate Humvee was parked at her end of the span. It was armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, and it opened fire. Meanwhile, Mac saw two soldiers climb up over the railing on the east side of the bridge and run for the vehicle. Where had they been? Under the bridge? Setting a charge?
Mac had to duck for cover as .50 caliber shells hammered the front of the Stryker. One-one was equipped with a 105mm cannon. Mac felt the Stryker lurch as the gunner fired.
Eager to see the result, Mac stuck her head up through the hatch just in time to hear a loud clang as the empty shell casing hit the pavement behind the Stryker. She had surfaced too late to witness the hit . . . But, judging from appearances, the shell had struck the Humvee head-on. That caused the seven-thousand-pound vehicle to do a backflip. Now it was belly-up and on fire. That was when the .50 caliber ammo began to cook off.
So far so good. But that still left the question as to what the soldiers had been doing under the bridge. Planting charges? Probably, because a series of dull thuds was followed by an alert from one of Olson’s scouts. “This is Bravo-One-Two . . . They blew the I-65 bridge. An entire section went down. Over.”
More explosions were heard, followed by the sound of Olson’s voice. “Roger that, One-Two. This is Bravo-Six actual. They dropped the new Louisville Road bridge as well. Over.”
Mac’s thoughts were racing. Originally, there had been three bridges not counting a footbridge. Now there was only one. If that was severed, it would take days, if not weeks, for the Union Army to construct a temporary span across the river or circle around.
The decision seemed to make itself. “This is Charlie-Six actual. Truck one-one and one-two will take control of the bridge. Charlie-Seven will command the rest of the company—and check the underside of the bridge for explosives. Over.”
Then, over the intercom, “Hey, Lamm! Put your foot on it . . . Let’s cross this sucker fast!”
The truck commander had been listening and understood the risk they were taking. Was a reb watching? And waiting to blow the span with them on it?
Mac felt her head snap back as Lamm stomped on the accelerator. The engine whined, and one-one took off, with one-two right behind it. They had to swerve in order to avoid the burning Humvee. Ammo continued to cook off, and Mac heard a clang as something struck the hull. Her eyes were on the other end of the bridge at that point . . . Where a Bradley was starting to fire on them.
As one-one passed the halfway mark, the 105mm cannon spoke again. Mac saw a bright flash as the antitank round struck the Bradley and heard a burst of 25mm shells scream past her head as the tracked vehicle fired back. It had a chain gun that could fire two hundred rounds a minute—and there was no place for either vehicle to go. Nor could the forces behind them participate in the battle without running the risk of hitting their own people. All the respective commanders could do was fire and keep firing until one of them died.
Mac felt helpless, so she swung the 7.62mm machine gun around and fired short bursts downrange. There was a loud bang as Private Martinez fired the 105 again, followed by a flash at the other end of the bridge, and commentary from Lamm. “You hit his left track! Pound the bastard!”
That was good—but not good enough. Mac ducked as shells smashed into the vic. The Stryker’s armor was thick—but not thick enough. It would only be a matter of seconds before the Bradley’s 25mm armor-piercing rounds managed to pound their way in.
But by some miracle, the metal held long enough for Martinez to fire one last round. The shell hit the Bradley higher up this time, blew a hole in the hull, and triggered a secondary explosion. Mac didn’t see it, but she heard it, and stuck her head up in time to see pieces of fiery debris cartwheeling out of the sky. Then she was thrown forward as Lamm stood on the brake pedal. One-one was able to pull around the Bradley (which was hit moments earlier) and chase the fleeing rebs with bursts from its remotely controlled fifty. As that occurred, a squad of infantry deassed the vic and rushed to secure the bridgehead.
Mac heard the machine gun stop firing as she dropped to the ground and went up to inspect the damage. The front right tire and wheel were a mangled mess. But, because the Stryker had eight wheels, it had been able to advance in spite of the damage.
The armor plate on the front of the vic was bent, buckled, and torn. One additional burst from the chain gun would have left all of them dead. Mac made a note to pay Martinez a bonus and promote her to corporal. “Well, Captain,” a male voice said. “You have some explaining to do.”
Mac turned to find that Major Granger had approached her from behind. “Sir?”
“I ordered you to examine the bridge and report what you saw . . . I didn’t order you to capture it. Your top kick tells me that the rebs left a satchel full of C-4 strapped to one of the support beams. An EOD specialist is removing it now.”
So the rebs were preparing to blow the span. Mac had been lucky. Very lucky. “So charging across the bridge was a stupid thing to do,” Granger concluded.
Mac swallowed. “Sir, yes, sir.”
The look on Granger’s face softened slightly. “It was also a brave thing to do . . . And one that’s going to save us a lot of time. I’m going to see what I can do about making you a real captain . . . And that might come in handy when this mercenary crap is over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Now, have your people move this wreck out of the way. A platoon of tanks will arrive soon.” And with that, Granger walked the rest of the way across the bridge. He was armed with a pistol and an umbrella. The reason for that became apparent when it started to rain. The battle for Bowling Green had begun.
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
General “Mad” Mary Abbott stood a little more than five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than 110. But the tiny blonde had a personality large enough to fill the War Room from the moment she entered.
Sloan was there, as were General Hern and two dozen other officers, including Major McKinney. All of them paid close attention as Abbott gave her presentation. “Our forces are pushing into the town of Bowling Green,” she informed them. “The fighting is heavy, but elements of the 2nd Illinois Volunteers and the Oregon Scouts are about to flank the rebs. Once that happens, the bastards will be forced to pull back.”
As Abbott spoke, a red dot hopped from point to point on a huge map. She paused to look around. “But that isn’t all,” she added. “As the rebs retreat from Bowling Green, we will attack Piggott, Arkansas. We’ll stay just long enough to suck a lot of Confederate resources in that direction. Then we’ll pull out.
“Meanwhile,” Abbott continued, “Operation Pegasus will get under way.” A detailed description of how helicopter companies were being assembled at small airports was followed by a discussion of how the Army Rangers would get to the strips, and which units would be in the first wave.
There was a lot of information to take in, and Sloan did his best to memorize it. When Abbott finished, she invited him to speak. Sloan made his way up to the front of the room, where he turned to scan the faces in front of him. “The Confederates not only seceded from the Union, their leaders are stealing oil from the American people and using it to line their own pockets. By taking control of the Richton Storage Facility, we can recover a large quantity of oil and send their so-called CEO a strong message. Maybe he’ll listen, maybe he won’t.
Into the Guns Page 27
