Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  “But even if he doesn’t, we’ll have a forward operating base in the heart of the Confederacy. And I’ll be aboard the third helo to land there.”

  Sloan hadn’t run that idea by his staff because he knew they’d object. But now, as the officers stood to applaud, he was committed. Sloan smiled. “Thank you . . . Don’t worry, I won’t try to micromanage General Abbott. This is her show, and she’ll have the freedom to run it as she sees fit. Besides . . . based on what I’ve heard, she wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” Abbott smiled, and the audience laughed.

  “Should I fall,” Sloan continued, “Speaker of the House Duncan will assume my duties. Those of you who’ve had the good fortune to spend some time with the Speaker know that he’s dedicated to our cause and will provide you with strong leadership.

  “Finally, thanks to intensive training received from Major McKinney, I’d put the chance of shooting any one of you in the ass at no more than 5 percent.” That produced a roar of laughter as well as the perfect moment for Sloan to leave the podium.

  After the meeting, Sloan went back to his spartan office, where all sorts of issues were awaiting his attention. There were judges to nominate, briefing papers to read, and a stack of executive orders to sign. All of which was enough to make him look forward to leaving for Richton. The wheels of war continued to turn.

  CHAPTER 11

  We’re surrounded. That simplifies the problem.

  —GENERAL LEWIS B. “CHESTY” PULLER

  BOWLING GREEN, KENTUCKY

  As Major Victoria Macintyre dashed from building to building, she could hear the distant thump of artillery, the persistent rattle of machine-gun fire, and the occasional crack of a sniper’s rifle. A stray dog had latched onto her five blocks earlier and followed Victoria as she crossed a rubble-strewn street. The drugstore had been looted, and she ducked inside.

  The black-and-brown mutt followed in hopes of finding food, or collecting a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to get either one of those things from Victoria. She had entered the city of Bowling Green to meet with a Confederate spy—not to care for stray dogs. But, since so much of the town had been leveled, there was no way to know if the operative would be there. Victoria had to try, however . . . Because the agent might be able to shed some light on what the Union Army would do next. And information like that would be of considerable value to General Bo Macintyre and his staff.

  Victoria paused to check her map. She was supposed to meet her contact at a bar just off Fountain Square . . . And that was two blocks away. Victoria heard the dog bark as two men entered the store. She figured they were looters, going store to store, ready to grab the things that previous thieves had missed. Both carried shotguns.

  One of the men caught a glimpse of Victoria in a mirror and was bringing his weapon to bear when she shot him in the throat. He let go of the pump gun in order to grab the wound. Blood spurted from between his fingers as he backed into a rack of reading glasses and sent it crashing to the floor.

  The second man fired. But the blast went wide as the dog bit his right calf. Victoria shot him in the chest. He toppled onto his loot-filled pack and lay staring at the ceiling. The dog sniffed the corpse.

  Like most urban pharmacies, the store stocked a little bit of everything, including canned goods. Most had been stolen, but Victoria found a solitary can of stew that was half-hidden under a supply case. She pulled the rip top free, dumped the contents onto a yellow Frisbee, and placed it on the floor. The dog was eating hungrily as Victoria left the store.

  Engines roared as an Apache gunship swept overhead. Its nose gun was firing at a target that Victoria couldn’t see—and there was no way to tell which side the pilots were on.

  Victoria ran, paused behind a dumpster, and ran again. Bodies were sprawled outside a bank. Whose were they? Depositors? Fighting to get their money out? Or thieves shot by the police? Not that it mattered.

  Victoria jumped a badly bloated corpse and made her way toward the Mint Julep Bar. One end of the wooden sign was hanging free, and the front window was smashed in. After crossing the street, she paused to catch her breath. Her back was pressed against a brick wall near the broken window. Her contact might be inside waiting for her. Or he might be dead. But assuming he was inside, Victoria needed to warn him or risk taking a bullet. She whistled the first bars of “Dixie.”

  There was a pause. Victoria heard the same tune from inside the bar. That didn’t mean it was her contact. It could be a looter attempting to suck her in. So Victoria entered the bar with the pistol raised and ready to fire. “You’re late,” a voice said from somewhere in front of her.

  Victoria felt some of the tension drain out of her body and glanced at her watch. “Yeah, by three minutes.”

  She heard a chuckle as Captain Ross Olson emerged from the shadows with both hands raised. “Hello, Major . . . You make those camos look good.”

  Victoria slid the Glock into its holster. “And you are full of shit.”

  Olson laughed. “So we meet again.” He waved her back. “Come on . . . I brought a picnic lunch.”

  Victoria frowned. “I didn’t come here to eat.”

  “You’re so damned serious,” Olson replied. “Just like your sister.”

  “Robin?”

  Olson raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew everything. Robin and I are members of the same battalion.”

  Victoria took it in. Robin . . . Only a few miles away and fighting for the other side. The wrong side. Her father would pretend it didn’t matter. But it would matter, and that was fine with her. An artillery shell exploded two blocks away. Loose glass fell out of the window frame and made a tinkling noise as it hit the floor. “Lunch, huh? Lead the way.”

  Broken glass crunched under her boots as she followed Olson back to a booth, where, true to his word, a picnic lunch was waiting. It was romantic if somewhat calculated. Having struck out in Indianapolis, Olson was determined to get in her pants.

  What about Robin? Was he trying to seduce her, too? Maybe he had. Yes, Victoria thought to herself, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  They sat across from each other as the city of Bowling Green died around them. “We have fresh bread,” Olson announced, “some cheese, and a couple of very expensive apples. Oh, and there’s this . . . It’s a nice Chardonnay bottled right here in Kentucky. Did you know that Kentuckians have been growing grapes since 1799?”

  Victoria didn’t know. Nor did she care. But she gave Olson points for doing his homework. And, as it turned out, the lunch was excellent. The wine was a nice accompaniment for the crusty bread, slices of apple, and bites of crumbly cheese.

  By the time they were finished eating, Victoria knew everything Olson knew, or believed he knew, as the officer’s access to Sloan’s plans was quite limited. Still . . . given input from a lot of different people, the analysts in Houston would be able to stitch things together.

  “Good,” Victoria said, as Olson poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “Now let’s talk about the next step . . . And that’s coming over to our side. Our forces are going to pull out of Bowling Green in the next forty-eight hours. That will generate positive press in the North and negative press down south. To counter that, we’d like to announce that an entire company of scouts came over to the Confederacy.”

  “I see,” Olson said as he sipped his Chardonnay. “And then?”

  “And then you will use your skills on our behalf, per the contract you agreed to in Indianapolis.”

  Olson smiled. “That sounds good, Victoria . . . But I was hoping for something more . . . A memory that would keep me warm during cold nights.”

  Vic nodded. “I get it . . . You want me to strip, lie on the table, and give you a ride.”

  “That’s not the way I would phrase it,” Olson replied. “But yes, that would be nice.”

  Victoria smil
ed to take the sting out of her reply. “It’s tempting, Ross, it really is, but I would find it difficult to enjoy the occasion knowing that a 105mm shell might land on us while we’re having fun. So let’s put that idea on hold. In the meantime, here’s a slip of paper with your orders on it. Commit them to memory and destroy it.”

  Olson accepted the piece of paper without looking at it. “Roger that. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes,” Victoria agreed as she slid out of the booth. “You will. Take care of yourself.” And with that, she left. The dog was waiting outside.

  ABOARD ARMY ONE, OVER THE STATE OF MISSISSIPPI

  Sloan couldn’t stop yawning. He hoped that the eight men and two women seated around him would assume that he was sleepy rather than scared but feared that they knew the truth. And the fear made sense. The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk was already deep inside enemy territory. Sloan took a moment to look around. McKinney was aboard, as were Jenkins and eight Secret Service agents. All of them were accompanying Sloan over his objections. “Remember,” Jenkins had said two days earlier, “Napoleon had eight thousand bodyguards.”

  “And not only was the man a tyrant,” Sloan had replied, “but he lost the war with England. Thanks a lot.” He looked to his right, saw Jenkins yawn, and smiled.

  Both of the side doors were open, which allowed a steady stream of cold air to enter the cabin. But, like the rest of the team, Sloan was dressed for it. As the Black Hawk sped through the darkness, he could see the clusters of lights and knew that each marked a town. And why not? The rebs had no reason to expect an attack deep in their territory. That would change.

  Sloan leaned back and closed his eyes for what he thought would be a few seconds and woke to find that he had fallen asleep. It was the copilot’s voice that roused him. “We’re five minutes out,” she said. “Check your gear. Lock and load.”

  Sloan had a thing for John Wayne movies and knew where he’d heard the phrase “lock and load” for the first time. The Sands of Iwo Jima had been made in 1949. Now he was John Wayne, except this shit was for real.

  There was a thump as the helicopter put down in the middle of the LZ established by the personnel on the first two helicopters. The presidential party jumped out, ready to fight. But the rebs didn’t realize that they’d been invaded yet. Once the passengers were clear, the Black Hawk took off. Dawn was two hours away. That’s when things would get interesting.

  A DAY LATER NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

  Confederate troops had been forced to pull out of Bowling Green and retreat to a point just south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. But because the rebs had a firm grip on Nashville, the relief force was ordered to swing east and wait for a swarm of missiles to destroy a defense tower. Then they were supposed to push through the hole and race south and west to Richton, Mississippi. And since Granger’s Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion was on the pointy end of the spear—it was their job to lead the way.

  But it soon became apparent what would have been a seven-hour trip for a family on vacation was going to take a lot longer than that. In order to avoid Nashville, the relief force had to travel down Highway 231 just east of Music City. They passed through the towns of Bairds Mill and Silver Hill before they approached Murfreesboro and ran into trouble.

  The Confederates knew about the airborne assault on Richton by then, and the effort to send reinforcements south. So although some of their resources were tied up dealing with the fake attack on Piggott—the rebs threw everything they could into the defense of Murfreesboro. And that brought the Union column to a halt.

  As Abbott’s tanks and the infantry required to support them went forward to deal with the defiant rebs—the lightly armed Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion had an opportunity to rest and regroup. They were camped in and around a middle school. And as Mac made the rounds, she could hear the mutter of cannon fire to the south. It was going to be a long night for the tank crews and the infantry units who were fighting for Murfreesboro.

  Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by a private. “Excuse me, ma’am . . . But Captain Olson would like to see you. He says it’s important.”

  “Okay, where is he?”

  “Room 305, ma’am.”

  Mac said, “Thanks,” and followed the pool of light produced by her headlamp over to a pair of double doors. A flight of stairs led up to the third floor and a wide hallway. The door marked “305” was on the right. She pulled it open and went inside. Most of the furniture had been pushed over against the west wall—but a table was positioned at the center of the room. And there, sitting on top of it, was a cake. Olson looked up from lighting candles. “Happy birthday, Robin.”

  Mac felt a surge of emotion. No one knew it was her birthday . . . Nobody except Olson, that is, who had clearly done some research. “I won’t sing,” he promised. “And you wouldn’t want me to.”

  Mac felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. “Thank you, Ross. This is very sweet of you. Promise you won’t tell. If people find out, I’ll have to take shit about it for days.”

  “It’s our secret,” Olson assured her. “Now come over and make a wish. But, if it involves me, I’m already here.”

  Mac laughed as she approached the table. The movement caused the flames to shiver. What would she wish for? Peace? Or something selfish? She chose peace.

  “Way to go,” Olson said, as the last candle went out. “Now it’s time for a drink and a slice of cake. Don’t worry . . . According to the girl at the bakery, this puppy is only a week old. I hope you like chocolate.”

  “I love chocolate,” Mac replied, as Olson held a chair for her.

  “Good. Chocolate goes with Jack Daniels. Of course everything goes with Jack Daniels,” Olson added as he poured two generous drinks.

  The cake was stale, but good nonetheless. And Mac knew that she would never forget that particular birthday. The first drink was followed by a second plus another surprise.

  “No birthday party is complete without dancing,” Olson announced. “So I came prepared.” Olson’s MP3 player was connected to a small speaker. “Unforgettable” flooded the room. And, once inside the circle of Olson’s arms, Mac discovered that the man could dance. She allowed herself to relax as they circled the table.

  And it was then, as the first song came to an end and another one began that Olson kissed her. It was a good kiss and the first in a very long time. He plans to seduce you, the inner voice warned.

  I hope so, Mac replied.

  Why?

  Because he’s pretty, because it’s my birthday, and because I may be dead in a few days. That, it seemed, was sufficient to silence the voice, which wasn’t heard from again.

  What ensued was slow, considerate, and very satisfying. There was no bed or anything that resembled a bed in the room. So, rather than lie on the floor, they made love standing up. Olson was strong enough to lift Mac, find his way in, and hold her there.

  As kisses were given and taken, man-made thunder rumbled in the distance. The pace of their lovemaking increased gradually until Mac found herself at a point from which it was impossible to go higher. The resulting orgasm was not only spectacular but mutual, and that made the experience all the more enjoyable. And when it was over, Mac felt no sense of regret.

  After putting their clothes on, they slow danced for a while and had another drink before parting company. There were no declarations of love, and no promises regarding a future that might not exist. What would be would be.

  Mac went back to what had been the nurse’s office and checked to make sure that her appearance was okay before going out to check on her troops. Then it was time to slip into her sleeping bag and a dreamless sleep.

  RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

  The Richton-Perry County Airport had been transformed into a fort. The maintenance crew’s backhoe had been used to dig a deep ditch around one-third of the runway, and by piling the loose
soil inside the trench, the Rangers were able to create a defensive berm. And the minute that task was complete, the tractor was put to work digging a large hole at the center of the area that, once it was roofed over, would house the unit’s HQ.

  Then, if the enemy granted them enough time, the soldiers planned to dig a spider’s web system of trenches that would connect the fighting positions together. Some wags were already referring to the base as “The Alamo.”

  By the morning of day three, 360 Army Rangers had landed inside the perimeter, the newly created berm was surrounded by Confederate troops, and the base was taking a pounding. Thanks to a plentiful supply of FIM-92 Stinger shoulder-launched missiles, the rebel air force had been kept at bay so far. But for how long? And now, as the Confederate noose continued to tighten, General Abbott’s airborne supply line was being systematically choked off.

  The reality of that was evident as the sun rose, a sickly-gray light crept in from the east, and a heavily laden Chinook helicopter arrived. Ground fire lashed up at it, and Sloan heard himself yell, “Turn around! Go back!”

  But the pilot didn’t go back. It appeared that he, or she, was determined to deliver the helo’s cargo of food and medical supplies no matter the cost. So as the Chinook continued to bore in, multiple streams of bullets raked the cigar-shaped fuselage. Smoke appeared as the machine lost altitude. Now the ship couldn’t turn back. Sloan yelled, “Come on! You can make it!”

  And for one brief moment, it looked as though the Chinook would make it. Then a rocket-propelled grenade struck the helo, and Sloan saw a flash of light and heard a loud bang. The pilot lost control, and the flaming chopper roared in over the berm, where it flopped onto a mortar pit and killed everyone inside.