Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  Sloan looked on in horror as the fuselage rolled slightly, causing one of the helicopter’s thirty-foot-long rotors to hit the ground, shear off, and fly away. The blade sliced a corporal’s head off before burying itself in the berm beyond.

  Sloan was in shock. He was standing there, trying to process the horror of what he’d seen, when General Abbott appeared at his side. “I think that will be the last one,” she said calmly.

  Sloan turned to look at her. “And the relief force?”

  “They’re still hung up in Murfreesboro,” she told him. “Colonel Foster expects to break out by nightfall however. At that point, they’ll be about 420 miles away.”

  “Can we hold?”

  Abbott looked surprised. “Of course we can hold! We held at the Battle of Shiloh, we held at the Battle of the Bulge, and we’ll hold here.”

  Sloan felt some of Abbott’s confidence seep into his body. The relief force could travel 420 miles in what? A day? Two at the most. One of the Chinook’s fuel tanks exploded and threw pieces of fiery wreckage up into the sky. A chorus of rebel yells was heard from the other side of the berm. The clock was ticking.

  NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

  After a good night’s sleep, Mac was in the school cafeteria, pouring herself a cup of coffee, when the runner approached her. “I have a message from the major,” she said. “He wants to see you right away.”

  Mac’s appetite disappeared. “Roger that. I’m on my way.”

  Granger was camped in the coach’s office, just off the gym, where Captain Pearce and her HQ people were stationed. As Mac crossed the badly scuffed floor, she could tell that something was up. Pearce’s people were packing, and more than that, they were unusually subdued.

  Mac knocked on the partly opened door and waited for Granger to say, “Enter.” Mac stepped inside and came to attention. Granger said, “As you were,” and pointed to a chair. “I suppose you heard.” His expression was grim.

  Mac shook her head. “Heard what?”

  Granger made a face. “Captain Olson took his company out on a mission and never returned.”

  Mac frowned. “Get serious.”

  “I am serious. But it gets worse. Not only did Olson desert—he went over to the enemy! The news is on all of the rebel radio stations. And you can bet it’s getting a lot of play up north as well.”

  Mac remembered the birthday cake, the dancing, and all that followed. She’d been set up, used, and discarded. Like a piece of trash. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseous.

  Some of Mac’s emotions must have been visible on her face because Granger nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I feel the same way. That’s why I want you to find the bastard and bring him in.”

  “And if he doesn’t want to come?”

  “He’s an enemy combatant. Treat him as such . . . And that goes for the rest of Rat Company as well.”

  Mac liked her orders. She liked them a lot. But first she had to find Olson, so she went to see Sergeant Esco. The drone pilot and Sparks Munroe were sitting in Esco’s Humvee. “We heard the news,” Munroe said. “So we were expecting you. Is the CO sending us out to bring the bastards in?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Mac replied. “Assuming we can find them.”

  “We can, and we did,” Esco told her. “The Rats had to keep their IFF (identification, friend or foe) gear on until they entered reb-held territory. And the com people were tracking them. Suddenly, all of Rat Company’s vehicles came to a stop. At that point, some of their IFFs went dead, as if the bastards were trying to disappear, but some stayed on. As for why, take a look at the screen. I’m using the Raven because it’s small and hard to spot.”

  Mac leaned in to look at the screen. The drone was circling a sports field. Except that the facility was no longer being used to play games. Mac could see what appeared to be soldiers, more than a hundred in all, standing in small groups. Confederates? No, not given the fences that surrounded them and the Humvees positioned to fire on the crowd.

  They were prisoners then . . . Union prisoners who had been captured during the last three days. “It looks like a holding area,” Mac observed. “A place to keep prisoners until the rebs can ship them somewhere else. But what makes you think that Olson’s people are mixed in?”

  “This,” Esco said, as he sent the drone out over the neighboring parking lot. And there, positioned side by side, were Olson’s vehicles. Some were transmitting IFF signals. A picture started to emerge. Rat Company had been ordered to report to the lot and meet with someone. Then, while Olson’s soldiers were busy turning the IFF transponders off, the rebs took them prisoner! Why? Because troops who were willing to desert the Union might desert the Confederacy, too. “Well done,” Mac said. “Have you been able to spot Olson? Granger wants that son of a bitch, and so do I.”

  “No,” Esco replied. “I’m afraid the rebs will spot the Raven if I drop that low.”

  “That makes sense,” Mac said. “All right . . . Here’s the plan. We’re going to go down there, find Olson, and turn those prisoners loose. Esco, you’ll operate from here. Sparks, you’re coming with me.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until nightfall?” Esco inquired.

  “We can’t afford to,” Mac answered. “What if the rebs move the prisoners south? It would be impossible to reach them.”

  Mac left, with Munroe in tow. Then she went looking for Ralston and delivered a short rundown. “We’ll take every Stryker we have . . . But leave the rest of the company’s vehicles here. I want to roll thirty from now. Oh, and we’re going to need six deuce-and-a-half trucks for the prisoners . . . Tell Sergeant Smith. He’ll find them if anyone can.”

  Strike Force Thunder left the school thirty-seven minutes later. The plan was to circle around the worst of the fighting by following Highway 102 under I-24 to Burnt Knob Road, where the trucks would meet them.

  The Confederates would notice the convoy needless to say—and throw whatever they could at it. But once Mac told Granger about the prisoners, and he passed the word to Colonel Foster, two Apache gunships were assigned to protect the column.

  With the ESV to clear the way, Mac hoped to hit the POW camp before the rebs could figure out what her intentions were. Mac was standing in MISS WASHINGTON’s forward air-guard hatch. She could feel the press of air against her face and the adrenaline buzz that preceded combat. Large mounds of garbage blocked the road ahead. The ESV hit one of them blade down and sent trash flying as militiamen wearing old-time Confederate uniforms fired assault rifles at it.

  Mac engaged one group with the M60 machine gun mounted in front of her and saw two soldiers fall. Once MISS WASHINGTON passed through the gap, the next vic opened fire. The two-lane road was flanked by ranch-style homes, leafy trees, and yards equipped with swing sets. Mac found it hard to believe that she was in a war zone until she saw a burned-out Bradley slumped beside the road.

  Half a mile farther on, Mac saw a woman hanging from a tree. Was she a looter? A Union sympathizer? Anything was possible as the ESV swerved to avoid a bomb crater. That sent a flock of crows flapping up into the air. Mac winced when she saw the body they’d been feeding on.

  Then the scene was gone, and Mac saw trouble up ahead. It consisted of a one-ton pickup truck with an antitank missile launcher mounted on the back. But MISS WASHINGTON’s gunner spotted the threat, too, and fired. The 105mm shell scored a direct hit on the truck, and the explosion threw debris in every direction.

  But that was just the beginning. Rebel troops were concealed in the strip mall that bordered the highway. They fired three RPGs at the ESV, and one of them was right on target. There was a flash, followed by a bang, and Mac feared the worst. But as the smoke blew away, the ESV was still rolling! The force of the explosion had been dispersed by the Stryker’s slat armor. The truck’s top gunner was slumped forward, however—and Mac feared he was dead. “This is Blue-Bolt-T
wo and -Three,” a voice said in her ear. “Stand by . . . We’ll tidy up.”

  Rockets hit the buildings along both sides of the street as the Apaches roared over Mac’s head. The ground fire stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the convoy free to proceed. Mac felt a surge of excitement as Strike Force Thunder turned onto Burnt Knob Road. The trucks were there, just as Sergeant Smith promised they would be, all armed with over-the-cab fifties. Mac opened the intercom. “Hey, Sparks . . . Tell the trucks to fall in behind the last Stryker and keep it closed up.”

  The Apaches were circling a mile ahead, firing on ground targets and clearing a path for the Strykers. “Charlie-Six actual to Strike Force Thunder,” Mac said. “We’re about two miles from the objective. Remember the plan. I’m going to bail out in the parking lot with Alpha One-Two and his squad. The rest of you will go in hard. Neutralize the Humvees but be careful! A hundred Union soldiers are being held inside the fence, and once you break in, they’ll run every which way. Don’t shoot them. Once the place is secure, load ’em up and meet me in the parking lot. Charlie-Seven will be in command. Over.”

  Mac heard a flurry of clicks by way of acknowledgments as the ESV took a hard right and entered the parking lot. By prior agreement, MISS WASHINGTON and the BETSY ROSS paused to let people off. Then they followed the last deuce and a half as the column closed in on the athletic field.

  The squad detailed to work with Mac and Munroe consisted of Sergeant Poole and eight members of the first platoon. Mac heard radio chatter and machine-gun fire as she led the detachment of troops into the maze of captured vehicles. Some were in perfect condition, while others were shot up. All of them wore Union markings.

  The Raven was circling above, which allowed Esco to see the squad and provide directions. “Turn right,” he said. “And follow the corridor west. Take cover behind the Buffalo.”

  Mac knew Esco was referring to the hulking MRAP or Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle located directly in front of her. The Buf was huge and would provide the team with a place to hide, while Olson and his people ran from the rescuers and into the parking lot, where their motorcycles and rat rods were parked.

  Why? Because the mercenaries had broken their contract with the Union and were classified as deserters. All of them would wind up in a federal prison if captured by the North. Plus, they’d need their vehicles to escape. All Mac and her soldiers had to do was wait.

  And sure enough, no more than a minute had passed by the time Esco got on the horn. “Here they come,” he warned. “About three dozen of them all headed your way.”

  “Roger that,” Mac replied. “Over.”

  Thirty-six fugitives would’ve been a lot to handle had they been armed. But that wasn’t the case, so Mac figured that Poole and his soldiers could handle the job. She peered around the front of the Buffalo, and there they were, with Olson in the lead. He was running full out. “Wait for it,” Mac said. “Wait for it . . . Now!”

  The soldiers charged into the open, where Poole ordered the escapees to stop and raise their hands. Most obeyed. But a few of them had weapons that had been taken off dead guards. They opened fire, and Olson was one of them. Mac cursed herself for failing to anticipate such a possibility.

  She raised her assault rifle and was going to shoot Olson, when Munroe did it for her. Buckshot from his shotgun hit Olson’s legs and dumped the mercenary onto the pavement. His weapon skittered away as Mac went forward to stare down at him. Their eyes met. Olson’s face was screwed up in pain. “Robin? Hey, hon, how ’bout some first aid? I’m bleeding to death.”

  Mac nodded. “That’s too bad.”

  Olson spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re a stone-cold bitch . . . Just like your sister.”

  Mac frowned. “You know Victoria?”

  Olson had freed his belt by then—and was wrapping it around a thigh. “Yes, I do. She paid us to come over and double-crossed us when we did.”

  Mac smiled thinly. “That sounds like my big sis.”

  Olson made a face as he pulled the tourniquet tight. “Give me your belt,” he demanded. “For the other leg.”

  “Sorry,” Mac replied. “I need my belt. It’s holding my pants up.”

  Olson’s face was contorted with anger. “I screwed your sister.”

  Mac nodded as she brought the rifle up. “And she screwed you.”

  There was a loud bang, and half of Olson’s face disappeared. “I saw that!” one of the Rats yelled. “You murdered him!”

  The blood drained out of the man’s face as the weapon swiveled around to point at him. “Not so,” Mac replied calmly. “My rifle went off by accident.”

  “That’s how it looked to me,” Munroe confirmed.

  “I’ll have the company armorer look at it,” Poole put in. “Maybe you need a new trigger assembly.” His soldiers chuckled.

  Mac waited for the wave of remorse. It never arrived. She felt empty . . . sad and empty. An engine roared as one of the Strykers pulled up next to her. Sergeant Ralston jumped down. “The prisoners are on the trucks, ma’am. We took two casualties. Doc Obbie says both of them are going to make it.”

  “Good. Search the prisoners for weapons and load them up. We need to get out of here pronto.”

  Ralston responded, “Roger that,” and went to work. The Apaches continued to circle overhead as Mac returned to MISS WASHINGTON and climbed aboard. Victoria. They would meet one day . . . And one of them was going to die.

  RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI

  The President of the United States was sleeping in a ditch six feet away from General Abbot’s unburied corpse. His eyes flew open as cold raindrops hit his face and trickled down his cheeks. A flash of light was followed by a loud boom as something struck the center of the compound. Lightning? Thunder? No. It was an incoming 81mm mortar round. The rebs fired one at the same spot every fifteen minutes. The purpose of the ritual was to prevent the Rangers from sleeping, and the plan was a success.

  Sloan eyed his watch. It was 0947 on the fourth day of hell. General Abbott had been killed the day before, leaving Major McKinney in command. All because Sloan had been stupid enough to believe that he could use a shortcut to win the war. General Hern was correct . . . There was only one way to whip the Confederacy . . . And that was to push them back foot by bloody foot until they were ass deep in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Sloan forced himself to roll over and stand. Sheets of rain were falling by then, and his uniform was covered with mud. He barely noticed as he followed the trench toward the bunker. Sloan heard the crack of a rifle shot as a Union sniper fired—followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire as enemy bullets raked the top of the berm. He was too tired to look back.

  A ramp led him down into the stinking hole where the battalion surgeon and his medics were laboring to save as many lives as they could. Everything was in short supply—and that included blood volume expanders, dressings, and painkillers. Sloan heard a man groan as he followed the dangling flashlights past the aid station to the command center beyond. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots as he entered the room. McKinney was sitting on an ammo crate with a handset to his ear. He looked up, nodded, and pointed to a chair. “Yes, sir . . . Tomorrow by 1500. That sounds good. We’ll save some rebs for the relief force to shoot at. Over.”

  And with that, McKinney gave the handset to his RTO. “Good news, Mr. President . . . Colonel Foster believes the lead element of his relief force will arrive by midafternoon tomorrow.”

  Sloan was sitting on a lawn chair with the assault rifle laid across his knees. “He believes? Or he knows?”

  McKinney shrugged. “He believes that he knows . . . How’s that?”

  Sloan chuckled. “Can we hold on long enough for that?”

  McKinney nodded. “Of course . . . This is our shit hole, and we’re going to hold it until we’re ready to leave.”

  Sloan was reminded of what
Abbott had said in response to the same question. He shook his head in mock despair. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

  McKinney grinned. “Look who’s talking, sir.”

  A mortar round landed above them, and dirt showered their heads. Both of them laughed.

  NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

  “We broke through. The rebs had to pull back.” That’s what Major Granger told Mac when she returned to the school. Captain Pearce and her staff had finished packing their gear and were loading it onto a truck as the two of them spoke.

  “That means we can send a convoy south,” Granger continued. “Except that it isn’t a relief force anymore. General Abbott was killed in action, and there’s no way in hell that her plan will work. So we’re sending an extraction team instead. But the opportunity to pull our people out of Richton won’t last for long. Confederate reinforcements are on the way . . . And in a day, two at most, they’ll roll over the airhead and erase it. That’s where you and your people come in. I’m sorry to send you out so soon—but Charlie Company is all I have to work with at the moment.”

  Mac felt a sense of relief. Granger was all business. If the major knew about Olson’s fate, which he almost certainly did, he’d chosen to ignore it. And that was fine with her. “Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “You can count on us.”

  “Good,” Granger replied as he opened a map. “Here’s how it’s going to work. The relief force will rely on speed and brute force to get through. Wheeled vehicles can travel faster—so they’ll take the lead. You’ll have two Buffalo Cougars on point. They’ll trigger any mines or IEDs that have been planted along the highway. Your Strykers will come next, followed by transportation for the Rangers.

  “The heavies, including a company of tanks, will bring up the rear. Their job is to protect your line of retreat. But you’ll outrun them pretty quickly. Then you’ll be on your own.”