“Why not bring the president out by air?” Mac inquired.
“For the same reason we can’t resupply the airhead,” Granger answered. “The airport is surrounded by AA batteries. Plus, the president said that if a helo managed to get through, he’d refuse to board it unless all the Rangers come with him.”
“The airborne idea was stupid,” Mac observed, “but he’s staying with the troops. I like that.”
Granger nodded. “The president ain’t perfect, but he’s worth saving, so get your butt in gear.”
That had been four hours earlier. Mac’s temporary command consisted of two Buffalos, six Strykers, a tanker loaded with twenty-five hundred gallons of fuel, and six M35 trucks. Fifteen vehicles in all. Since the convoy’s departure US Route 231 had been “prepped” by A-10s and Apache helicopters. That allowed the quick-moving column to thread its way through a maze of still-smoldering vehicles even as they took sporadic fire from rebel troops.
Rather than give them a target, Mac chose to ride inside one-three’s mostly empty cargo bay. She could hear occasional pings as bullets flattened themselves on the Stryker’s armor. That didn’t bother her but would scare the crap out the people in the unarmored tanker and the M35s. It couldn’t be helped, however . . . All she could do was hope for the best.
Even though the truck commander swore that they were doing a steady 50 mph, which was damned good given the conditions, Mac wanted to go even faster . . . And it took a lot of self-discipline to keep from checking on the convoy’s position every five minutes. So it came as a relief when the TC announced that Shelbyville lay just ahead.
Mac ordered the fueler to the front of the column before telling all the other drivers to pull over. “Top off your tanks,” she instructed, “and pull forward. Make sure that at least one weapon in every vehicle is manned,” she told them. “Pee if you need to, but don’t go more than twenty feet off the highway to do it. And pee quickly . . . We won’t be here for long. Sergeant Poole, meet me at one-three, and let’s get to work.”
Mac had the footlocker open by the time the ramp went down, and Poole arrived with two privates. “Grab some spray paint and flags,” Mac told them. “It’s time to redecorate.”
The idea had occurred to Mac when she saw Pearce’s people stuffing trophy flags into a garbage bag. By covering all of the Union designators with beige paint and flying Confederate flags from every antenna, they might be able to convince the rebs that the convoy belonged to them. And why not? Both sides were using the same kinds of vehicles and were dressed in nearly identical uniforms.
Once the changes were made, Mac ordered everyone to “mount up,” and the convoy got under way. Shelbyville had a population of sixteen thousand people. And as the “Confederate” military vehicles rolled through, the locals came out to wave. “Smile at them,” Mac said over the radio, “and honk your horns.”
They did, and the column of vehicles was able pass through town without being shot at. The good luck held as the convoy snaked through Fayetteville and across the border into Alabama. Then, in order to avoid Huntsville and the Redstone Arsenal located nearby, Mac ordered the lead Buffalo to turn west. The extraction team rolled onto I-65 south with flags flying.
Meanwhile, based on the reports that Munroe was receiving, the heavies had been able to establish a firebase just north of the state line. But tanks and the soldiers sent to protect them were attracting so many rebs that they might have to pull back. If that occurred, Mac’s line of retreat would vanish.
Mac forced herself to ignore that possibility as the blood-red sun arced across the sky, and the column continued south. Everything went smoothly until Munroe received a message from HQ. Based on video captured by the Predator drone that was scouting ahead of them—a Confederate roadblock was blocking the freeway north of Birmingham. Perhaps it was a routine affair—or maybe it had been set up to stop the convoy. The reason didn’t matter.
What did matter was the need to break through, and the fact that if they managed to do so, their disguise wouldn’t work anymore. But all good things must come to an end, Mac told herself, as she stuck her head and shoulders up through the hatch. It had to happen. “This is Six actual,” she said, over the radio. “Shoot anyone who fires at you. Over.”
The checkpoint was a well-organized affair, with two lanes for civilians and an express lane for military vehicles. On orders from Mac, the first Buffalo began to accelerate as Confederate MPs sought to flag them down. The fifty-six-thousand-pound truck collided with the back end of a Humvee and sent the vehicle flying end over end. It landed on its roof, and sparks flew as it screeched to a stop. The Buf blew past. Rebel troops opened up on the rest of the vehicles as they followed. Mac and the rest of the gunners fired back. The engagement was over less than a minute later.
Mac knew what would happen next. The rebs would pull out all of the stops to block the convoy. And, since they were still 230 miles away from Richton, it was going to get hairy. A knot formed in her stomach.
They were doing 60 mph as they left Birmingham on I-20/59. Mac eyed the lead-gray sky. They had no air cover other than the Predator. And she was well aware of the fact that a single A-10 could grease her tiny command in a matter of minutes. But the ceiling was low, and that might keep planes on the ground. Luck would play a big role in what happened next.
Fifteen minutes later, word came in that two tanks and a whole lot of infantry were waiting for them in Tuscaloosa. And there was no speedy way to bypass the city. “I have two Hellfire missiles hanging on my Pred,” the drone operator told her. “I’ll take care of the big stuff. The rest of it belongs to you.”
As they entered town, Mac saw thick columns of black smoke ahead and knew the pilot had kept his promise. After passing the burning hulks, the convoy came under small-arms fire. What sounded like hail rattled against the Stryker’s hull as Mac fired back. Empty brass flew sideways, bounced, and hit the road.
But the rebs had something more serious up their sleeves. The officer in charge had placed AT4 teams on overpasses, where they could fire down on the Union vehicles! Mac swore as a rocket struck the lead Buffalo’s windshield and exploded. With no hands on the wheel, the enormous vehicle careened across the freeway and slammed into a concrete embankment. Fuel spilled and went up in flames. Mac shouted into her mike. “Those are unguided missiles! Take evasive action!”
MISS WASHINGTON swerved left and right, a rocket flew past, and Mac heard rather than saw the resulting explosion. There was no time to think about it as six motorcycles entered the freeway. Each bike carried two riders. A driver and a gunner. The gunners were armed with stubby M320 grenade launchers. They were single-shot weapons—but one hit from a high-explosive round could destroy the fueler.
“Protect the tanker!” Mac ordered. Working as a team, two Strykers pulled forward to shield both sides of the vulnerable fueler. Grenades exploded as they struck the birdcages that protected the trucks. The motorcyclists paid a heavy price as the convoy’s gunners fired on them. Mac saw a bike tip over, slide, and block another machine, which did a complete somersault. The driver landed on his head.
Then, as quickly as they’d entered the trap, the Union soldiers broke free of it. Mac’s thoughts were on the soldiers in Buf one, and their families in Arizona. How many of her Marauders were going to die? It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Sparks . . . Get Richton on the horn. Tell them that we’re three hours out—and to package the worst casualties for transport in the Strykers. The rest of the Rangers will ride in the trucks. They can bring medical gear, personal weapons, and ammo. Nothing more. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Munroe answered. And as he went to work, Mac’s thoughts turned to the task ahead. The airport was surrounded . . . How could she break through the Confederates? And do so quickly? What she needed was a club. A big club . . . But what? Then the answer came to her . . . Would the brass authorize it for her? N
o, probably not. But would they do it for the President of the United States? Hell yes, they would. Mac smiled.
CHAPTER 12
No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.
—GENERAL COLIN POWELL
RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI
Sloan and those who still had strength enough were enlarging the bunker by hand. It was a team effort. One Ranger would use a pick to break chunks of mud off a wall, another would load them onto a shelter half, and a third would drag the load up the ramp for disposal. There were four teams, and it was hard for them to stay out of each other’s way.
Meanwhile, the rebs continued to probe various sections of the perimeter and drop mortar rounds into the compound. Sloan didn’t wonder if he was going to die in Richton. The question was when. And the sooner, the better. He was swinging a pick when the order went out: “Pull back from the berm! Get into the bunker! Cover your heads!”
Sloan didn’t have to enter the bunker since he was already in it. He turned his back to the wall and sat in the mud. Men crowded in around him as McKinney and his officers sought to pack everyone into the underground retreat. A lieutenant called out a number as each person entered. That was followed by a crisp, “Everyone is present or accounted for, sir!”
“Roger that,” McKinney said, from somewhere nearby. “Incoming! Cover your heads!”
Nothing happened. Ten long seconds dragged by. The chaplain was praying. “‘Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we fear no evil: for thou art with us; thy rod and thy staff they comfort us.’” What was happening up above? Were rebs preparing to enter the compound? Sloan hoped so.
Sloan felt the earth move as the first of what was to be six submarine-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles landed outside the berm. All Sloan could hear was a muted thump as the thousand-pound warhead detonated.
The bunker’s roof consisted of wood salvaged from an outbuilding and covered with two feet of dirt. Some of that soil filtered down to dust the tops of their heads as more missiles left their tubes out in the Gulf of Mexico, arched high into the sky, and fell at a steep angle.
Taken together, the resulting explosions were calculated to create a 360-degree swath of destruction around the firebase, thereby opening a hole for the extraction team. A cheer went up with each additional strike, and after the last impact, McKinney spoke. “Let’s hear it, Rangers! Three cheers for the United States Navy!”
The response was a heartfelt, if not entirely respectful: “Swabbies! Swabbies! Swabbies!”
“All right,” McKinney told them, “the first platoon will go up and reestablish the perimeter. The second platoon will stand by to load casualties. The extraction team is due to arrive five from now. Go!”
Sloan followed a Ranger up onto the surface, where he paused to inhale some moist air. It was pitch-black, so he couldn’t see the destruction the missiles had inflicted, but there was no incoming fire. Not a single shot. That spoke for itself. A distant voice could be heard calling for a medic . . . And that meant some of the rebs were still alive.
“Here they come!” someone yelled, and Sloan saw headlights approaching from the west. They were taped, to reduce the amount of light they threw, and seemed to wander as the column made its way through what resembled a moonscape. A spotlight came on as a vehicle with a dozer blade hit the berm and pushed its way into the compound. The evacuation had begun.
Sloan took one end of a stretcher and helped carry a badly wounded Ranger toward a large vehicle with eight wheels. A female army captain was directing traffic, and when Sloan tripped, she moved in to support him. “Careful, Private . . . Watch where you step.”
That was when McKinney appeared out of the gloom. “The private is the President of the United States, Captain Macintyre.”
“Sorry, Mr. President,” the captain said. “But watch where you step.”
Sloan grinned as Macintyre helped load the patient onto GLORY BOY. Once the task was accomplished, they stepped aside to let another stretcher pass. The wash from a cargo light fell across her face. And as Sloan looked at Macintyre, he was struck by the thick mop of brown hair, the officer’s steady eyes, and her softly rounded features. She didn’t look like a warrior—not to him anyway. But her name had been mentioned more than once during the last twenty-four hours, and Sloan realized that he was face-to-face with the officer in command of the extraction team. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” Macintyre responded. “I hear they call you ‘the fighting president.’ That’s good, because we’ll have to kick some ass in order to make it home.” And with that, she was gone.
The evacuation was supposed to take thirty minutes, but the better part of an hour had elapsed by the time the last Rangers were pulled back off the berm and loaded into trucks. Mac was standing near the back end of an M35, talking to Sergeant Ralston, when Major McKinney appeared. A taillight threw a reddish glow across McKinney’s face. “There you are,” he said. “I have orders for you.”
Mac felt mixed emotions. She liked being on her own in many ways. And orders, any orders, would limit her freedom. Of course, orders could protect her as well. Especially when the shit hit the fan. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” McKinney said. “Shortly after the column departs, it will split into three elements. Here’s a list of the vehicles in each element—and the routes they’re supposed to follow.
“You’ll be in charge of Element Alpha,” McKinney said, as he gave Ralston a piece of paper. “Your orders are to go back the way you came, hook up with the heavies, and accompany them back to our lines.
“I will lead Element Bravo up Highway 15,” McKinney added, as he turned to Macintyre, “while you take the president north on Highway 45.”
Mac frowned. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Go for it.”
“Does dividing our force by three make sense? Wouldn’t it be better to keep everyone together?”
“Normally, I would say, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “But there’s nothing normal about this situation. Our most important objective is to get the president home in one piece.”
Mac felt a rising sense of anger. “So you’re going to use the Rangers, and most of my command, as decoys.”
“In a word, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “We’re at war, Captain . . . And the president’s life is worth more than mine, yours, or Sergeant Ralston’s.”
Mac looked at Ralston. She knew his wife and his children. He nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Mac felt a lump form in her throat and struggled to swallow it. “And the president? What does he think of your plan?”
“He doesn’t know about it,” McKinney answered evenly. “And that’s the way it’s going to remain until the elements part company. Then, when you think the time is right, you can tell him.”
“Excuse me, but that’s going to be a problem, sir . . . According to what I heard, Sloan prides himself on being with the troops. He’ll have you court-martialed.”
McKinney frowned. “Do you think I give a shit? I left the army, and I came back to serve my country. It needs Sloan. Yes, following General Abbott’s advice was a mistake. But that’s how it goes. Lincoln placed his trust in McClellan, and we know how that turned out. Lincoln won the war, though . . . Besides, who among us hasn’t been fooled by someone?”
Mac thought about Olson. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. You have a talent for war, Macintyre. The fact that you’re here proves that. So I’m counting on you to get Sloan home. For our country. Do you read me?”
Mac was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. “Yes, sir. Five by five.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you up north. And you, too, Sergeant Ralston. I’ll buy the beer.”
They parted company at that point. According to the orders Mac had been given,
she was to command MISS WASHINGTON and the BETSY ROSS. And sure enough . . . She returned to find that neither truck was carrying casualties, their tanks had been topped off, and the President of the United States was chatting with Munroe. It seemed that both of them were worried about the impact the war would have on professional baseball.
Sloan turned to look as Mac entered the cargo bay and the ramp came up. “We meet again . . . Are we about to leave?”
“Yes, sir,” Mac responded.
“Where’s Major McKinney? And Director Jenkins?”
“In other vehicles, sir. It doesn’t make sense to put all of our senior people in one truck.”
Sloan nodded. “Right. You’ll keep me informed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Mac put her helmet on, stuck her head and shoulders up through the forward hatch, and gave the necessary order. “This is Charlie-Six . . . You have your orders. Let’s roll.”
Then, sure that Sloan couldn’t hear, Mac spoke to the MISS WASHINGTON’s truck commander via the Stryker’s intercom. “Hey, Fuller . . . We’re going to split off from the main column when you come up on Highway 42. Follow it to 45 and hang a left. The Betsy Ross will take our six.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fuller replied.
“And keep that to yourself,” Mac said. “Do you read me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Lights on? Or lights off?”
Mac thought about it and decided that it was best to look as normal as possible in hopes that the locals would assume the vehicles were on their side. “Lights on,” she told him. “Thanks for asking.”
MISS WASHINGTON lurched through a series of craters before finding smooth pavement. Mac could hear the parting comments from other vehicles as the convoy split up, but Sloan couldn’t. And she planned to keep him in the dark for as long as possible.
It didn’t take long to hook up with 45 and turn north. The highway took them through Battles, Chicora, and up to Waynesboro, all without incident. Fuller had to pass heavily laden trucks every once in a while, but traffic was light, and the trucks were doing fifty. Everything looked green to Mac, who was wearing night-vision gear.
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