Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  Their luck continued to hold all the way up to Meridian, where Highway 45 passed the city a few miles to the east. Then they came up on something Mac hadn’t anticipated. A Confederate convoy! It happened so quickly that they couldn’t avoid it, and Mac was trying to formulate a plan, when Munroe tugged on her pant leg. “What’s going on up there?” he wanted to know. “I’ve got a rebel lieutenant on the horn. He wants us to identify ourselves.”

  Mac’s mind was racing. “Tell him we’re members of Bravo Company, from the Austin Volunteers, and we’re headed to Columbus. Ask him if this is Highway 15.”

  Mac didn’t know if there was such a thing as the Austin Volunteers and figured the lieutenant didn’t either. She ducked down into the cargo bay and removed her helmet. The president was staring at her. “What’s up?”

  Mac held up a hand as Munroe said, “Yes, sir . . . Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the captain. Over.”

  Munroe looked from face to face and grinned. “He told me to tell you that we’re on Highway 45, but it will still take us to Columbus, and we’re welcome to tag along.”

  “That’s outstanding,” Mac told him. “Talk about lucky . . . Good job.”

  Then she turned to Sloan. “We ran into the tail end of a reb convoy, sir . . . And they allowed us to join up! All we have to do is follow them to Columbus and find a way to fade.”

  Sloan’s grin turned into a frown at the mention of Columbus. He produced a much folded map and began to examine it. “Columbus? What the hell? You came down through Birmingham. Where are we?”

  Mac ran fingers through her hair. “We’re on Highway 45, Mr. President. We passed Meridian awhile back.”

  Sloan’s anger was plain to see. “That isn’t the route we were supposed to take. Get Major McKinney on the radio! I want to speak with him now.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Mac replied. “I can’t do that. The major is in command of Element Bravo. They’re rolling up Highway 15, and I have orders to maintain radio silence.”

  Sloan frowned. “McKinney lied to me!”

  “Yes, sir . . . He sure as hell did.”

  “I’ll bust him to private.”

  Mac shrugged. “He doesn’t care, sir. None of us do.” And, somewhat to Mac’s surprise, she discovered that the statement was true.

  Sloan’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, my God! The troops . . . Element Bravo you said. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Mac did so. And when she was finished, Sloan looked away. His voice cracked when he spoke. “He’s using them as decoys.”

  Mac nodded. “Yes, sir . . . And he’s with them. The same way that you’re with us.”

  Sloan’s eyes came back to make contact with hers. He forced a smile. “And there’s no place I’d rather be. What happens now?”

  “We’ll let the rebs lead us into Columbus,” Mac replied. “At that point, we’ll give them the slip and follow Highway 45 into Tennessee. Somewhere right around Jackson, I think we’ll run into trouble.”

  Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because at that point we’ll be about 190 miles away from our lines. Assuming that General Hern has been able to push south, the rebs will have to retreat, forcing us to pass through an area where it will be hard to tell friend from foe.”

  Sloan’s face was covered with grime and three days’ worth of beard. He scratched it. “That makes sense, Captain . . . How do we prepare?”

  “I’m not sure that we can,” Mac answered. “Other than to grab some sleep. There’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about.” She pointed at Munroe. Munroe had fallen asleep during their conversation. His headset was on, and he was snoring.

  Sloan grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

  Mac returned topside after that. Cold air washed around her face, Confederate taillights led the way, and the moon was playing peekaboo through the clouds. She thought about Sloan. The man was sincere . . . and pleasant. Bit by bit, she was coming to like him.

  After a delightfully boring trip to Columbus, the Strykers were able to separate themselves from the convoy with a simple, “Thank you.” Outside of a pit stop just south of Aberdeen, the Strykers drove nonstop up through Tupelo and into Selmer, Tennessee. The trucks were running on fumes by then. When Mac spotted a brightly lit gas station, she ordered the truck commanders to pull over.

  Such convenience stores were typical of what she’d seen in the postcatastrophe South. The so-called board of directors was very good at providing their “shareowners” with fuel and keeping the price down. By using oil from the reserves? Possibly. But regardless of that, it was a good way to build support and keep it.

  After MISS WASHINGTON came to a stop, Mac jumped to the ground and entered the store to speak with the attendant. No customers were present—and that wasn’t surprising at 0246. The kid behind the counter had an unruly thatch of blond hair and a skin condition. “Activate pumps three and four please,” Mac told him.

  The kid pushed some buttons. “Okay, ma’am . . . I’ll need cash or a government voucher.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Mac replied. “I don’t have enough cash—and I’m out of vouchers. But no problem . . . I’ll give you an IOU.”

  “I can’t take IOUs,” the teen replied, and was going to turn the pumps off when Mac drew her pistol.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But I must insist . . . Come out from behind the counter and lie on the floor.” Munroe had entered by then and helped hogtie the kid with a couple of extension cords. “How ’bout some candy bars?” he inquired.

  “No can do,” Mac answered. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  Judging from the expression on Munroe’s face, the RTO couldn’t see any difference between stealing fuel and stealing candy bars. But he couldn’t say that and didn’t.

  They were back on the road ten minutes later. Would the local police look at the surveillance footage? And try to chase the Strykers down? Mac hoped not. But she was ready to respond if they did.

  Fortunately, there was no pursuit. But, consistent with Mac’s fears, the situation on the highway began to change. The southbound lanes of the highway were jammed with cars trying to escape the fighting to the north. The scene was reminiscent of what Mac had seen in Washington State after the meteor impacts.

  The northbound lanes were relatively clear by contrast although the Strykers had to pass slow-moving military vehicles from time to time. No one challenged them, however, since they were speeding toward the front lines, not away from them.

  As they pulled into Jackson, all of the traffic was forced to leave the freeway and funneled through city streets. There was no obvious reason for the detour—and the incoming vehicles added to the congestion in the city’s streets. Mac was standing in the front hatch when an MP signaled for the MISS WASHINGTON to stop, and Fuller had little choice but to obey. The MP climbed up onto the birdcage so that Mac could hear him. “Good morning, ma’am . . . Where are you headed?”

  “Up to Martin,” Mac answered. “To kill us some Yankees.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the MP agreed. “I’d take 45 east if I was you . . . Some A-10s caught one of our convoys on 45 west just before sunset yesterday. Kick some ass for me.”

  “Roger that,” Mac replied. “And thanks for the intel.”

  The soldier jumped to the ground, and Mac ordered Fuller to proceed. Then she ducked down into the cargo bay, where Sloan was waiting. “We’re close, sir . . . Only seventy miles out. But here’s the problem. We’re flying a rebel flag, but when the sun comes up, I’ll have to take it down. Either that, or run the risk of taking fire from Union forces. But, because we won’t be broadcasting a reb IFF signal, they might attack us. That’s why I want you to gear up and be ready if we have to bail out.” Mac pointed to the assault rifle propped up next to him. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  Sloan offered a slow smile. “You�
��ll notice that I’m alive—and that it’s clean.”

  Mac grinned. “Point taken, Mr. President. Did you get some sleep?”

  “No. Did you?”

  Mac laughed. “Hell, no. But Munroe is fully rested. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  It took the better part of an hour for the Strykers to clear the traffic jam, bypass a roadblock, and crash through a fence onto the highway. The northbound lanes were completely empty, and that suited Mac just fine. The Strykers were doing about 50 mph, and every mile they put behind them was a victory.

  The southbound lanes were another story, however. They were filled with reb vehicles, trucks loaded with soldiers, and pathetic-looking civilians, many of whom were on foot. What did that imply? The rebs were pulling back, that’s what . . . And the battle lines were being redrawn back behind them.

  That’s what Mac was thinking when the mine went off under MISS WASHINGTON’s armored belly, flipped the Stryker onto its right side, and threw her into the ditch next to the highway. Mac hit hard and struggled to breathe. Finally, after sucking some air into her lungs, Mac managed to stand. The BETSY ROSS came to a stop just short of the wreck. And that was Mac’s impetus to move. The rebs had mined the northbound lanes of the freeway—and would probably do the same with the southbound lanes once their forces turned to fight. That’s why northbound traffic had been forced off the road and into Jackson. Shit, shit, shit!

  The sky was starting to glow in the east, which meant there was enough light to see by. As Mac arrived at the wreck, Sloan crawled out of the air-guard hatch. He was clutching his rifle and wearing a fully loaded vest. Once on the ground, he turned to assist MISS WASHINGTON’s gunner.

  As Munroe appeared, Mac saw that he had a cut over his right eye. He passed his radio, shotgun, and a bottle of water down before wiggling out. “Fuller?” Mac demanded, as the RTO stood. “Where’s Fuller?”

  Gunner Cissy Roper was on her feet by then. Tears were streaming down her face. “He didn’t make it, ma’am . . . The mine went off under his seat.”

  Mac wrapped an arm around Roper’s bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, Cissy . . . Munroe? Take her to the Betsy Ross. Mr. President, follow me. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  The ramp was already down when they arrived at the BETSY ROSS—and the TC took off before the hatch was up and locked in place. Mac took a quick look around. Sloan had applied a dressing to Munroe’s cut—and Roper was hunched on a bench, with her head in her hands.

  The TC was a corporal named Anders. Mac went forward to speak with him. “Take it slow, Andy . . . Watch the surface of the road for anything that looks suspicious. And drive on the shoulder when you can. That’s a gamble, needless to say—but it’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

  Anders kept his eyes glued to the LCD screen in front of him. He knew how Fuller had been killed, and he knew that the same thing could happen to him. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mac went back to sit on the bench opposite Roper. Her mind was racing. Speed versus safety. That was the calculation. Even though the truck had been forced to go slowly, it was still moving faster than they could walk.

  On the other hand, the BETSY ROSS constituted a very visible target. For both the rebs and Union forces. Unless . . . She turned to Munroe. “Try to get ahold of somebody senior . . . someone on Hern’s staff.”

  Munroe went to work. After a dozen attempts, he shook his head. “I can’t get through . . . Someone is jamming all the frequencies.”

  Mac swore. The “someone” could be working for either side. She turned to find that Sloan was smiling. “Welcome to my world, Captain. A decision has to be made, you’re the one who has to make it, and you have zero intel.”

  Mac made a face. “Screw you, sir.”

  Sloan laughed.

  “Okay,” Mac said, as she glanced around. “Grab anything you need. And don’t forget to bring water. We’re going to bail out.”

  Mac passed the word to Anders, he pulled over, and all of them were clear three minutes later. She would have used a demolition charge to destroy the vehicle if one had been available. But there wasn’t, so Mac ordered Roper to drop two thermite grenades in through a hatch. Odds were that the resulting fire would find some ammo and set it off. Then it was time to run.

  Mac took the point. She had an M4 carbine acquired from the BETSY ROSS, a fully loaded tac vest, and her pistol. They were off the highway, and crossing the fence next to it, when the Stryker blew. Mac heard the explosion but didn’t turn to look. Thick brush blocked the way, and it was necessary to shoulder her way through it.

  A wide-open field lay beyond. It was pockmarked with overlapping shell craters. What remained of a Black Hawk helicopter was sitting in the middle of the field, with bodies sprawled around it. Treetops were visible beyond the crash site. Some had clumps of foliage, but most didn’t, and the rest were jagged stumps. Fingers of smoke probed the sky in the distance—and the rattle of machine-gun fire could be heard. Maybe, if they moved quickly enough, the party could find a way around the fighting. Mac waved the group forward.

  She dashed to a crater, went prone, and waited for the others to catch up. Then it was time to do it again. They were coming up on the Black Hawk’s shot-up carcass when Mac heard a grenade go off and saw what might have been fifty soldiers, all backing out of the tree line. They were firing toward the north . . . And clearly under pressure. Rebs then . . . Left behind to try to slow the enemy down.

  No sooner had that realization sunk in, than the Confederate soldiers turned and charged straight at her. Mac had two choices. She could fight or surrender the President of the United States to the enemy. Mac ran to the helicopter. It was teetering on the edge of a crater as a wisp of black smoke dribbled out of the engine compartment.

  Mac had to climb up the blood-slicked deck, and step over a body, to reach the pintle-mounted machine gun. Then, with both hands on the grips, she opened fire.

  Bullets kicked up columns of dirt in front of the oncoming soldiers and wove a trail of death in among them. Some appeared to trip, others were snatched off their feet, and one man was forced to perform a macabre dance before falling to the ground.

  But there was incoming fire, too . . . Mac heard dozens of pings and felt something tug at her jacket as Sloan yelled, “Kill those bastards!” He was firing short, well-aimed bursts from his assault rifle, and even more fire lashed out at the rebels as Anders and Roper joined the fight.

  Fully half of the enemy soldiers were down by that time, but the survivors were desperate and continued to elbow their way forward. They were getting close, and Mac was about to run out of ammo when some red smoke drifted past the door.

  “Don’t fire on the helicopter!” Munroe shouted, and Mac was about to ask, “What helicopter?” when the Black Hawk swooped in and began to circle. Mac gave thanks when she saw the Union markings on the aircraft’s fuselage.

  Most of the surviving rebs had taken cover in shell craters. But the helicopter crew could see them—and the door gunners opened fire. A brave reb stood, aimed an AT4 at the helo, and staggered as a stream of heavy bullets put him down.

  The Black Hawk circled the area one more time, failed to draw fire, and swooped in for a landing. The rotors continued to turn as black-clad troops jumped out and came rushing forward. “President Sloan!” one of them shouted. “Identify yourself!”

  Mac watched Sloan go out to meet them. He was hustled toward the aircraft as six of the heavily armed rescuers stood ready to shoot Mac’s team. “Back away from the machine gun!” one of them ordered. “Place your hands on your head!”

  Mac did as she was told while Sloan turned, or tried to, only to be stripped of his carbine and hustled away. Once Sloan was inside the helo, the rest of the rescue team returned to the Black Hawk.

  Mac lowered her arms as the engines spooled up, and Army One took to the air. The engine noise began to fade as the Black Ha
wk flew north. Munroe appeared in the doorway. “I got through,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Mac said dryly. “I noticed that. Good job.”

  “So what now?” the RTO wanted to know.

  “We’ll do what we can for the wounded,” Mac answered. “Put out another call . . . Maybe we can get some medics in here. And a Mortuary Affairs team as well.”

  Munroe nodded, and Mac began to tremble. The mission was over—and she was alive.

  As the Black Hawk took off, Sloan ordered the crew to turn around and retrieve the others. “Sorry, Mr. President,” one of the operators said. “Our orders are to bring you back as quickly as possible. Not to mention the fact that there isn’t enough room for them.”

  Sloan aimed a cold stare at him. “Give me my rifle.”

  The man made no effort to obey. Sloan pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man’s face. “Give me my rifle, or I will blow your fucking brains out!”

  “Give the president his rifle,” a familiar voice said. “I taught him to never part with it. And he’s been through a lot.”

  Sloan turned to find himself eyeball to eyeball with McKinney. The soldier nodded. “Welcome back, Mr. President . . . Don’t worry about Captain Macintyre. A second bird is on the way to pick her up.”

  Sloan put the pistol away, slumped back in his seat, and accepted the rifle. It was part of him by then—something he could trust. “Good. Captain Macintyre is an amazing woman.”

  McKinney raised an eyebrow. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Army One crossed the New Mason-Dixon Line shortly thereafter, and two dozen reporters were waiting when it landed. The attack on Richton had been a monumental failure. But, thanks to Doyle Besom’s efforts, it was being portrayed as a magnificent initiative gone tragically wrong. Or what Besom referred to as, “Part of the brave journey.”