Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  The lieutenant came to attention and saluted. “Good morning, ma’am. Lieutenant Bobby Perkins at your service . . . I’m one of your platoon leaders and the acting company commander. Welcome to Fort Carney.”

  Mac returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant . . . My name is Robin Macintyre. But I suppose you knew that. Where do I report?”

  “The colonel would like to meet with you, ma’am . . . Please follow me.”

  The officers fell into step as they left the landing pad and made their way toward the mound located in the middle of the compound. Had Perkins been hoping for a bump to captain? And the slot as Bravo Company’s CO? If so, Mac couldn’t see any sign of it on his face. “I see our personnel are wearing Stetsons,” Mac observed, as a private crossed their path. “Is this a special day?”

  “No, ma’am,” Perkins replied. “We wear them every day.”

  That was strange but in keeping with what Granger had told her about Lieutenant Colonel Crowley. And there was something else as well. “Tell me about your shoulder patch,” Mac said. “The one with Uncle Sam on it.”

  Perkins glanced at her. “The battalion consists of people like me. All of us are from the South, but we oppose the New Order and came north to fight for our country. That’s why we were authorized to wear the patch. The government doesn’t trust us, though. So they dropped us into a single battalion and sent it here.”

  Perkins’s voice had been flat up until then. But some bitterness was starting to come through. “Wyoming is a long way from the New Mason-Dixon Line,” he added. “So if we run, they’ll have plenty of time in which to track us down.”

  When Mac stopped, Perkins had to do likewise. Their eyes met. “Is that why they sent for me? Because they don’t trust you?”

  Perkins looked away. “I’m sorry, ma’am . . . I was out of line. Please accept my apologies.”

  “Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

  Perkins looked at her. His eyes were green. “Yes, ma’am. As things stand now, none of the Southern volunteers are allowed to command a company. Even if they had that level of responsibility prior to the meteor strikes.”

  “I see,” Mac replied. “Thanks for the briefing.”

  “Bravo Company, which is to say your company, is ready for anything, Captain. You can depend on us.”

  “I will,” Mac promised him. “What kind of vehicles do we have?”

  “Strykers, ma’am. Three for each platoon. Plus a couple of Humvees, a fueler, and a wrecker.”

  Mac nodded. “Good. After I meet with the colonel, I’d like to make the rounds. Nothing formal . . . Just a ‘Hi, there.’”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be ready.”

  A sergeant saluted the officers as they neared the mound, and they responded in kind. As they got closer, Mac was surprised to see that two soldiers were guarding the entrance. “You’ll need to show ID,” Perkins said as he produced a card.

  “Why? We’re inside the wall.”

  “Suicide bombers,” Perkins replied. “Crazy people who believe that Robert Howard is the reincarnated spirit of Genghis Khan’s XO. And, since they believe in reincarnation, they aren’t afraid to die. One of them managed to roll under a six-by-six, cling to the frame, and infiltrate the base a couple of weeks ago. She was two hundred feet from the command post when her vest exploded prematurely.”

  “Okay, then,” Mac said as she proffered her card. “Suicide bombers, check.”

  Once inside, Perkins led Mac down a ramp into the spacious room below. The lighting was dim, live drone feeds could be seen on flat-panel displays, and the atmosphere conveyed a sense of hushed efficiency.

  Perkins led Mac around the circular “war pit” to a side room. It was separated from the pit by a curtain that consisted of long leather strips. A wooden block was attached to the wall under a plaque that read, LIEUTENANT COLONEL WESLEY CROWLEY.

  Perkins rapped his knuckles on the block, and Mac heard a voice say, “Enter.”

  Perkins stepped inside first, came to attention, and announced himself. Then it was Mac’s turn. “Captain Robin Macintyre, reporting for duty, sir.”

  Crowley was seated behind a wood table. His neck-length blond hair was way out of compliance with regs and parted in the middle. And, while the army didn’t allow mustaches or goatees, Crowley had one of each.

  And the eccentricities didn’t stop there. Rather than camos, Crowley was dressed in a buckskin shirt with chest fringe and colorful beadwork. The overall look reminded Mac of General Custer. Was that intentional? And if so, why? Especially given the way Custer’s career came to an end. Two pearl-handled Colt .45 semiauto pistols were revealed when Crowley stood. “Welcome to Fort Carney, Captain . . . We’re lucky to have an officer like you . . . If you’ll excuse us, Lieutenant, the captain and I have some things to discuss.”

  Perkins came to attention, saluted, and did an about-face. The leather strips made a swishing sound as he left.

  “Please,” Crowley said, “have a seat. So you were serving under my classmate, Major Frank Granger. Is he still a brown-nosing, by-the-book asshat?”

  Mac couldn’t remember hearing a superior officer refer to a peer that way before and wasn’t sure how to respond. Was Crowley joking? Or was he serious? There was no way to be sure. “Major Granger is my CO, sir . . . And he sends his regards.”

  Crowley chuckled. “Well played, Macintyre . . . Well played. Enough happy horseshit. Let’s get down to brass tacks. The powers that be gave me this command for three reasons: To get rid of me, to get rid of me, and to get rid of me.

  “But I’m going to surprise the spineless bastards by tracking Sergeant Robert Howard down, removing his balls, and hanging them over my door.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “And that,” Crowley continued, “will be in spite of the Confederate traitors they sent me. Rebs! Can you believe it? Fighting for the North. But not you, Captain . . . You’re from Idaho. I checked.”

  Mac didn’t know what to say, except, “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Sleep with a gun,” Crowley advised. “That’s what I do. Who knows? The whole lot of them might go over the hill. But not before we nail Howard! I’ll give you two days to settle in. Then we’re going to launch Operation Hydra.”

  “Hydra, sir?”

  “Yes. Howard refers to himself as the warlord of warlords. And it’s true. No less than five lesser warlords have sworn allegiance to him. His logo is a serpent with six heads. I plan to sever them one by one. Perkins has the operational stuff. Study it and be ready to roll.”

  Mac knew a dismissal when she heard one and stood. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Yes. My other company commanders are a bit green . . . So I’m going to name you as XO. Perkins will bring you up to speed.”

  Serving as second-in-command to a nutcase was the last thing Mac wanted to do. But there was only one answer she could give, and that was, “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” The meeting was over.

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  Rather than helicopter into the American base, Canada’s ambassador was forced to land in Louisville, where a limo was waiting to pick him up. Because in the wake of Canada’s attack on Maine, the two countries were theoretically at war . . . even if none had been declared. And Fort Knox’s commanding officer wasn’t about to let hostile aircraft enter his airspace.

  So with a police escort ahead of and behind his car, the ambassador was forced to endure a long ride. And the route had been chosen with care. It took him onto a freeway that was half-clogged with military traffic before taking him to Fort Knox, where even more military might was on display.

  Finally, the ambassador was delivered to the front of an enormous tent. Sloan no longer lived there. But the tent had become a symbol of his presidency, and he continued to use it for ceremonial purposes. Secretary of State Henderson was waiting out front to
greet the ambassador and escort him inside.

  First, the two men had to pass through the gauntlet of reporters that Besom had allowed to witness the arrival. They peppered the diplomats with questions. “Mr. Secretary! Is the United States going to surrender to Canada?”

  “Mr. Ambassador! Is it true that Canada has entered into an alliance with the Confederacy?”

  “Mr. Secretary! Is the United States planning to invade Canada?”

  Henderson waved to them before following Ambassador McGowan into the tent’s chilly interior. An aide led them back to Sloan’s office. The fact that it was equipped with campaign-style furniture and was reminiscent of a Civil War general’s field quarters was no accident. There were some modern amenities as well, including electric lights and the bank of flat-panel TVs mounted on a roll-around rack.

  Sloan had met McGowan before, but as Secretary of Energy and under more pleasant circumstances. Now, as they shook hands, the mood was anything but cordial. “Mr. President.”

  “Mr. Ambassador . . . Please have a seat. Would you care for some refreshments?”

  A space heater was purring in a corner, but McGowan could still see his breath. “Yes, a cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Good,” Sloan replied. “One will be along shortly. So, let’s speak frankly . . . Your government sent soldiers into our sovereign territory, where they killed a number of our troops and civilians. I’m prepared to accept an immediate apology and your promise to withdraw your forces by noon tomorrow.”

  McGowan opened his mouth to speak but closed it as the tea arrived. Once both men had been served, the conversation resumed. “I will convey your offer to my government,” McGowan said stiffly. “But it’s my duty to inform you that an apology and withdrawal are extremely unlikely. Some of our leading legal scholars have called the Webster-Ashburton Treaty’s legality into question and, until that matter is resolved, the troops must remain.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. “The treaty that Ambassador McGowan refers to brought the Pork and Beans War of 1838 to an end. No shots were fired.”

  “As I said,” McGowan said, “it is our wish to renegotiate what was, and is, a lopsided treaty. The territory presently occupied by our troops is rightfully a part of Canada. We suggest a cooling-off period of sixty days with discussions to follow. Or, if you prefer, the United States can simply cede the area in question to Canada.”

  It was all grade-A horseshit. The Canadians were trying to aid the Confederacy by opening negotiations that would drag on and on. In the meantime, Sloan would have to park a regiment of troops in Maine to prevent any further incursions and placate thousands of irate voters.

  Sloan sighed and took a sip of coffee. “Okay, Mr. Ambassador . . . Have it your way. Please direct your attention to the television monitors. If you examine the programming closely, you’ll find that all of the feeds are coming in from Canada. And, all of them are coming to us via satellites launched by other countries. That’s because you have no space program to speak of. It’s been a thrifty policy but one that’s going to cost you since we’re about to destroy the satellite that carries the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Secretary Henderson? Give the order.”

  Henderson was seated next to McGowan. He spoke into a cell phone. “This is Secretary Henderson. Kill it.”

  The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation channel snapped to black. “That’s impossible,” McGowan said contemptuously. “You’re trying to trick me.”

  “Nope,” Sloan replied. “CBC is off the air . . . The SRC network will go down an hour from now—and the CTV network will go dark an hour after that. Though the Confederates took control of our country’s GPS satellites early on, they didn’t get everything, and that includes the killer satellites that were developed to wage war on China and Russia.

  “So, unless you apologize and withdraw, we will not only kill all of the satellites that you rely on, we’ll cut your transatlantic and transpacific telephone cables, too.”

  McGowan’s cell phone was in his coat pocket. It began to chime. “Uh-oh,” Sloan said. “I think someone in Ottawa is watching CBC.”

  McGowan looked up at the CBC monitor. It wasn’t black anymore. A shot of a wind-whipped American flag filled the screen. And when Sloan aimed his remote at the TV, and pressed the MUTE button, the sound came on. McGowan’s face turned a deathly shade of white as the strains of “America the Beautiful” were heard. “Secretary Henderson will see you out,” Sloan said. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

  CASPER, WYOMING

  The steel gates rumbled as they parted to let Alpha Company leave Fort Carney. A Humvee led the way, with the Stars and Stripes flying and Lieutenant Colonel Crowley riding shotgun. The name BETTY SUE had been stenciled onto both sides of the vehicle. But most of the enlisted soldiers called it the “BM,” or bullet magnet, because any fool could tell that it was a staff car. And nine times out of ten, the person assigned to drive it had done something to get on the sergeant major’s shit list. Nine Strykers followed. Each carried a squad of infantry.

  Mac and her company departed next. Bravo Company was almost identical to Alpha Company although Mac preferred to ride in a Stryker rather than a Humvee.

  That left the men and women of Charlie Company and Crowley’s headquarters company to hold the fort, and that was important. Because if the fort were undermanned, Howard might very well attack.

  The plan called for Crowley to take Alpha Company west, then north, to the tiny town of Arminto. It had originally been home to a handful of people. Then a band of convicts led by a brute named Cory Burns broke out of the state pen in Rawlins. They were in the process of laying waste to the surrounding area when a combined force of Shoshone and Arapahos drove them out. The gang arrived in Arminto shortly thereafter, with a convoy of tractor-trailer rigs, a wild assortment of RVs, and a dozen rat rods.

  In less than a week, Arminto was transformed from ghost town to a miniature sin city, complete with a whorehouse, a busy saloon, and a store where their loot could be purchased at bargain prices. Sometimes by the very people from whom it had been stolen.

  Of course, that was small-time to a man like Howard, who sent a message to Burns. It was written on a piece of paper that had been nailed to a man’s forehead. “This could be you. Join the horde or die. Yours truly, Robert Howard.”

  Burns hurried to accept the invitation and had been paying a 10 percent “tithe” to Howard ever since. And that’s why Crowley was going to level Arminto.

  In the meantime, Mac was being sent north and east to show the flag and keep Howard off balance, which was fine with Mac. The trip would give her a chance to get the lay of the land and assess what her company was capable of. Mac felt the wind buffet her face as she led them onto 87 eastbound. She was standing in the Stryker’s forward air-guard hatch with her feet planted on the bench seat below. Her jacket was zipped, and she was wearing three layers of clothing. Unfortunately, the cold air still managed to find its way in and make her shiver.

  The land on both sides of the highway was flat and arid, which made it perfect for cavalry. That gave Mac an idea . . . Rather than wait for the 59 north turnoff and follow the highway north as planned, she threw Perkins a curve. “This is Bravo-Six. Bravo-Five is going to take us to the town of Wright by traveling cross-country. One-one will fall back, and three-one will take point. Over.”

  If Perkins was surprised or concerned about his ability to follow Mac’s orders, there was no trace of it in his voice. “This is Five. Roger that . . . Moving up. Over.”

  So far so good, Mac thought to herself, as one-one pulled out of the column and let the rest of the trucks pass. Her impressions had been positive so far. The Southerners had been regular army or reservists prior to the war and were technically proficient. They were also polite and almost unfailingly cheerful.

  But those characteristics weren’t enough to conceal the dissatisfac
tion that was eroding the unit’s morale. In spite of all they had sacrificed to fight for the North, the Union Army didn’t trust them. That rankled.

  With three-one in the lead and one-one in the nine slot, Perkins led the company off the north side of the highway. Mac listened approvingly as her XO ordered their UAV pilot to launch the company’s RQ-11 Raven. The drone was equipped with color cameras and an infrared night-vision camera. Under prewar conditions, the tiny aircraft could use GPS waypoint navigation. But the rebs controlled the GPS system, so Staff Sergeant Maureen “Mo” Henry would have to “fly” the Raven while bouncing around in a Humvee.

  Still, thanks to the UAV, Perkins would be able to eyeball what lay ahead. Because even though the terrain was mostly flat—there were plenty of dips, riverbeds, and gullies in which the enemy could be hiding. What followed was an often jarring ride as the trucks waddled over boulders, lurched up out of ravines, and sprayed loose gravel at the vehicles behind them. Mac felt sorry for the soldiers down in the cargo bay and hoped they were strapped in.

  It was interesting to watch Perkins solve problems. His first decision was to increase the intervals that separated the vics so each Stryker had more room in which to maneuver. But as the space between the trucks increased, the column started to lose cohesion. That raised the possibility that attackers could cut the company in two.

  Perkins solved that problem by creating two columns traveling side by side. That meant they could still support each other and laager up if that became necessary. Mac approved. Perkins knew his shit. A female voice came through her headset. “Bravo-Twelve to Bravo-Five. I see a flat area up ahead. It looks like an airstrip. Over.”

  Mac consulted her map and couldn’t see any indication of an airfield. She spoke into her mike. “This is Six . . . Let’s pull up. Keep your heads on a swivel. Over.”