“Yes,” Pickett added, as she raised a hand, “I know this would represent a change. And that Emperor Sloan doesn’t want to change. But new situations demand new solutions! And I stand ready to welcome the future rather than attempt to block it. Thank you!”
Pickett’s statement was so practiced that only one second remained on the clock when the last word left her mouth. The questions were tough, but predictable. “Will you raise taxes?”
Sloan answered, “Yes, I would. Upper-income taxpayers will reap huge benefits from the America Rising Initiative, so it makes sense for them to pay more.”
Pickett replied by saying, “No. By reducing the size of government, I will lower taxes.”
And so it went. Finally, when all of the questions had been answered, it was time for Sloan to deliver his three-minute summary. His eyes scanned the room. “Let’s take a moment to consider what will happen to this country if Senator Pickett wins. Rather than rebuild the country, and seek to unify it, she wants to change our time-honored Constitution. To do that, she would need commanding majorities in both Houses of Congress . . . And that’s unlikely to happen.
“But we’re talking about a fantasy world, right? So let’s suppose that newly elected President Pickett has the votes she needs. Months would pass while members of both Houses debate the exact wording of each proposed change. Then, supposing Congress can reach an agreement, at least three-fourths of the state legislatures would have to approve it.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . . It took 202 years to ratify a commonsense amendment that keeps congressional salary increases from being implemented until after the next crop of representatives comes into office.” That comment produced widespread laughter.
“Now,” Sloan said, “ask yourself a simple question . . . Who would benefit from such a delay? You? Or the oligarchs who run the New Confederacy and need more time in which to consolidate their power? The answer is obvious. Thank you.”
The possibility that the New Whigs might feel an affinity for the New Order had been voiced before. But the direct, unapologetic attack from Sloan was sufficient to elicit gasps of surprise from some members of the audience. And that gave Sloan a sense of satisfaction. It was a strong close . . . And Pickett’s response turned out to be little more than a list of lame denials. So when Sloan left the stage, he was in a good mood. Press Secretary Doyle Besom was waiting. “That was an outstanding summary, Mr. President . . . You dropped the hammer on her.”
Sloan frowned. “I hear the words . . . But they don’t match the expression on your face.”
Besom shrugged. “Pickett’s mike was on. So the entire country heard what she said, and that’s what people are talking about. Half the reporters left before your closing statement in order to scoop the competition, and you can bet the headline writers are having a field day. ‘The president hands Pickett a win.’ ‘Senator Pickett gives the president a hand.’ That sort of thing. I’m sorry, Mr. President . . . Politics sucks.”
Sloan sighed, and his spirits fell. “You got that right . . . Let’s get out of here.” Meanwhile, south of the New Mason-Dixon Line, people continued to die.
CASPER, WYOMING
After showing her ID to the guards, Mac was allowed to enter the battalion’s underground command center. Crowley had summoned her, and Mac was eager to meet with him even though she was extremely tired. Chances were that he’d read her report . . . And, if they moved quickly enough, they’d be able to find the women who had been captured in the town of Wright.
When Mac arrived at Crowley’s door, it was to find that the curtain was parted and a lieutenant was seated in one of two guest chairs. Crowley waved her in. “Good morning, Macintyre . . . Have you met Lieutenant Casey? No? Well, it’s high time that you did. Casey is our public affairs officer, and an important member of the team. It doesn’t matter how many battles we win if no one knows about them! Right, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right, sir,” Casey said as he stood. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Casey was tall, slim, and projected a sense of old-world dignity. Mac liked his Southern drawl. Too bad you’re a lieutenant, she thought to herself. Just my luck. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mac said, as they shook hands.
“Casey and I were discussing the battle at Arminto, and how to best publicize it,” Crowley said.
“Yes,” Casey agreed, as he sat down. “My techs are busy editing battle footage into a sixty-second clip. That’s the most any TV network will run . . . And it can be used on the Internet as well.”
“Who clears that sort of material?” Mac inquired. “Someone at Fort Knox?”
Crowley chuckled. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But the regular process can be cumbersome. So when we find ourselves with a really important story to tell, we submit it to the army and the media at the same time.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. “What happens then?”
“The shit hits the fan,” Crowley said with a smile. “And I get a nasty note from General Gowdy telling me that Intel, PSYOPS, and the REMFs at regimental HQ need to review stories before they go out. But what’s she going to do? Send me to Wyoming?” Crowley laughed, and Casey smiled.
Mac wasn’t entirely surprised, given her commanding officer’s rep for self-promotion and eccentric behavior. But Mac knew that sort of thing could come around to bite him one day, and she planned to stay clear of the impact zone. “So the story’s going out?”
“It certainly is,” Crowley replied. “The American people need some good news, and we’re going to provide it! Speaking of which . . . I read your report. What a shame. I wanted to put a forward operating base in Wright, but the mayor and city council objected.”
“Why?”
“They were afraid that an FOB would constitute a ‘provocation,’” Crowley replied. “Meaning they thought Howard would attack it. I told them he’d attack anyway, but they refused to listen.” Crowley shrugged. “I wish they had chosen differently.”
Mac nodded. “Yes, sir. We can’t do anything about that . . . Not now. But we can go after the people who were taken prisoner.”
“Yes,” Crowley agreed. “And we will. But first things first. Alpha Company lost six soldiers in Arminto. They need a couple of days to regroup. And your company just returned from a long patrol. But I promise to give the matter some thought.”
Mac was disappointed. Time was critical. How long would it take for Howard to sell the women? It might be a matter of days. But there was nothing she could do. All she could say was, “Thank you, sir.”
Subsequent to the meeting with Crowley, Mac spent two hours on the sort of administrative matters that all executive officers have to cope with before returning to the company area where her XO had been equally busy. They were sitting in the shed that constituted Bravo Company’s HQ, sipping sludge-like coffee. “So, Lieutenant,” Mac said, once Perkins had delivered his report. “You raised some extremely important issues.”
Perkins looked surprised. “I did?”
“Yes, you did. And I think we should convene a command conference to address them. It will include the other platoon leaders, as well as their platoon sergeants who, as all of us know, actually run the company.
“However,” Mac added, “a conference of such importance should be held in the right environment. An establishment that has good food and the kind of liquid refreshment that’s likely to enhance the brainstorming process. Would you know of such an establishment?”
Perkins’s expression brightened. “Yes, I would . . . Dolly’s Place would fit the bill.”
“Excellent. Please pass the word. We will assemble here at 1800 hours.”
Mac spent the rest of the day in meetings with the battalion’s medical officer, the engineer in charge of the fort’s septic system, and Company Sergeant Hank Boulineau. There was only one army insofar as Boulineau was concerned. And that was the one
he’d joined fifteen years earlier. Just as there was only one way to do things, and that was by the book.
That’s why Boulineau was upset with the lack of military discipline exhibited by certain members of the company and wanted to clamp down. “We may be at war, ma’am,” Boulineau said. “But that ain’t no excuse for slackness.”
Mac had to tread carefully. Boulineau was the company’s senior noncom and a critical link between her and the enlisted people. And he was correct in many respects. Just that morning, she’d run into a private wearing a buckskin vest and ordered him to remove it. And whose fault was that? Crowley’s, because he set the example. And Boulineau resented that.
“I read you, Top,” Mac said. “And I agree . . . Things are beginning to slip. So pass the word. Except for Stetsons, which were specifically authorized by the CO, I expect everyone to wear army-standard uniforms at all times. As for the haircuts, and the matter of military courtesy, let’s bring our platoon leaders in on that discussion. We’re going to hold a command conference in town this evening, and you’re invited . . . I’ll make sure those items get covered. Meet us in front of the command shack at 1800.”
Boulineau stood. “Thank you, ma’am . . . I’ll be there.”
The salute was textbook perfect. Mac gave one in return and watched him leave. And that, she thought to herself, is a man who will make a good sergeant major.
The group gathered on time. In addition to Lieutenants Perkins, Gilstrap, and Huff, Platoon Sergeants Gray, Tinley, and Nunez were there. And when Boulineau arrived, that made a party of eight. Civvies weren’t authorized, so all of them were in uniform. They weren’t armed. Not visibly, anyway. But Mac was carrying a baby Glock under her right arm and suspected that the others were “strapped” as well.
Once outside the main gate, Mac led them over to the taxi line, where she hired two vehicles. Dolly’s was what Mac expected it to be. Concrete barriers had been put in place to prevent car bombings, and a squad of heavily armed “cowboys” were on guard out front.
The interior was large, noisy, and decorated country style. And that included a huge Confederate flag since most of Wyoming’s population were Confederate sympathizers, never mind the fact that the Union Army was protecting them from the warlords.
The barstools were made out of old tractor seats, glassy-eyed animal trophies stared down on the dance floor from high above, and the log-style tables were shiny with varnish. The girl who led them to a booth was dressed in a white-and-red-checkered shirt, tight shorts, and cowboy boots. Mac waited for the predictable commentary, but there wasn’t any. The men were on their best behavior. “Okay,” she said, once they were seated. “Have whatever you want. Dinner’s on me.”
“And we’ll buy the drinks,” Perkins said as he gestured to the other platoon leaders.
“Thank you, Lord,” Tinley said. “My prayers were answered!”
That produced some laughs, and once their drinks arrived, the meeting got under way. Mac took the opportunity to bring up a variety of issues, including those Boulineau had voiced earlier in the day. And she was pleased to see that her platoon leaders were taking the discussion seriously. The nature of the conversation changed when the food came—and the soldiers began to tell stories. Gray was especially good at it and soon had everyone in stitches.
Mac excused herself after finishing her steak and went looking for the ladies’ room. It was on the second level, just off the gallery that surrounded three sides of the open room below.
The lighting was dim, and two-person tables lined the outside railing. A familiar figure was seated at one of them. Crowley was dressed in full Crowley regalia—and seated across from a pretty blonde. His wife? Probably. Crowley said something, and the woman giggled. Neither of them took notice of Mac as she passed by.
As Mac returned to the table, Tinley was finishing a story about the time he and his girlfriend went skinny-dipping in a hotel’s hot tub, locked themselves out of their room, and had been forced to visit the front desk to get another key card. That generated sympathetic laughter and more stories in the same vein.
It wasn’t until they were about to leave that Mac mentioned Crowley. “This place is hopping,” she said. “The CO’s here, too . . . He’s upstairs, with his wife.”
The announcement was met with an awkward silence. None of the other soldiers were willing to meet her gaze. “What’s wrong?” Mac demanded. “Did I step in something?”
“Was the woman a blonde?” Perkins inquired.
“Yes,” Mac replied. “She was.”
“That’s Captain Lightfoot’s wife,” Huff told her. “Everyone knows except for the captain.”
“Who happens to be out on patrol,” Gray added. “The poor bastard.”
“It’s a regular thing,” Boulineau said. “And it ain’t good for morale.”
Mac tried to keep it light. “Okay . . . I’ll file that under things I wish I didn’t know. As for morale, that takes us back to what we were discussing earlier. We can’t control the CO, but we can keep everything else tight, and we will.”
“Roger that,” Boulineau said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Perkins added.
“Got it,” Gilstrap agreed.
That was the best Mac could do for the moment. But she was pissed. Rather than go after Howard and try to rescue the female prisoners, Crowley was spending the night with another man’s wife. And not just any man . . . But one of his subordinates. Should she take it up the chain of command? Probably. But what would happen then? An investigation would begin, Crowley would be relieved of duty pending the outcome, and the brass would download a colonel to take his place. In the meantime, Robert Howard would sell his prisoners. The cold night air was like a slap in the face, and the darkness took her in.
NORTHEAST OF CASPER, WYOMING
The Cessna JT-A produced a mind-numbing drone as it winged its way north. It was flying low, no more than three hundred feet off the ground, in order to stay off enemy radar. That was necessary but scary since visibility was iffy, and left the single-engine plane with no margin for error. Victoria turned to the pilot. “How much longer?”
The man was sixtysomething. What hair he had was pulled back into a gray ponytail. “It’s like I told you ten minutes ago,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Victoria opened her mouth to put the man in his place, thought better of it, and forced herself to remain silent. The minutes crawled by. And then, just when it seemed as if the flight would go on forever, the plane began to turn.
Victoria looked down. What she saw was anything but promising. The airstrip consisted of a patch of flat ground surrounded by rocks. “We’re going to land on that?” she demanded.
“Hell no,” the old man replied. “We’re gonna land at Kennedy, take the shuttle to the terminal, and have a latte.”
Victoria thought she heard him say, “Dumb shit,” under his breath as he brought the plane into alignment with the runway and pushed the yoke forward. Two red highway flares marked the end of the strip. They lost altitude quickly, hit hard, and came to a stop a few yards short of the flares. Victoria had been holding her breath. She let it out. “Welcome to Wyoming,” the pilot said. “And thanks for keeping your breakfast down.”
“Glad I could help,” Victoria said as she pushed the door open. It was cold, but she was dressed for it. A small pack was stashed behind her seat, and the man made no effort to help her with it.
“Forty-eight hours,” he said. “That’s when I’ll come for you . . . If I fail to show, it will be due to bad weather or because I’m on a binge. Wait twelve hours. Then, if I’m still MIA, start walking. Got it?”
Victoria put her right arm through a pack strap. “Got it.”
“Good. Close the fucking door . . . It’s getting cold in here.”
Victoria closed the door and stepped back. The engine roared as the plane turned to face
the other way. Then, after opening the throttle all the way, the pilot released the brakes. The Cessna took off like a jackrabbit and cleared the pile of rocks at the other end of the runway with ten feet to spare.
That was when Victoria heard a crunching sound—and turned to find a man wearing a tasseled stocking cap and sheepskin coat approaching her. A rifle was slung over his left shoulder. He stopped six feet away. His skin was brown, and there was a wispy goatee on his chin. “Where did they bury the great Khan?”
“In an unmarked grave.”
“Where does he live?”
“In our hearts.”
The man bowed. “My parents named me Thomas Styles. But my warrior name is Jebe, which means ‘the Arrow.’”
“You killed Kuchlug.”
Snow fell like a veil. The man bowed again. “The Confederacy chose its messenger with great care. Can you ride?”
“Yes.”
“All will be well then. Follow me.”
Two men and four horses were waiting just off the airstrip. Jebe’s companions wore balaclava-style white-on-black skull masks. To look scary? Or to stay warm? Both, most likely, and Victoria wished she had one. The army-issue knit cap left her face unprotected.
Victoria’s horse was a big brute named Montana. Victoria could feel the stares as she placed her left boot in the stirrup and swung her right leg out and over the horse’s hindquarters. Victoria felt Montana stir uneasily as she landed on the Western-style saddle. She stroked his neck, and two streams of vapor appeared when he snorted. Victoria had learned to ride during summer vacations in Idaho, and Jebe nodded as if satisfied with her performance.
Jebe and his horse led the way, followed by Victoria and the two skull faces. The trail wound around a snowcapped rock formation, down into a ravine, and up the other side. The landscape was turning white, and that forced Victoria to don her sunglasses.
Seek and Destroy Page 6
