The first hour was enjoyable in a weird, otherworldly sort of way. But by the time they were fifteen minutes into the second hour of riding, Victoria’s knees had started to ache. Had it been that way when she was sixteen? No, she didn’t think so.
Thirty long, painful minutes passed before they followed a switchbacking trail down the side of a hill to the point where two trucks and a large horse trailer were waiting. Jebe aimed a remote at the blue pickup, and Victoria saw the lights flash. “Throw your pack in the cab,” Jebe told her. “I’ll take care of Montana.”
Jebe led the horses over to the horse trailer, tied them up, and returned to the pickup. “We aren’t likely to be stopped,” Jebe said as he slipped behind the wheel. “But should that occur, we’re ranchers headed up to Kaycee for supplies. Are you armed?”
“With a handgun, yes.”
“Good. If the poop hits the fan, shoot everyone on your side of the truck. And don’t hesitate to use the sawed-off if you need to.”
Victoria followed Jebe’s glance to the shotgun clamped above the windshield. “Got it.”
The truck was in motion by then. It bounced through a series of potholes. “We’re going to take back roads west to I-25,” Jebe told her. “We’ll follow it north to Buffalo. High Fort is a half hour beyond that.”
“High Fort?”
“Yes. That’s the name Subutai gave to the Huntington Lodge after he captured it,” Jebe replied. “It was the site of a gold mine before that.”
Captured? That was one word for it . . . Although Victoria was willing to bet that the people who owned the lodge would call the theft something else.
The next thirty minutes were spent winding their way through a maze of snow-covered backcountry roads. They turned onto a two-lane highway that provided access to I-25 ten minutes later. There was some traffic, but less and less as they traveled north. Because of the horde? That made sense. Some people would have to enter the horde’s territory and pay Howard’s road tax. But anyone who could avoid doing so would.
Interestingly enough, there were no signs of military activity. “I thought the Union had a battalion of troops stationed here,” Victoria said. “Where are they?”
“They spend most of their time at Fort Carney,” Jebe replied. “Although they did attack one of our strongholds two days ago. And believe me . . . They’re going to pay for that.”
There was no mistaking the anger in Jebe’s voice. Victoria was reminded of what her father had told her. Robin was stationed at Fort Carney. Had she taken part in the attack? And how would she fare when Howard took his revenge?
It was something Victoria should care about. Then why didn’t she? Was there something wrong with her? Possibly. Or maybe there was something right with her. “Each of us makes choices—and each of us has to live with the consequences.” That’s what Bo Macintyre liked to say. And it applied to Robin, along with everyone else.
The horde had established a checkpoint and toll booth adjacent to the small town of Kaycee. It was a flimsy affair that consisted of a motor home, lanes that were defined by traffic cones, and six well-armed rat rods. “Anyone can blow through it,” Jebe admitted, as they entered the VIP lane. “But the rat rods will chase them down if they do . . . And the rat riders don’t take prisoners.”
When a man wearing a pullover skull mask appeared in the window, Jebe raised his right hand palm out. Skull face bowed deeply and waved Jebe through. Victoria was curious. “Did you show him some sort of ID?”
“Yes,” Jebe replied, as he held his right hand up for her to look at. An intricate tracery of tattoos covered his palm. Could it be copied? Yes, of course. But Victoria’s ID card could be duplicated as well.
“Each tattoo shares common elements with all the rest,” Jebe explained. “Yet each is unique. Like pieces in a vast puzzle.”
Victoria was beginning to take the horde more seriously by then. She’d been expecting to deal with a wacky bandit cult. But Jebe was more than a thug. Was he the exception? Or should she take all of them seriously? Victoria would know soon. And the knowledge would go into her report.
Victoria didn’t see much traffic during the forty-minute trip to Buffalo. And that wasn’t surprising given the things she did see. At one point, they passed an off-ramp where three bird-pecked corpses were dangling from a light standard. When asked why the people had been executed, Jebe shrugged. “There are laws,” he said. “And they were lawbreakers.”
Victoria was pretty sure Jebe didn’t have the foggiest idea why the people had been executed. Nor did he care. And that was the flip side of the man behind the wheel. Though seemingly profound at times, he wasn’t very analytical.
If the horde continued to rule with an iron hand, the locals would find ways to resist, one of which would be to collaborate with Union forces. So while Howard was likely to rule for a while—he would have trouble holding on to what he’d conquered. As a result, his value to the Confederacy was limited.
They had to pause at a checkpoint just outside Buffalo but not for long. Once Jebe presented his palm, a guard bowed and waved him through. Mountains were visible to the west. And, based on what she’d heard earlier, Victoria assumed that they were home to the High Fort.
That theory proved to be correct when Jebe left the freeway for a two-lane highway that led into the Bighorn National Forest. Even though there was no reason for her to believe that she would need to find her way out of the forest alone, Victoria did her best to memorize the route just in case. The road turned, began to climb, and passed a snow-clad gun emplacement. Three skull-faced bandits stood like statues as the truck passed them. Victoria noticed that one of them was armed with a spear.
A series of switchbacks took them up past a well-sited Bradley to what Jebe said was the final checkpoint. It consisted of what looked like a new metal gate mounted on wheels. “We have to walk the rest of the way,” Jebe said, as the pickup came to a halt. “The guards will take your pistol—and return it when you leave.”
The process went the way Jebe said it would except for one thing. The guard assigned to search Victoria was male—and took full advantage of the opportunity to feel her up. Fortunately, Jebe was there to intervene. “Stop it! She’s Subutai’s guest, you fool . . . He’ll take your head.”
The man immediately released her, bowed, and backed away. “I’m sorry,” Jebe said, as they climbed a set of switchbacking stairs. “Subutai doesn’t get a lot of female visitors.”
“I can see why,” Victoria said, as they arrived on what had been a lawn. The mansion loomed above them. It had turrets, steeply sloping roofs, and at least half a dozen chimneys. A well-protected porch fronted the building. Everything about the lodge shouted elegance, even if the place had fallen on hard times. But something bothered her. “Union forces could destroy this place with a single plane . . . or a couple of drones. Why don’t they?”
“We keep prisoners here,” Jebe answered. “Some are sold, but new ones arrive. The Union Army knows that.”
The strategy made sense so long as the Union brass had a certain mind-set. But Victoria knew that if her father were running the Union Army, he’d bomb the shit out of the place and blame faulty intelligence for the civilian deaths.
They walked past a crudely constructed AA emplacement, past a pile of trash, and through an impromptu graveyard. “The men buried here have lived many lives and been buried in many places,” Jebe said. “They’ll be waiting when my turn comes.”
Was Jebe crazy? Hell, yes. And that’s what Robin and her battalion would have to face if they wanted to defeat the horde. An army of crazy people. Good luck with that, Victoria thought to herself.
Victoria followed Jebe up a flight of snow-dusted stairs into an enormous foyer. It was crowded with people. Some were seated on chairs, some were standing, and one man was asleep on the muddy floor. The air was so cold that Victoria could see her breath. “They’
re waiting to see Subutai,” Jebe explained. “Some have been here for days. But don’t worry . . . He will see you soon.” And with that, he left.
“Soon,” turned out to be half an hour. And as Victoria listened to the chatter around her, she got the impression of a thinly stretched government run by a paranoid micromanager. Not a recipe for success. Something more for her report.
Victoria could feel jealous eyes on her back, as Jebe returned and led her away. After climbing a flight of stairs, they had to pass between heavily armed guards before entering what had been a ballroom. Groups of men stood here and there . . . There was no way to tell if they were guards or part of Subutai’s retinue. The only women to be seen were servants, who kept their eyes down as they brought food and drink.
Victoria felt a momentary wash of heat as they passed a large fireplace. Then the air cooled as they followed a red carpet up to a velvet rope, where Jebe bowed deeply. “Greetings, great one . . . This is the New Confederacy’s emissary, Major Jeri Ferris.”
Rather than use her own name, Victoria had chosen to establish a cover which, if Howard had the means to check, ran quite deep. He was sitting on a throne-like chair made out of antlers. Had the piece of furniture been built for him? Or did it come with the lodge? The latter, Victoria supposed . . . Although the look was very much in keeping with the man Howard had chosen to be.
The warlord of warlords was wearing a softly rounded Afghan pakoz hat rather than the Mongol equivalent. Victoria knew because she’d spent a year battling the Taliban. Was the hat a mistake? Or a preference? The latter seemed more likely since she’d read his file and knew that he had served in Afghanistan, too. The rest of Howard’s outfit consisted of a sheepskin jacket, Levi’s, and cowboy boots. Howard was clearly Caucasian, but his wide-set eyes and high cheekbones gave him a Slavic appearance. A wispy mustache decorated his upper lip.
A pair of Rottweilers lay sprawled next to the warlord’s elaborate chair. One of them growled, and Howard patted its head. “Welcome to the High Fort, Major Macintyre . . . I hope you had a pleasant trip.”
The extent of Victoria’s surprise must have been visible on her face because Howard laughed. “That’s right, Major . . . I have sources of information inside the Confederacy.”
Victoria’s mind was racing. Howard had been a Green Beret only months earlier . . . So he knew special ops people in both armies. More than that, he had bled with them. So if some were on his payroll, that would make sense. What did that mean to her mission?
Howard nodded as if able to read her mind. “Never fear, Major . . . I don’t blame you for using a cover. I would if I were in your position. And one more thing . . . The fact that General Macintyre was willing to send his daughter means a lot to me. But it raises questions, too . . . What are you, Major? A warrior? Or Daddy’s girl?”
Victoria could feel the man’s hostility. At officers? At female officers? Is that why he referred to her rank so often? “I fought in Afghanistan,” Victoria answered. “Just as you did.”
There was no warmth in Howard’s smile. “You read my file? Good on you. Well, there were a shitload of rear-echelon motherfuckers who went to Afghanistan and never fired a shot. How ’bout you, missy? Did you kill anyone up close and personal? Or were you staring at a screen?”
Victoria didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Was there some sort of purpose behind the grilling? Or was Howard mind fucking her for the fun of it? “My activities in Afghanistan are classified,” Victoria told him. “As are many of yours.”
Howard reached inside his jacket and dragged a shiny revolver out into the light. Victoria felt a stab of fear. He was going to shoot her! And there was nothing she could do about it. “Maybe you worked for the dark side, and maybe you’re full of shit,” Howard said. “Let’s find out. Guards! Grab that girl!”
Howard’s left index finger was pointed at a girl with mousy-brown hair. She had glasses and was dressed in one of the sack-style dresses that all of the female servants were required to wear. She uttered a shriek of fear and tried to run. Two men grabbed the teen and held her arms. She was sobbing by then—and a puddle of urine appeared between her feet.
Howard’s eyes were on Victoria. “If you’re the woman you say you are, then you know this is a Colt Python and that it holds six rounds.”
As if to illustrate that fact, Howard flipped the cylinder open—and dumped six shiny .357 cartridges onto the table next to him. He chose one of the bullets and held it up to the light as if inspecting it for flaws. Then he inserted the cartridge into an empty chamber, flipped the cylinder closed, and ran it along the outside surface of his left arm. Victoria heard a series of clicks.
“Here,” Howard said as he offered the weapon butt first. “If you want an alliance with the horde, then aim the pistol at the girl and squeeze the trigger. Maybe the bullet will rotate in under the hammer, and maybe it won’t. But either way, I will take you seriously from that point forward. Or you can run back to Daddy. You choose.”
Victoria wanted to laugh. Howard thought he was talking to Robin! Or someone like Robin . . . And that was a mistake.
A dog growled as she unhooked the velvet rope, stepped forward, and accepted the Colt. She could have killed the warlord of warlords then, and his bodyguards knew it. At least six weapons were pointed at her.
Victoria smiled, pointed the barrel of the handgun up at the ceiling, and turned to the teenager. The men who stood to each side of her looked worried. What if the woman with the Colt missed? But orders were orders, and they had no choice. “Pull her arms straight out,” Victoria instructed.
The girl struggled, but the men were too strong for her. Victoria held the revolver in a two-handed grip, took aim, and waited for Howard to stop her. He didn’t. She pulled the hammer back to full cock and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell, and the Colt bucked in her hands. The big slug hit the teen with such force that it passed through her chest and hit the wall beyond. The guards let go of the body, and it slumped to the floor.
“Well, well,” Howard said, as Victoria handed the pistol to Jebe. “You are for real. Let’s have lunch . . . There’s a great deal to talk about.”
CHAPTER 4
I do not believe in using women in combat, because females are too fierce.
—MARGARET MEAD
CASPER, WYOMING
The so-called com cave was a side room just off Fort Carney’s underground command center. Flat-panel screens covered two of the four walls—and cables ran like snakes between the timbers that helped to support the ceiling. The cave was where the battalion’s UAV pilots spent their time when not in the field, and Mo Henry was no exception. She got up from her chair when Mac entered. “Good morning, Sergeant . . . What’s up?”
“There’s something I want you to see, ma’am. Remember the motion-activated cameras we left on the airstrip? We scored some footage.”
Mac looked at the screen that fronted Henry’s chair. There was nothing to see at first. Just a field of white and some dark, snow-crusted rocks beyond. Then a small plane entered the frame, touched down, and blew snow every which way as the pilot stood on the brakes. “All right,” Mac said. “This should be interesting.”
Unfortunately, there was very little to be learned as the plane stopped and turned. Four people entered the picture. All of them were mounted on horses. One dropped to the ground. He or she was wearing a pack. But that’s as much as Mac could determine as the person was enveloped by the cloud of snow associated with the plane’s prop wash.
The man or woman climbed up into the cabin, and the Cessna took off two minutes later. That left Mac with more questions than answers. Someone had a secret airstrip. But who? And why? She sighed. “Thanks, Henry. Let’s pull those cameras the next time a patrol goes in that direction.”
From there, Mac returned to the surface, where the sky was clear, but the air was cold. A short walk took her over to
the battalion command shack. The premission briefing was scheduled for 0800, and the conference room was crammed with people, including a civilian scout named Wilbur Stratton. Charlie Company’s CO was present, too. Captain Lightfoot had a round, almost cherubic face—and was known for his sense of humor.
There was a stir, and a platoon leader shouted, “Atten-hut!” as Crowley entered the room. Crowley was dressed in full Western regalia, and his high-heeled boots made a clumping sound as he made his way to the head of the table. “At ease. Please sit down,” Crowley said as he looked around. “All of you know why you’re here . . . But some may wonder about the late start. There is, I assure you, a method to our madness.”
Having already snapped a couple of photos, Lieutenant Casey stepped forward to rip a blank sheet of paper off a large map and throw it aside. Crowley used his swagger stick as a pointer. “The idea is to trick Howard into believing that everything is normal. At 1000 hours, Bravo Company will depart and drive north through Arminto. In the meantime, Charlie Company will go east, turn just shy of the airport, and head north from there. The companies will converge at the old Hole-in-the-Wall Hideout just before nightfall.
“The Wild Bunch used to hang out there back in the late 1800s,” Crowley added, as his eyes roamed the room. “But a warlord named Ron Goody is using the place now. He’s in the kidnapping business, so be careful . . . There’s a good chance that noncombatants will be present when we grease Goody. That will open the way for an all-out assault on Howard’s mountain fortress. Are there any questions?”
Stratton raised a hand. He was wearing a beat-up Stetson and a grungy parka. “Yes, Wilbur,” Crowley said. “What’s on your mind?”
Stratton had a raspy voice and a no-nonsense manner. “I think you’re making a big mistake, Colonel . . . I was up that way two days ago—and Howard’s people were all over the place. I’d keep those companies together if I were you.”
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