Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  “Well, you aren’t me,” Crowley replied. There was a smile on his face, but that wasn’t likely to fool Stratton, or anyone else for that matter.

  “We sent a drone up there this morning,” Crowley said. “And the enemy’s there . . . But not in the numbers you suggest. Plus, the element of surprise should give us a significant advantage.”

  “There ain’t gonna be no surprise,” Stratton insisted. “Howard has spies everywhere. That includes inside this fort. So when you head out, he’ll be waiting.”

  It was starting to feel uncomfortable in the conference room. Crowley frowned. “That’s an interesting assertion, Wilbur . . . But it isn’t true. We surprised Cory Burns at Arminto.”

  “You got lucky in Arminto,” Stratton replied.

  “You’re entitled to your opinion,” Crowley said stiffly. “But I’m in command, and the plan will remain as is.”

  Stratton stood. Beady eyes scanned the room. “Maybe some of you will survive,” Stratton said. “I hope so. Personally, I plan to go home and do some chores.” And with that, he left.

  “Civilians,” Crowley said, as the door closed. “I suggest that you ignore Stratton. Maybe he saw enemy activity, and maybe he was two sheets to the wind. The drone flew over the Hole-in-the-Wall a few hours ago. And, by the time we attack, our force will have reunited. Now, does anyone else have a question? No? Let’s get ready. Dismissed.”

  If Mac had been in command, she wouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Stratton’s concerns, especially where the element of surprise was concerned. Crowley was correct about the drone video, though . . . She’d seen it. And so long as the companies came back together prior to the attack, they should be able to carry the day.

  So Mac put her misgivings aside and made last-minute preparations for the mission. To his credit, Crowley insisted on leading from the front. So Mac assigned the call sign one-one to his Humvee. As second-in-command, she was going to ride in the last vehicle, which was Stryker three-four, better known to its two-person crew as BIGFOOT. Crowley’s call sign was Viper-Eight—and Mac was Bravo-Six.

  Both companies left the fort on schedule and went their separate ways shortly thereafter. The previously blue sky had clouded over by then, and the sun was a yellow smear beyond the blanket of gray.

  Mac couldn’t see the BULLET MAGNET at the front end of the column but could listen in as Crowley offered all sorts of observations to people who didn’t need them. That in spite of the fact that the unit was supposed to maintain radio silence. Yes, the transmissions were scrambled . . . But by monitoring the volume of radio traffic, the bad guys could tell that something was going on. And that wasn’t good. Mac sighed. Stratton thought Crowley had been lucky. Maybe that luck would hold.

  The column turned north shortly after that and rolled through Arminto twenty minutes later. Alpha Company had leveled the place. The saloon was little more than a pile of charred wood, shot-up rat rods littered the area, and the brand-new graveyard was thick with crudely made crosses. As BIGFOOT rolled through town, Mac saw only one resident, and that was a painfully thin dog. It skittered away, tail between its legs, looking back over a shoulder.

  With the exception of some low-lying hills and the gullies that separated them, most of the surrounding terrain was flat. That was good since there were very few places for the horde to hide. But, even though Mac was standing in the Stryker’s forward air-guard hatch, she couldn’t see what lay ahead of the column. What did the road look like? Were there lots of tire tracks? Tracks made before the column rolled through? If so, that might indicate that the horde was on the move.

  About fifteen minutes north of Arminto, the column was forced to pass through a narrow passageway between two hills. Mac caught glimpses of it from her position at the tail end of the convoy. Then, as the ground began to rise on both sides of her, Mac heard Crowley say, “Put the hammer down. Let’s get through this as quickly as we can.”

  That was when an explosion tossed the BULLET MAGNET up into the air. Mac didn’t wait to witness the Humvee’s fate. She was shouting into her mike. “This is Bravo-Six actual! Back up! Back up! Back up!”

  BIGFOOT’s truck commander was a corporal named Niki Chin. She brought the vic to a momentary stop, shifted into reverse, and stomped on the accelerator. Mac was thrown forward as huge wheels spun, and the Stryker backed out of the trap.

  But, as BIGFOOT cleared the passageway, more charges went off. These explosives were located high on the hillsides, where they weren’t likely to be detected. Avalanches of dirt and rock struck the rearmost Stryker from both sides and nearly buried it. That blocked the road. Bravo Company couldn’t move forward—and it couldn’t back out. It was trapped.

  Mac knew what would happen next. Howard’s warriors would appear on the skyline and fire down on the vehicles below. “This is Six actual,” she shouted. “Remain in your vehicles! Gunners will fire upslope! Let the bastards have it. Over.”

  The words were hardly out of Mac’s mouth when hundreds of bandits appeared on top of both hills and opened fire. Stratton’s words came back to haunt her: “Maybe some of you will survive.”

  Compared to earlier generations of wheeled vehicles, the Strykers had a lot of advantages, not the least of which was thicker armor, and their remotely controlled weapons stations enabled gunners to fire without exposing themselves. Their .50 caliber slugs raked the skyline, 40mm grenades exploded along both slopes, and the horde was forced to take cover. They continued to fire, however . . . And Mac suspected that fighting positions had been dug along the top of both ridges. Was that Howard’s doing? Probably.

  Three of Mac’s Strykers were armed with 105mm guns that, if they could be brought to bear, could do serious damage to the bandits. But Mac knew the cannons couldn’t elevate high enough to hit the ridges. Still another indication that someone knew what they were doing.

  All of that and more raced through Mac’s mind as she spoke over the intercom. “Take us to the right, Chin . . . And drive up onto that ridge. Hooper . . . Commence firing the moment that you have targets. Sergeant Ivey . . . Get ready to deploy your squad. We’re going to attack their left flank.”

  The CAT engine roared as the Stryker lurched off road, and the vic’s eight-wheel drive propelled it upslope. A light machine gun was mounted in front of Mac. She ran a check on it as Lieutenant Perkins directed fire. “Higher, two-two . . . There you go. Nice job!

  “Swing right one-three . . . Get those bastards!

  “Eyes west, three-one! They have a rocket launcher!”

  Mac knew Perkins must be up top, just as she was, in order to see so much of his surroundings. And she was about to order him to get down when a bandit spotted BIGFOOT and opened fire. Bullets pinged the vic’s armor and Mac heard them snap around her. She fired the machine gun, saw geysers of snow shoot up just short of the man, and made the necessary adjustment. A long burst cut him off at the waist. Blood stained the snow.

  The truck’s grenade launcher began to chug as Hooper spotted targets and opened fire. Bright yellow-orange explosions marched upslope, consumed a machine-gun crew, and kept going. Chin fought for control as BIGFOOT lost traction, found it, and sent the vic lurching forward. “Find a place to stop and drop the ramp,” Mac told her. “Use the vic for cover, Sergeant Ivey . . . And grease some of those bastards for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” came the reply, as BIGFOOT came to a halt. Rather than turn, and watch the squad deploy, Mac kept her eyes to the front. “Bravo-Six to Bravo Company . . . Switch your fire to the west. I repeat, switch all of your fire to the west. Three-four is on top of the east ridge. Over.”

  Mac heard a chorus of clicks as BIGFOOT topped the ridge, and the slaughter began. Howard, or the person responsible for laying the ambush, had failed to anticipate the possibility that a Stryker would make its way up onto the ridge. And that was a serious mistake.

  Suddenly, one of the metal
beasts was in among the bandits. And the crew was out for revenge. Chin rolled over a fighting position, crushing those within. Some of the ambushers fled. Grenades followed them, caught up, and cut most of them down. A few turned to fight. Mac fired the machine gun. They fell like tenpins.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. Mac dropped to the ground and looked around. Sergeant Ivey and his squad were walking the ridgeline, checking to make sure that none of the bandits were playing dead, and collecting whatever intel they could.

  Mac made her way past an abandoned mortar pit and up to the spot where she had a clear view of the other ridge. At some point in the battle, Perkins had released the soldiers from the Strykers and sent them up the western slope. That in spite of her order for the troops to remain in their vehicles. Mac made a mental note to thank him. The uphill assault hadn’t been easy, though . . . Mac could see bodies on the hillside. The rest, those who made it to the top, were clearing the area.

  Mac felt her heart sink as she looked down onto the road. It appeared that three of Bravo Company’s twelve Strykers had taken repeated hits from mortars and been destroyed. Two of the trucks were on fire, and the third lay on its side. Each vic carried a total of eleven soldiers. So as many as thirty-three people could be dead in addition to the bodies that lay on the slope. Mac felt an almost overwhelming sense of sorrow and had to fight back the tears.

  Had she been wrong to keep them buttoned up inside their vehicles? Would more people have survived if she’d let them loose right away? That’s bullshit, the inner voice told her. You made the correct call.

  Mac was still thinking about that when Crowley appeared next to her. There was a cut on his forehead and some blood on his buckskin jacket. He was otherwise unhurt. “Hello, Macintyre . . . I’m glad to see that you’re okay.”

  It occurred to Mac that Crowley hadn’t crossed her mind until then. Why was that? “You too, sir . . . I saw your Humvee take to the air. Did your driver make it?”

  “No,” Crowley said, as he looked down at the carnage. “She’s dead.”

  Another one. Sisley? No, Sampson. A volunteer from Louisiana. Mac swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Crowley’s eyes slid past hers to a point off in the distance. “I just got off the horn with Captain Lightfoot. I told him to abort the mission and return to the fort.”

  “That makes sense, sir.”

  People were moving in among the Strykers by then. Two-three had backed into two-two early on, and a sergeant was inspecting the damage. It would take a while to clear the traffic jam.

  “I’m going to take your Stryker and head back,” Crowley said. “Salvage what you can.” And with that, he turned away.

  There had been no expression of grief—and no admission of responsibility. What would Crowley do back at the fort? Work with Casey to weasel-word an after-action report? Yes, Mac decided. But there wouldn’t be any press release. Not on that dark day. Mac sighed, made her way downslope, and went to work.

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Sloan was in a bad mood. There were three reasons for that. First, General Hern’s forces were still stalled just south of Columbia, Tennessee, where the Confederacy’s 3rd Tank Regiment was putting up a stiff fight. And the same was true to the east and west as well.

  Second, the handshake thing was still in the news, and Senator Pickett was beginning to creep up in the polls.

  And third, Sloan was scheduled to meet with a reporter from the World News. Not just any reporter . . . but Beth Morgan. The woman he’d been living with until two months prior to the May Day disaster. Besom’s advice was to, “Be nice. Maybe she’ll go easy on you. Lord knows, we could use some positive press.”

  And maybe pigs will fly, Sloan thought to himself. This is Beth’s chance to get even.

  But Sloan couldn’t choose whom World News sent, and he couldn’t afford to ignore such an influential newspaper, especially since print media were enjoying a postdisaster resurgence. That meant Sloan had to sit for the interview whether he wanted to or not.

  Sloan knew Beth a lot better than most interviewees did, including her passion for organization. It was Beth’s firm belief that e-mails should be returned within twelve hours, thank-you cards were a must, and “good” people were always on time.

  So when 3:57 rolled around, and Sloan was still on a call with IRS Commissioner Ralston, he broke it off. “Sorry, Marsha, but I’m supposed to sit down for an interview at four . . . And this particular reporter has been critical of me in the past. If I’m two seconds late, you’ll read about how arrogant I am on page one of the World News.” Ralston laughed, and they agreed to talk later.

  Sloan’s hotel suite included a separate bedroom, and he left it for the sitting room at exactly 4:00 P.M. As he entered, Sloan saw that Beth was checking her watch. Beth had blue eyes, permanently arched brows, and kissable lips. Whoa! the voice cautioned. It didn’t work out. Remember? Beth stood and extended her hand. “Right on time . . . That’s a surprise.”

  Sloan shook her hand but was careful to let go quickly. “It’s good to see you, Beth . . . How are you? And when did you join World News?”

  “I’m fine,” Beth replied. “I was covering a story in Minneapolis when the meteors struck. The Washington Post was destroyed along with the rest of D.C. So I applied for a slot at World News, and here I am.”

  “I’m sorry about the Post,” Sloan said sincerely. “I know how it feels to lose coworkers. We were lucky you and I. Please, have a seat.”

  Once they were seated, Beth placed a recorder on the table that separated them. “I’d like to record our interview.”

  Sloan nodded. “Go right ahead.”

  The questions were what Sloan expected them to be. “Why was it taking Hern so long to push the Confederate Army south?” “What was Sloan doing to push his America Rising proposal through Congress?” And, “When was he going to nominate a vice president?”

  It took about thirty minutes for Sloan to provide variations on his stock answers. The essence of which was that the Confederates were tough, the Whigs were determined to block reconstruction, and he was in the process of choosing a nominee.

  Beth smiled knowingly. His tendency to procrastinate had been one of the things that caused friction between them. “Sure you are,” she said. “Once you make that decision, please have Besom call me first.”

  And with that she leaned forward to turn the recorder off. “Thanks, Sam . . . Now, if you’ve got a couple of minutes, I’d like to tell you about another story that I’m working on. Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t. But since this could represent a matter of national security, my editor thinks that we should share.”

  Sloan was intrigued. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Before I get into it I want a verbal agreement,” Beth said. “If the story pans out, you’ll let me break it.”

  Sloan shrugged. “Sure, that sounds fair. So, like I said, what’s up?”

  “I’m working on an in-depth piece on Senator Pickett,” Beth replied. “Where she’s from, how that shaped her views, and her life in Iowa after she got married. And that’s where things get interesting. When Pickett ran for the Senate in Iowa, she received financial support from the American Eagle PAC, and it was receiving 60 percent of its funding from the Huxton Oil Company.”

  Sloan knew that Huxton Oil was owned by Fred Huxton, who had been instrumental in creating the New Confederacy and was a member of the government’s board of directors. But although the connection was interesting, there was nothing illegal about receiving predisaster support from the PAC, so where was Beth headed? “That makes sense, given her politics,” Sloan allowed. “But it doesn’t qualify as front-page news.”

  “No,” Beth agreed, “it doesn’t. But there’s more . . . According to a person I interviewed in Iowa, a man who used to be on Pickett’s staff, the senator is still rec
eiving cash payments from Huxton. They arrive once a month by courier.”

  Sloan stared at her. “You must be kidding.”

  “No,” Beth replied. “I’m serious. But here’s the problem . . . All I have is the allegation. And that won’t cut it. We need proof.”

  Sloan could see where things were headed. World News lacked the resources to carry out a full-scale investigation—and wanted the government to do it for them. Was that ethical? Yes, no, maybe. If Picket was taking money from the insurgents in return for votes in the Senate, that was a crime. And the Whig candidate would go down in flames.

  But what about his involvement? Using government resources to submarine a political opponent would look bad to some people even if it was legally appropriate. “I can’t get involved in this,” Sloan told her. “What I can do is ask the Attorney General to take your call. Then, if he decides that an investigation is appropriate, the wheels will start to turn. But if he says no, then it’s game over.”

  Beth nodded. “I will call him tomorrow.”

  Sloan glanced at his watch. It was nearly five. “So how about some dinner? I can’t take you out . . . not without a motorcade and an army of Secret Service agents. But we could eat here.” Are you crazy? the voice demanded. You dumped her! Because she’s OCD, bossy, and extremely transactional. But it was too late. The icy blue eyes seemed to soften a bit. “That would be nice, Sam. But no sex. Not while I’m working on a story that could benefit you.”

  “Of course not,” Sam replied. And that was when he remembered something important. The last time he’d had sex had been with her. And it had been quite enjoyable. That was one area where they had always been sympatico.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Beth’s mouth. “Good. So what’s on the menu?”

  CASPER, WYOMING

  A cold wind was blowing down from the north. The flag snapped in the breeze, hardware rattled, and halyards slapped against the aluminum pole as the funeral service continued. Mac was standing behind Colonel Crowley and in front of the battalion. Two days had passed since the ambush. During that time, the wreckage had been removed from what had become known as “the squeeze,” and thirty-nine bodies had been returned to Fort Carney.