Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Prior to the May Day disaster, the dead would have been processed and sent home for burial. That was no longer possible because of civil unrest, the war, and the country’s crumbling infrastructure. So a military graveyard had been commissioned half a mile south of the fort. And, with assistance from a local funeral home, the dead soldiers were being laid to rest. Each casket was draped with an American flag. And, because the soldiers were from the South, the symbolism took on additional significance.

  Tears ran down Mac’s cheeks, and she made no attempt to wipe them away, as each casket was lowered into the ground. The rifle party fired a three-shot volley for each soldier lost. And as the bugler played “Taps,” the sweet-sad sound of it nearly broke her heart.

  Once the battalion was dismissed, Mac half expected Crowley to turn and address his troops. He didn’t. A Humvee was waiting. Crowley made his way over, got in, and was whisked away. So Mac led the members of Alpha and Bravo Companies back to the fort, where Charlie Company was on duty. Once they arrived, Mac made her way to the company’s command shack—and was pouring herself a mug of coffee when Perkins arrived. He had Company Sergeant Boulineau in tow. “Have you got a minute, Captain?”

  “Sure,” Mac replied. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Kline, ma’am. And Porter. They went AWOL last night.”

  Kline was the gunner in two-three, and Porter was a mechanic. Neither had been trouble before so far as Mac knew. “Did we catch them?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boulineau answered grimly. “The MPs found them on 220 trying to hitchhike south. They’re being held in the stockade.”

  Mac took a sip of coffee. It was cold. “Good. Do we know why they ran?”

  Perkins was visibly uncomfortable. “Kline and Porter are of the opinion that the CO doesn’t care about the troops—and that’s why so many people were killed in the squeeze.”

  Mac was in a difficult position. The deserters were right—Crowley didn’t care about them. But she was the battalion’s XO, and Bravo Company’s CO. As such, she couldn’t side with Kline and Porter no matter how correct they might be. “Colonel Crowley led the way,” Mac reminded them. “An IED went off under his Humvee and sent it flying through the air.”

  “That’s true,” Perkins allowed. “But he left the scene of the ambush before all of the wounded had been treated, much less evacuated. That left a bad taste in the mouths of some.”

  “Okay,” Mac said. “You know the drill . . . Charge them with desertion. I’ll sign the paperwork.”

  Neither man moved. Mac eyed them. “Well?”

  Perkins cleared his throat. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

  “Shoot.”

  “We think Kline and Porter are part of a larger problem.”

  “That’s right,” Boulineau agreed. “There are rumblings. Things that worry me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a large number of people pulling out . . . and making a run for the New Mason-Dixon Line.”

  Mac was reminded of what Crowley had said to her. “Who knows? The whole lot of them might go over the hill.”

  “Are you referring to Bravo Company?” Mac wanted to know. “Or the entire battalion?”

  “All of them,” Perkins replied. “Most, anyway.”

  Mac sighed. “First, thanks for the heads-up. Second, let’s do what we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Perkins looked skeptical. “No offense, ma’am . . . But how will we do that?”

  A plan was starting to form in Mac’s mind. “Let’s begin with a proposal to reorganize the battalion. By redistributing our personnel, we can create three companies of equal size . . . And that makes sense since it could be quite a while before reinforcements arrive. Then, assuming the CO approves of the plan, we’ll start an aggressive training cycle.”

  Perkins eyes grew wider. “A reorganization would be like shuffling a deck of cards. It would break up cliques, redistribute opinion leaders, and buy us time.”

  Mac smiled. “Yes. If it works. What do you think, Sergeant?”

  Boulineau nodded. “You’re a fucking genius, ma’am. No disrespect intended.”

  “And none taken,” Mac assured him. “Let’s bring Captain Lightfoot and Captain Withers in on our plan. Then we’ll go to work.”

  The proposal to reorganize the battalion came together quickly—and Mac was ready to submit a draft the following morning. But, before she could request a meeting with Crowley, he sent for her. She took the plan along.

  When Mac arrived the colonel, Lieutenant Casey, and the other company commanders were crammed into Crowley’s office. He was standing with his back to the earthen wall. “Good morning,” he said, as Mac entered. “Let’s begin.” His eyes roamed the faces in front of him.

  “We got our asses handed to us a few days ago. But, rather than sit here and lick our wounds, I’m going to take most of the battalion up north and put Howard down like the mad dog he is. In a perfect world, we would call on the air force to destroy his so-called fort . . . But Howard has a lot of prisoners there . . . So we’ve got to do it the hard way.”

  Crowley paused. “Right about now, you’re asking yourselves how we’re going to do it. I’m not ready to disclose that yet. Based on what happened in the so-called squeeze, we know that our plans were compromised in advance, and I’m not about to let that happen again.”

  Mac was amazed. Stratton had warned Crowley about spies, the colonel had ignored the scout’s warning, and more than thirty soldiers had been killed. Yet here he was . . . talking about the need for security as if it were a new issue!

  “Suffice it to say,” Crowley continued, “that I’m consulting with a new scout. And I expect to finalize a strategy within the next forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I want you to prepare your units for battle without tipping them off to what’s about to take place. And that shouldn’t be too difficult since we’re expected to maintain a high state of readiness at all times. Okay . . . That’s it for now. Dismissed.”

  Mac waited for the others to leave. “Can I have a couple of minutes, sir?”

  Crowley waved her toward a chair. “Of course . . . I’m sorry about leaving you out of the loop . . . But I’m sure you understand.”

  Mac thought Crowley had veered from sharing too much to sharing too little. But what was, was. “Yes, sir. The other company commanders and I came up with a plan to rebalance the battalion . . . And I’d like to share it with you.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Crowley replied. “Especially in light of what we’re about to do. I’ll read it and get back to you later today.”

  As Mac left, she could tell that Crowley didn’t have the foggiest idea of how bad morale was, his role in making it that way, or the fact that the “rebalancing” was part of a plan to prevent a mutiny. But he’d been receptive, and that was good.

  Mac went back to the command shack and all of the administrative work that waited there. A runner brought Crowley’s response two hours later. There was some markup, but not much. And the words, “Approved with changes,” were scrawled above his signature.

  That was good news. But now it was necessary to contact her peers, hold meetings to let the troops know what was coming, and enter the necessary changes into a dozen different databases. Those efforts consumed what remained of the day.

  By the time Mac hit the sack, she was exhausted and immediately fell into a deep sleep. And she was still out when the car bomb detonated at 0512 hours. The blast was so powerful that it shook the ground, rattled the room’s single window, and woke her.

  Mac sat up in bed. What the? Had she been dreaming? Hell, no. The emergency Klaxon had started to bleat—and she could hear machine-gun fire. The fort was under attack!

  Mac rolled off the cot, hurried to pull a pair of pants on, and grabbed her boots. Once the laces were tied, Mac stuck her head up through
the hole in her tac vest and felt the familiar weight settle onto her shoulders. The carbine was leaning next to the door, and she grabbed it on the way out.

  It was like stepping into hell. A cloud of black smoke was billowing up from the main gate. And as Mac looked in that direction, she saw that men with skull masks were flooding into the fort. Not without opposition, however . . . The soldiers on top of the walls were firing down on the invaders as people on the ground tried to push them back. Mac fumbled her radio on. “This is Bravo-Six actual . . . Be careful up on the wall! There are friendlies in the compound, too! Over.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Where was Crowley? Was he in command? Or was everything up to her? The question went unanswered as three Black Hawk helicopters swept over the fort. Reinforcements! And just in time, too . . . Then the door gunners opened fire! Bullets chased a private, caught up, and took him down.

  Mac’s mind raced. What the hell was going on? Were the helo pilots confused? Did they think that the enemy was in control of Fort Carney? No, that wasn’t likely. Then it hit her . . . The Confederates! They were helping the horde!

  Mac’s radio-telephone operator was a fuzz-faced kid named Worsky. His place was with her, and to his everlasting credit, he appeared at her side. “Holy shit, ma’am . . . What the hell is going on?”

  Mac threw him to the ground as gouts of slush marched across the ground and passed within inches of them. “Get on the horn!” Mac shouted. “Tell fire control that those helos belong to the Confederacy . . . and to shoot them down!”

  Worsky was still talking as the Black Hawks hovered, and bandits jumped to the ground. Once they were clear, the helicopters began to rise. Their mission was complete—and the pilots were eager to haul ass. But the fort’s surface-to-air missile launchers had swiveled around by then. Two helos exploded in quick succession. The third managed to clear the wall, and was a mile away, when a missile caught up with it. The result was a flash of light, a boom, and a shower of flaming debris.

  The bandits split up. Some ran toward the vehicle sheds, but six made a dash for the underground command post. Two guards were stationed out front. They fired but were cut down. Mac was up on one knee by then. She raised her carbine and triggered a three-round burst. The bullets hit the last bandit between the shoulder blades. He threw his arms out, took a nosedive, and slid through the slush. “Warn the people in the command post,” Mac said, as she fired again. “Tell them to lock the door!”

  But before Worsky could obey, Lieutenant Casey made his way up the ramp and onto the surface. He was armed with a light machine gun, which he fired John Wayne style. The bandits seemed to dance like puppets and collapsed in a heap. “Good morning, ma’am,” the PA officer said as he passed Mac. “They need help on the gate . . . I thought I’d lend a hand.” Then he was gone.

  Mac still hadn’t heard anything from Crowley. Maybe he’d been hit. But, whatever the reason, her place was in the CP unless the CO showed up to relieve her.

  Mac ordered Worsky to stand guard outside, went down the ramp, and entered the underground com cave. She could hear garbled radio traffic and lots of it. A tech sergeant named Tully was in charge and hurried over. There was a look of relief on her face. “Thank God . . . We could use some help, ma’am.”

  “Give me a sitrep,” Mac said, as her eyes flitted from screen to screen. “But keep it short.”

  “They blew the main gate,” the noncom answered. “It’s secure now, but at least a hundred bandits got inside.” Mac went to work. It soon became apparent that without any centralized control, the battle had devolved to the company and platoon levels, as small contingents of troops battled to keep the invaders away from the com towers, the Strykers, and the ammo dump.

  Bit by bit, Mac worked to reintegrate the battalion. And by 0623 hours, Fort Carney was secure again. But how had things gone so wrong? And where was Crowley?

  Mac ordered Captain Lightfoot to take temporary command as she sought answers to both questions. She pulled Tully aside. “Okay . . . Give it to me straight . . . What happened? Give me the longer version this time.”

  Tully looked scared, and that was understandable. Was Mac going to blame her for the debacle? “At about 0500, a Humvee flying the stars and bars rolled up on the outer perimeter,” Tully said. “The guards attempted to wave it down, but the driver kept going. That’s when Corporal Inthy called in and asked me what to do.”

  Tully swallowed nervously and looked down at her boots. “I wasn’t sure. So I was going to escalate the decision when the Humvee ran over a guard stationed on the inner perimeter. Our people opened fire. But the Humvee’s armor held, the driver made it through the concrete obstacles, and slammed into the door. Then it blew up. The door gave way. That’s when three truckloads of bandits rolled in. They charged the gate.”

  Mac wrapped her arm around the other woman’s narrow shoulders. “Write it down before you go off duty . . . while it’s still fresh in your mind. And one more thing . . . You kept things going. I won’t forget that. Now, what about the helicopters?”

  Tully’s eyes came up, and she looked more confident. “That was different . . . They had the right recognition signals.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The lead pilot called in from fifty miles out, said that General Garrett was aboard, and requested permission to land. We asked for today’s recognition code and received it. Fire control was notified, along with all of the AA batteries.”

  Mac took it in. Crowley had been careful this time. Even she didn’t know what the plan of attack was. Yet Howard knew . . . And the Confederacy knew. “Write that down, too,” Mac instructed. “It will go into the after-action report. And let’s stay vigilant. Who knows? Those bastards could launch a follow-up attack.”

  Mac turned and made her way back to Crowley’s office. She didn’t know what to expect. Was the man drunk? Cowering under his desk? She’d be tempted to shoot him if he was.

  But Crowley wasn’t cowering under his desk. He was dead. And that was glaringly obvious the moment Mac entered. The colonel was sitting in his chair, head back, staring at her. Except that instead of two eyes he had three . . . The one in the middle was rimmed with blue and leaking blood. It ran down onto the bridge of his nose and into his mustache.

  Mac swore under her breath as she went over to look for the pistol. But there wasn’t any pistol. Crazy Crowley had been murdered! By one of the Southerners he feared so much? By Captain Lightfoot? No, that didn’t seem likely, given all that was going on. Plus there were guards out front. Or had been until the bandits killed them.

  Then it came to her. Lieutenant Casey! He was from the South, he’d been there, and Crowley trusted him. But the bastard was a spy . . . An enemy agent who’d been ordered to shoot the fort’s CO at the height of the action, a moment when Tully and the rest of them were unlikely to notice the noise.

  Mac wheeled, left the room, and returned to the com cave. “Sergeant Tully . . . get Captain Lightfoot on the horn. Tell him to find Lieutenant Casey and place him under arrest. Oh, and tell him that there’s a very strong chance that Casey murdered the colonel. If so, he’s dangerous.”

  Tully’s eyes were huge. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t let anyone into the colonel’s office,” Mac added. “It’s a crime scene.” And with that, she left.

  As Mac returned to the surface, she was greeted by the sight of two burning helicopters, people running to and fro, and a scattering of bodies. Most were bandits but not all . . . And that made her angry. Very angry. Someone was going to pay.

  “There you are,” Captain Lightfoot said, as he arrived. “You’re serious? The colonel was murdered?”

  “Yes,” Mac replied. “And I think Casey did it.”

  “He’s gone,” Lightfoot told her. “He left in a Humvee. No one had any reason to stop him.”

  Did that amount to proof? No . . . But even
if Casey wasn’t a murderer, he was a deserter. “I’m assuming command,” Mac said. “And I’m naming you as the acting XO. Have one of your platoon leaders contact the local police department and request assistance. Someone from the outside needs to conduct an investigation, and we don’t have any CIC agents.”

  “Got it,” Lightfoot replied. “And then?”

  “And then we’re going to find the new scout that Crowley told us about,” Mac replied. “They had a plan. Was Casey in on it? If not, we’re going to use it.”

  Lightfoot nodded. “That makes my fucking day . . . Let’s do this thing.”

  CHAPTER 5

  What goes around comes around.

  —PROVERB

  FORT HOOD, TEXAS

  It was a nice day by postapocalyptic standards. That meant Victoria could leave her cold-weather gear in her condo. She was barely aware of the drive to work because her mind was on other things. Primary among them was the summons from the normally hands-off Colonel Oxley. According to Oxley’s e-mail, he wanted to see her “regarding the Howard fiasco,” and “. . . a new assignment.”

  Victoria had been reporting to Oxley for six months. On paper, at any rate. But in all truth, Victoria’s orders came from Oxley’s CO, which was to say her father. Now it seemed as though Oxley was going to get in her face. Something had changed. But what?

  Victoria was approaching the gate by that time. She braked, waited for the line to jerk ahead, and had her ID at the ready when her turn came. An MP eyed it and took a step back. The salute was textbook perfect. Victoria returned it and drove into the fort. The III Corps headquarters building consisted of two squares and a central triangle.

  Victoria parked behind the complex and made her way across the parking lot. After entering the building, Victoria had to show ID again before continuing on her way.