From her position against the left wall, Mac could look up and see smoke billowing up from what remained of the High Fort. But that was irrelevant. Focus, Mac told herself, and shifted her gaze to the trestle. She turned to find Worsky standing there. “Put out a call for every AT4 we have. Get ’em up here.”
While the RTO took care of that, Mac spoke over her radio. “Bravo-Six to Charlie-One . . . We’re going to put rockets into the entrance. Then we’re going across. Get ready. Over.”
Lieutenant Kevin Tyler, AKA Charlie-One, was a platoon leader. His delivery was matter-of-fact. “This is One. Roger that. Over.”
Mac grinned. She’d been a platoon leader and knew how Tyler felt. Scared, excited, and sick to his stomach. None of which could be allowed to show.
Bullets raked the entrance to the tunnel as three soldiers arrived. Each was carrying two single-use AT4s. “Take cover!” Mac shouted. “And put your rockets into the tunnel on the far side of the canyon.”
One of the men took up a position behind a rusty ore car, another knelt next to a pile of timbers, and the third chose to stand just inside the mouth of the tunnel. All three of them fired. Two of the rockets sailed into the hole and exploded. The force of the explosions blew smoke and dust out over the ravine.
The third rocket was high. It hit a spot over the entrance to the mine and detonated. That produced a small avalanche of rock and dirt. The curtain of debris continued to fall as volley two went home. Mac was already running by the time the explosions were heard. “Follow me!” she yelled, and hoped that someone would.
The heavy machine guns had fallen silent. But some of the bandits were not only alive but firing assault weapons, as Mac made her way forward. It would have been nice to fire back. But the two-foot gaps between the railroad ties meant that it was necessary to look down or risk a fall.
Bullets buzzed like angry bees, tore chunks out of the wooden bridge, and took some of the soldiers down. Mac heard a scream but couldn’t look back. Fortunately, Charlie Company’s snipers were hard at work smoking targets from the west side of the canyon. And that gave the soldiers on the trestle a chance to make it.
Mac tripped, fell onto a tie, and lost her carbine. And that’s where she was when a rocket hit the bridge behind her, blowing a hole in it, as an F-111 screamed overhead. Mac looked back over her shoulder. At least a third of the company had been cut off!
A bullet snapped past Worsky’s head as he reached down to give her a hand. The fuzz-faced kid was a hard-assed soldier now. “Stop lying down on the job. We aren’t there yet.”
Mac couldn’t help but laugh even if it sounded hysterical. Mac crossed the rest of the trestle with two dozen troops. The entrance to the mine yawned in front of her, and there was a quick flurry of shots as Union soldiers flooded the tunnel.
Now they were in the area that had been targeted earlier. Bodies, and parts of bodies were strewn all about, and the soil was wet with blood. Mac accidentally stepped on a hand and heard a groan. The bandit’s guts were hanging out. She shouted for a medic and knelt beside him. “Howard . . . Where is Howard?”
His eyes blinked rapidly. “I’m going to die again,” the bandit said. “My brothers are waiting.”
“That’s nice,” Mac said heartlessly. “Where’s Howard? The Khan wants to speak with him.”
The man squinted up at her. “The strong room . . . Where the gold was kept.”
A medic arrived as Mac stood. Lieutenant Tyler was waiting a few feet away. “Let’s find the strong room,” Mac said. “And be careful.”
Tyler sent soldiers deeper into the mine, and Mac followed, with Huntington at her side. A spiral staircase appeared on the right, and the strong room was just beyond. It was labeled STRONG ROOM for the benefit of hotel guests—and protected by a rust-pitted iron door. Mac turned to Tyler. “Blow it.”
It took the better part of five minutes to get people positioned and set the charge. It went off with a bang, the door sagged open, and smoke eddied. At least a dozen weapons were pointed at the person who emerged. She was a thin slip of a girl. Robert Howard was there, too . . . With an arm wrapped around her chest and a pistol to her head. He said, “Back off,” and pulled the revolver’s hammer back to full cock. “And I mean now.”
Mac’s eyes were on the girl, or more specifically on the girl’s face. She saw determination there . . . And that’s as far as the thought went before the hostage allowed herself to sag. That exposed part of Howard’s head. Mac was reaching for her pistol when Huntington’s six-shooter left its holster. The .45 produced a loud boom, and a chunk of Howard’s head flew off. The warlord’s eyes went blank, his body swayed, and he collapsed.
The girl turned to look. She nodded and turned back again. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Huntington said, as the Colt slid into its holster. “Some things need killing. He was one of them.”
Mac’s hand was on her pistol. She allowed it to fall. The warlord of warlords was dead . . . But what about his prisoners? “The people from the town of Wright,” Mac said. “Did they survive? And if so, where are they?”
“I’m from Wright,” the girl answered. “And yes, most of us survived. Come . . . I’ll show you.”
As they made their way deeper into the mine, the girl explained that the prisoners had been brought down into the mine when the planes arrived. And sure enough, there they were, all penned up behind a chain-link fence. They cheered when they saw the girl, and Tyler sent soldiers forward to free them. “I’m looking for a girl named Sissy,” Mac told them. “Is she here?”
“I’m Sissy,” a girl in a ragged dress said shyly. She looked to be seven or eight and was standing next to a young woman.
“I met your grandfather,” Mac said, “just before he died. ‘Tell Sissy I love her.’ That’s what he said. And I promised I would.”
That was a lie, of course . . . But some lies are better than the truth. Tears ran down Sissy’s face as Mac turned away. The cost had been high. But a battle had been fought—and a battle had been won.
CHAPTER 6
Politics have no relation to morals.
—NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
Sloan was lying on his back, staring at the wedge of light that was leaking out through the bathroom door. And, even though she shouldn’t be, Beth Morgan was sleeping next to him. They weren’t going to have sex. Not while she was working on the Pickett story. That’s what she’d told him, and that’s what he had agreed to. Yet there they were . . . And Sloan knew that the decision to renew his relationship with Beth was a horrible mistake. Not just because of the ethical problems involved, but because Beth was still OCD and still a pain in the ass.
But what to do? The reporter was working on a story that, if true, would destroy Senator Pickett’s candidacy. What would happen if he dumped her? Would Beth seek revenge? Of course she would. What was the saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Sloan cursed his own weakness. You shouldn’t have gone to bed with her, and she shouldn’t have gone to bed with you. Both statements were true . . . And both were meaningless. What was, was.
Hang in there, Sloan told himself. The FBI investigation is nearly complete. If the proof is there, Beth will break the story, and the public will learn that the Confederacy is feeding money to Pickett. Once the truth is out, you can back out of the relationship slowly, and everything will be fine.
It felt good to have a plan, and Sloan fell asleep. When he awoke, it was to find that Beth was gone, a lipstick kiss was centered on his mirror, and his shirts had been reorganized. And not just tidied up but hung according to type and color. Sloan knew that was just the beginning. If Beth were allowed to, she would apply the same degree of precision to every aspect of his life. He sighed.
After a shave and a shower, Sloan got dressed and left his underground quarters for the brightly lit ex
ecutive dining room down the hall. It had all the charm of a military prison. But his breakfast was waiting, along with the news summary that Wendy Chow’s staff prepared each day. The first item grabbed his attention. The subhead read: WARLORD OF WARLORDS KILLED IN RAID.
Sloan was painfully aware of the fact that Robert Howard had sent assassins to kill him and had come close to getting the job done. He was also aware of the fact that some of the Whigs claimed the assassination attempt was an indication of how unpopular he was. A thinly veiled call for him to resign.
Sloan sipped his coffee and began to read. He hadn’t gotten far when a familiar name popped up. Captain Robin Macintyre! The officer who led a convoy of Strykers deep into rebel-held territory in order to rescue him. He could still see the amused smile on her face. And something else, too. Interest? Maybe. But no more than that. It would take a lot to impress a woman like Mac. More than a title.
Sloan read on. It seemed that Macintyre’s CO had been murdered by a rebel spy. Rather than sit around and wait for a new commanding officer to arrive, she went looking for Robert Howard, found him, and released thirty-two hostages. All while the Confederate Air Force dropped bombs on her. Where the hell had the Union’s interceptors been? Sloan made a note to look into that.
Robert Howard’s death was, according to the reporter who had written the story, more than a victory. It was a sign that the administration’s efforts to restore order in the wake of the May Day disaster were working. That put a smile on Sloan’s face.
Sloan placed a call to Chief of Staff Chow, told her what he wanted to do, and hung up the phone. His breakfast was good.
CASPER, WYOMING
Mac was exhausted and for good reason. Two days had been spent chasing the surviving members of Robert Howard’s horde. Many were captured, some were killed, and a few got away. But even if a dozen bandits were still on the loose, the people of northern Wyoming were free from Howard’s tyranny.
But nature abhors a vacuum. And if Mac wasn’t careful, some other warlord would move in to take Howard’s place. So before she could return to Fort Carney, she had to establish a forward operating base just outside of Buffalo and bring Alpha Company up to man it. That took two days.
Then it was time to return to Casper. And there, much to her surprise, was Crowley’s replacement. Colonel Marcus Owen was young for his rank and raring to go. He wanted to review every roster, eyeball the supplies he was being asked to sign for, and personally verify the money in petty cash. All of which was appropriate, and all of which required assistance from Mac.
Once those chores had been taken care of, Owen turned his attention to the troops. Mac was relieved to discover that he didn’t share Crowley’s suspicions where the Southerners were concerned—and wanted to make sure that those who deserved recognition would get it.
That meant Mac had to write up recommendations for a dozen medals and, in the case of those who had been killed, letters of condolence that would go to their loved ones. One such letter would be sent to Mrs. Lightfoot, who’d run off with a man from town and hadn’t been seen since.
All of those activities took time. So now, a full week after her return, Mac still felt tired. The duty runner found her drinking black coffee in Bravo Company’s command shack. Owen’s style was a lot more laid-back then his predecessor’s had been. “I have news for you,” the note said. “Drop by when you can.”
Mac thanked the runner and let him go. What sort of news did Owen have? Good news? As in, “Reinforcements are on the way.” Or bad news? As in, “No replacement Strykers are available.” There was only one way to find out.
After emptying her cup, Mac made her way across the compound to the underground command center. Two sentries were on duty and, even though they knew the XO, were still required to check her ID.
Once that was accomplished, Mac walked down the ramp, took a left, and made her way to what had been Crowley’s office. The rawhide curtain had been replaced by a wood door. It was ajar. Mac knocked and heard Owen say, “Come in.”
She was about to come to attention when Owen waved the formality off. His head was shaved, his skin was brown, and he had perfect teeth. They were on full display when he smiled. “Take a load off, Robin . . . Thanks for all the hard work. Just for the record, I tried to keep you, but the brass said no.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. The assignment had been temporary. A way to plug an organizational hole. And now, in the wake of Howard’s death, Colonel Granger wanted her back. “I see,” Mac said. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Owen shrugged. “A lot of good it did. But that’s to be expected. You’re a hero now, and all over the news. That’s the other thing . . . You have orders to swing by Fort Knox on your way to Murfreesboro. The president wants to thank you.”
“The president?” Mac remembered the man with mud on his face and the pain in his eyes. The attempt to establish an airhead in Richton had been a mistake. Sloan’s mistake. But he’d been there, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Rangers, many of whom died for him. And for their country. She would never forget that.
“Yes,” Owen said. “The president. And the press will have a field day. You pulled Sloan’s ass out of Richton, then you smoked the warlord who was trying to kill him. I’m no reporter, but that sounds like one helluva good story to me.”
Mac had zero media-relations experience, and knew it would be easy to say the wrong thing. “I would prefer to join my battalion, sir. That’s where I can make a difference.”
Owen laughed. “Nice try, Robin . . . But if the commander in chief wants to see you, then guess what? He’s going to see you.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing . . . You’re scheduled to meet with a New York Times reporter at 1100. I’d send our PA officer with you, but we’re still waiting for a replacement. One who doesn’t work for the enemy.”
Mac left Owen’s office with a new set of orders and a feeling of dread. But the interview with reporter Molly Thomas wasn’t as bad as Mac feared. Most of the journalist’s questions were of the sort that could be answered by anyone who knew the facts. But, toward the end of the interview, Thomas dropped a bomb on her. “So, Captain . . . You’re a combat veteran. How is the war going?”
Mac chose her words with care. “I’m a junior officer . . . So I don’t have enough information to answer your question. But I can tell you this . . . Most of the men and women of this battalion are from the South, and they fought bravely. They’re the ones who deserve credit for bringing Howard’s reign of terror to an end.”
Thomas winked, as if to say, “Well played.” Then she turned to the subject she’d clearly been waiting to bring up. “I assume you know that your sister and your father are fighting for the New Confederacy.”
“Yes,” Mac replied stiffly. “That’s what I’ve been told.”
Thomas nodded. “Are you aware that, according to a story in the Dallas Morning News, your father has been named Chairman of the Confederacy’s Joint Chiefs of Staff?”
That came as a shock. Her father, the man Mac most wanted to please, was in charge of the military machine she was sworn to fight. “No,” she replied. “I didn’t know that.”
The follow-up question was teed up and ready to go. “Do you have a message for your father?”
At least twenty seconds ticked by as Mac considered various answers. Finally, having rejected all the rest, she spoke. “My father taught me to fight for what I believe in. That’s what I’m doing.”
Later, while Mac was waiting for her train, she saw the story online. The comment about her father was featured as a boxed pull quote, inside the larger article. The headline was: A FAMILY AT WAR. It ran front page left, just below the fold. Would her father see it? Yes, Mac thought. He will.
Airliners couldn’t fly without fighter escorts, and there was a shortage of them. The net effect was a huge demand for train travel. U
nfortunately, the country’s long-neglected railroads weren’t ready for the increase in traffic, and the system was struggling to cope. The result was a lot of scheduling problems, delays, and derailments.
So as Mac boarded the train that would take her to Kansas City, and on to Louisville, it was standing room only for civilians. And the two cars that had been set aside for military personnel were almost full. Mac made her way to the second one, where she found a seat among a group of engineers. Someone said, “Atten-hut!” but Mac waved the soldiers back into their seats. A sergeant was nice enough to heave her bags up onto the overhead rack.
As the soldiers returned to playing cards, Mac curled up in a corner. Here was a chance to get some much-needed shut-eye, and in spite of all the noise, Mac was asleep before the train cleared the station.
But rather than the dreamless nothing she’d been hoping for, Mac found herself back in combat. She and her troops were pinned down, a wounded soldier kept calling for his mother, and Huntington’s intestines were piled in her lap. “Stuff ’em back in,” the scout ordered. “And zip me up. I have work to do.”
In the meantime, Worsky was battling to get her attention. “It’s Bravo-Two, ma’am . . . He says his platoon is surrounded, and they’re running out of ammo. What should they do?”
Mac felt a touch and awoke with a jerk. As her eyes opened, she saw that the corporal sitting across from her was settling into his seat. “Are you all right, ma’am? You were making noises.”
Mac looked around. The engineers were gone. She glanced at her watch. It was 1322. Mac had slept through the first stop. She forced a smile. “Sorry, Corporal . . . I had pizza for dinner last night. It didn’t agree with me.”
The soldier nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to playing a game on his laptop. Mac could hear shouting and the rattle of machine-gun fire. The corporal was playing a combat game! How could he? Why would he? She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. You’re cracking up, the voice said.
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