“Bullshit,” Mac replied. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
Right, and you’re cracking up, the voice responded.
The train swayed as it rounded a curve, and Mac put her hands in her pockets. How much combat was too much? The question went unanswered as the train rattled over a bridge and roared past a barn. The landscape became a blur after that . . . Mac closed her eyes. There weren’t any dreams this time, and when she awoke, the train was in Kansas City.
A conductor helped get her bags down, but Mac was on her own after that. Because she couldn’t carry both pieces of luggage, Mac wore one like a pack while dragging the other behind her. It produced a series of thumps as it tumbled down the stairs and fell into the entryway. From there, Mac managed to kick the duffel bag onto the platform as a man in civilian clothes stood and watched.
Then Mac had to wait two hours for a connection that was scheduled to depart an hour and a half earlier. Once it arrived, and loading began, an air force pilot stepped in to help with the bags. His name was Charlie something . . . He was a C-17 Globemaster pilot and quite attractive.
But Mac saw him slip his wedding ring off shortly after they boarded the train and kept her guard up after that. Slimeball or not, it was interesting to hear Charlie’s take on the air war. “Their pilots are as good as ours,” Charlie observed. “And that makes sense. We were part of the same air force six months ago. So both sides are even where the human dimension is concerned.
“But here’s why we’re going to win . . . Northrup Grumman produces a lot of military aircraft up north, and so does Boeing. That leaves Lockheed to manufacture planes in the South. The so-what being that the Union has the upper hand where industrial production is concerned.”
It was a convincing argument, and Mac hoped that Charlie’s analysis was correct. But her father was a very resourceful officer. Would he use the proceeds from the country’s oil reserves to buy planes from abroad? Hell yes he would, depending on what was available.
Much to Mac’s surprise, a soldier was waiting for her on the platform in Louisville. He was holding a card with her name on it—and hurried forward when she waved at him. He loaded her belongings onto an ancient luggage cart. One of the wheels produced a persistent rattling sound as he led her through the crowded station and out into a poorly lit street. “Sorry, ma’am . . . The car’s parked a block away. That’s as close as I could get.”
Mac told him not to worry about it and was amazed to discover the vehicle in question was a staff car and not a Humvee. Was that intentional on someone’s part? Or a matter of happenstance?
Whatever the reason, it felt good to settle into the backseat and let Specialist Lee do the driving. Traffic was heavy, which meant that the trip to Fort Knox took more than an hour. Soldier that she was, Mac noticed that there were lots of military vehicles on the roads. More than the last time she’d been there.
Mac had to show her ID at the gate. From there it was a short trip to Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, where a room was reserved for her. A message was waiting: “Please join Colonel Roy Caskins in his office at 0830 tomorrow.” The message was signed by a master sergeant Mac didn’t know. She’d heard of Caskins, however . . . He was the 8th Armored Cavalry Regiment’s commanding officer, which made him Granger’s CO.
Suddenly it was imperative to come up with a clean uniform. No small task since Mac hadn’t had time for anything more than some hand washing in many weeks. So immediately after she arrived in her room, Mac took a load of laundry down the hall to the shared utility room. It took more than an hour to cycle things through.
The dreams were waiting for Mac when she hit the sack. And when she awoke, it was to hear herself whimpering. It took the better part of an hour to get back to sleep.
Mac got up early, dressed with care, and went to the chow hall for breakfast. She ate a generous serving of bacon and eggs before following a map to Regimental Headquarters. A flight of wooden stairs took her up to the second floor and a spartan waiting room. What decorations there were consisted of photos. Cavalry photos . . . Which meant the walls were covered with pictures of tanks, Bradleys, and Strykers.
After presenting herself to the staff sergeant behind the reception desk, Mac was told to take a seat. Half a dozen other officers were waiting to see the colonel or one of his staff officers.
Mac knew very little about Caskins other than the fact that his nickname was “Casket Caskins,” because of a well-publicized incident in which the remains of two soldiers had been mishandled by a subcontractor. And, after learning of the slight, Caskins punched the civilian in the face. Charges were brought and subsequently dismissed. But, in spite of the fact that his fellow officers were sympathetic, very few of them thought that Caskins would make general.
The sergeant called her name. And, before Mac could do more than stand up, Caskins was there. He had a bald spot, stood no more than five feet, eight inches tall, and radiated energy. His magnetism seemed to fill the room as he came forward to shake her hand.
“Captain Macintyre!” Caskins proclaimed loudly. “Look at her!” Caskins demanded, as his bright blue eyes probed the room. “This is what an ass-kicking cavalry officer looks like! Come on, Macintyre, let’s have some coffee.” Mac could feel curious eyes on her back as she entered the colonel’s office.
Caskins closed the door behind himself and circled a nearly bare desk. “You did one helluva job in Wyoming,” Caskins said, as he sat down. “I hate to say it, but the spy did us a favor . . . Crowley was one crazy son of a bitch! Thank God you were there to pick up the pieces. But you’re back now, and maybe that will get Granger off my ass!”
It seemed as if the coffee was a ritual because it arrived without being requested and was placed between them. The corporal who brought the tray vanished as if by magic. Caskins stood to pour. “Describe the battle to me . . . I read the after-action report, but there’s nothing like hearing the unabridged version.”
So Mac took him through it as concisely as she could. “And that’s when Howard appeared,” she said finally. “He had a girl as his hostage. She allowed herself to sag, and that gave my scout a chance to shoot Howard in the head.”
“With a Colt .45,” Caskins said, “I love it. A story well told, Captain . . . And honest, too! You have no idea how much bullshit comes my way. That said, let’s talk about the things you could have done better.”
What followed was a review of the iffy decisions Mac had made. Those included going after Howard before her new CO arrived, placing too much reliance on luck, and failing to anticipate the possibility that enemy aircraft would attack. “Three Confederate helicopters took part in the attack on Fort Carney,” Caskins pointed out. “What did Captain Macintyre learn from that? Zip.”
Mac knew he was right, and some evidence of how she felt must have been visible on her face. Caskins smiled. “Sorry, I know how it feels . . . But you’re a promising officer. That’s why I took the time to poop on your parade.
“Now . . . Let’s talk about tonight’s get-together. I like the president. Not only does he respect the military—he’s willing to fight alongside us. Your objective is to get through the evening without embarrassing yourself or the army. And that may be difficult given all the press coverage you’ve had. Do you read me?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. Have a good time. I’ll see you down South before long. Give Granger my best.”
Mac stood, delivered a salute, and got one in return. It wasn’t until she was outside and walking toward the BOQ that Mac had time to appreciate the skill with which Casket Caskins had taken her apart and put her back together again. She smiled. Lessons had been learned.
MELLOW VALLEY, ALABAMA
It was a sunny day in Mellow Valley, Alabama. The high school band was playing “Dixie” as the terrorists were hauled into town. There were three of them, all wearing black hoods and sitting in the back of a
shiny pickup truck. Mr. Berkowitz was a businessman, Mrs. Berkowitz taught yoga, and their daughter, Ella, was a sad creature best known for being thirty pounds overweight.
Victoria didn’t think people should be executed for owning a jewelry store, having a couple of American flags stored in their attic, or being Jewish. But the local chapter of the Right is Right coalition had the necessary permit, and as Colonel Oxley put it, “Everyday citizens can be useful in fighting Yankee imperialism.” That in spite of the fact that he’d been born in Connecticut.
But, since the proceeding was legal, all Victoria and her team could do was watch as the Berkowitz family was forced off the pickup and marched to the intersection where three truck-cranes were waiting. A noose dangled from each. Ella was sobbing.
Victoria turned her back on the scene. Because the executions were wrong? No, Victoria told herself. Because there could be agitators in the crowd. Folks who might cause trouble.
About a hundred people gathered around. Victoria figured that was a big crowd by Mellow Valley standards. There was an introduction followed by a smattering of applause as a local minister launched into a minisermon about “King” Sloan’s hatred of everything Southern. And that was when Victoria heard the roar of unmuffled engines. The sound sent a jolt of adrenaline into her bloodstream. The mike was attached to her vest. “Heads up! Vehicles inbound. Take cover!”
The resistance fighters were riding in all manner of rat rods—and the crowd scattered as they converged on the intersection. Some of the locals were armed and fired pistols at the invaders. That was a mistake. Machine-gun fire cut them down. “Kill the drivers!” Victoria shouted. “Stop them!”
Victoria’s team consisted of four special operatives, three of whom had worked with her before. All were excellent shots. So it was only a matter of seconds before the woman behind the wheel of an old flatbed truck was killed. Her vehicle veered off course and flattened a stop sign before crashing through the front of the local café.
The invaders wasted no time retaliating, and that forced Victoria’s team to take cover. Meanwhile, a rat rod swooped in to rescue the Berkowitz family and spirit them away. A blizzard of paper fluttered out of the last vehicle to depart.
Victoria emerged from behind a bullet-riddled sedan. Five bodies lay sprawled in the street. Some were shooters, and some had been standing next to the shooters. She went out to retrieve a flyer.
RESTORE AMERICA, the headline said. That was followed by a list of reasons why the New Confederacy was illegal and people should oppose it. Victoria heard a buzzing sound and brought her carbine up to see a civilian drone hovering in front of her. It had four engines, a rounded fuselage, and was equipped with a belly cam. The light gray paint would make the aircraft difficult to see against the sky.
Now Victoria realized that the drone had been there all along, hanging over the town square, feeding video to who? One of the people she was supposed to catch, that’s who. Someone who would put the footage up on the Internet for propaganda purposes.
The voice was distorted but understandable nevertheless. “My name is Nathan Hale. A terrorist who calls himself El Carnicero, or the Butcher, has been assassinating your soldiers while claiming membership in the Union Underground. If you’d like to catch him, we’re willing to help. Send an e-mail to nathanhale@unionunder ground.org. We’ll talk.”
Victoria gave serious consideration to blowing the drone out of the sky but thought better of it. Maybe the Underground could help—and maybe it couldn’t. But El Carnicero was at the top of her hit list, and a lead would be welcome. Or, maybe she’d find Nathan Hale and smoke him instead. Victoria allowed the drone to fly away. It shrank to the size of a dot and disappeared.
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
Most of the world’s developed countries had been hit hard on May Day, while the citizens of many so-called third-world nations barely noticed because they were leading hard lives before the shit hit the fan. But now, having dealt with the immediate crises, industrialized countries were beginning to direct some of their attention outward again. More than that, they had to because so many things had changed, not the least of which was the situation in North America. A place where two governments claimed to control what had been the United States.
What were the Koreans and Brazilians to do? Should they back the Union, which, according to the laws extant on May Day, was the more legitimate government? Or would it be better to support the New Confederacy? Because of its “we can do business with you” mind-set.
As a result of this uncertainty, it was necessary for Sloan’s administration to woo traditional allies like France, Germany, and Great Britain in hopes of maintaining previous military alliances, trade agreements, and legal structures. That’s why Sloan, along with members of his cabinet, was about to spend the evening shooting the shit with all manner of diplomats, including some who had been seen in Houston.
But in spite of Sloan’s dislike of receptions, and all that they entailed, there was one thing to look forward to . . . And that was the opportunity to spend a moment with Captain Robin Macintyre. Or “Mac,” as her troops referred to her. Sloan knew that the prospect of that would help him wade through the endless rounds of toasts, the mind-numbing bullshit, and the posturing that would be served with dinner.
So Sloan kept an eye out for Mac throughout the meeting. The first sighting took place while he was standing on a riser, giving a short speech about the importance of old friendships and new opportunities.
Mac was toward the back of the crowd with some military types. She was dressed in a blue uniform and far prettier than the women wearing expensive dresses. Or so it seemed to him. That was when Sloan lost his place, coughed to cover the moment of confusion, and launched into the close. “So, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. Please enjoy the appetizers but save some room for Chef Franco’s main course.”
There was polite applause and a quintet began to play as Sloan stepped down. Secret Service agents shadowed the president as Secretary of State Henderson appeared with the Italian ambassador at his side. The Italians were trying to play the Union off against the New Confederacy in a blatant attempt to extract money from both. But what the ambassador didn’t seem to understand was that Sloan didn’t have any money to give. Not with a war to fight and a country to rebuild.
Sloan couldn’t say that, however, so he took the first opportunity that came along to redirect the conversation to the subject of soccer, and Italy’s upcoming game with Germany. That set the ambassador off . . . And all Sloan had to do was nod occasionally as the ambassador expounded on how horrible the Germans were.
Beth materialized out of the crowd. Her hair was just so, diamonds sparkled on her ears, and the blue dress looked as though it was sewed on. She, not to mention he, had been the subject of published rumors. The latest of which was that she’d been removed from the political beat due to her relationship with Sloan. And her presence at his side would add fuel to the fire. But what to do? He was trapped.
Sloan was about to introduce Beth to the ambassador when they exchanged air kisses and began to chatter in rapid Italian. Damn it . . . She was perfect for him! Good at everything except making him happy.
After what seemed like an eternity, the reception came to an end, and the dignitaries were herded into the dining room. Eight people were seated at each circular table. Beth was on Sloan’s left, and the other diners included the Russian ambassador, her husband, South Korea’s Consulate General, his wife, and a well-known comedian with her wife. The hope was that the pair from Hollywood could keep the conversation light. And the plan worked for the most part. That despite intel reports that Russia and Canada had designs on Alaska.
After an hour-and-a-half dinner came to an end, people began to leave, and Sloan parted company with Beth. “I’ve got a meeting . . . It could take as much as an hour.”
“I’ll wait,” Beth told him, and what could
he say? Don’t bother? No, that wouldn’t do.
Secret Service agents escorted Sloan upstairs to a small meeting room. They were about to enter when Sloan told them to wait outside. “No offense guys . . . But you’re intimidating. Maybe it’s the shades.” Both men chuckled but left the glasses on.
Sloan opened the door and stepped inside. Mac was looking out through a window. Snow was falling through the wash of light beyond the glass. She turned, and there was the same softly rounded face he’d seen on that terrible night in Richton, Mississippi. Her eyes were what? Intelligent? Cool? Curious? All of those things and more. He went forward to shake hands. “We meet again, Captain. Thank you for coming.”
Mac smiled. “No offense, Mr. President . . . But I did my best to get out of it.”
Sloan laughed. “No problem. Hell, I’d get out of it myself if I could. But I’m glad they forced you to come. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, and so do I. What you accomplished in Wyoming was nothing short of miraculous. Please, have a seat.”
The conversation area consisted of two chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. Mac sat on one end with Sloan at the other. “Tell me everything,” Sloan said. “Starting with the day after we parted company.”
She told the story military style—so it came across as a report. But Sloan didn’t care. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice—and to watch the expressions on her face. “So that’s it,” Mac said finally. “And here I am.”
“Yes,” Sloan replied, “here you are. I wasn’t lying . . . You deserve our thanks. But I have a confession to make.”
Sloan saw Mac’s eyebrows rise. “Which is?”
“My motives aren’t entirely professional. You made quite an impression on me. So much so that I think of you frequently. And, due to the nature of my job, I haven’t had the freedom to contact you. And that explains this kind of creepy moment.”
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