Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  “Why?” Mac wanted to know. “Why run, and come back? I’ve read the reports. The high casualty rate wasn’t your fault. Your outfit was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Overman shrugged. “That’s what the shrinks tell me.”

  “And the voices? What do they tell you?”

  Overman looked surprised. “How do you know about the voices? I never told anyone.”

  “I hear voices of my own,” Mac said.

  “Then you know what they say. They want to know why they’re dead and you’re alive.”

  “I know,” Mac said. “But what is, is. The fact is that you survived . . . And you can save other troops by providing them with good leadership. I need officers who won’t run from the enemy but won’t waste lives either. How about it? The rebs killed your soldiers. Would you like to get even?”

  “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

  “Yes, I am . . . For a cause. A good cause.”

  The eyes stared at her. Thirty long seconds passed. He nodded. “If you want me, I’m in.”

  “I want you,” Mac acknowledged, and she made the decision on the spot. “Welcome to Mac’s Marauders.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Take me to the brig. I want to see the “real Marines.”

  —MAJOR GENERAL “CHESTY” PULLER, USMC

  PORT ST. JOE, FLORIDA

  The two-story house sat atop stilts and was located well back from the glittering water. Victoria was wearing a black two-piece and gloried in the feel of the sun on her skin. Such moments were rare now that the postimpact haze obscured so much of the sky. Victoria heard movement and turned to look as her father stepped onto the deck. He offered her an ice-cold beer. “Here . . . This will wet your whistle.”

  General Bo Macintyre was in good shape for a man in his early sixties. But his skin was a bit looser than it had been a few years earlier, and he had an incipient paunch, both of which frightened Victoria. What would she do when he died? Her life was organized around the never-ending task of earning his approval. She knew that wasn’t healthy yet couldn’t stop.

  They talked about fishing for a while, then golf, then the war. “How are we doing?” Victoria wanted to know.

  Bo took a sip of beer and stared at the sea. “That depends on how you choose to measure it. We’re holding the bastards off, but that won’t lead to victory. To accomplish that, we’ve got to push them back across the New Mason-Dixon Line, destroy their industrial base, and sap their will to fight.”

  Victoria stared at him. “Can we do those things?”

  Bo’s eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses. “We can . . . But we’ve got to be willing to use all of the weapons at our disposal.”

  Victoria took a moment to consider that. “Do you mean nukes?”

  “Yes. The present situation reminds me of what they called mutually assured destruction, or MAD, during the Cold War. Both side had nukes, and both sides were afraid to use them.”

  Victoria frowned. “So, what are you saying? That we should use nukes?”

  Bo turned to look at her. Victoria could see reflections of herself in his glasses. “You tell me, Victoria . . . Let’s say you’re facing a grizzly, and you’re carrying a .22 and a .338 Weatherby. Which rifle would you choose?”

  “The .338,” Victoria replied. “But that’s a false analogy. In this case, the griz has a . 338, too.”

  “True,” her father replied. “But a series of well-targeted preemptive strikes would solve that problem.”

  “And destroy a lot of what we’re fighting for.”

  “Victory always comes at a cost,” Bo replied. “And I think we should pay that price before the Union can grow any stronger. Or,” he continued, “we should make peace. But Lemaire took a run at that, and Sloan refused to listen. What happens next is up to the politicos in Houston.”

  The fact that Lemaire had attempted to negotiate with Sloan was news to Victoria. And it served to put her father’s comments in a different light. If Sloan wasn’t willing to negotiate, then he, and the idiots who backed him, deserved what came their way. And that included nukes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Victoria said.

  “You didn’t hear it,” Bo said, as his gaze returned to the water. “Any of it.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Bo’s secretary appeared at that point. Victoria knew her as Mrs. Walters, even though her husband had been dead for many years, and her first name was Kathy. She had carefully arranged blond hair, a nice figure, and made the summery outfit look good.

  Victoria had been aware of the love affair for a long time and approved of it. Her mother was dead after all—and there was no reason why her father shouldn’t have some companionship. But this was the first time that the twosome had been so open about their relationship. Kathy was carrying a glass of iced tea, which she placed on a side table prior to sitting down under an umbrella. Bo removed his glasses and produced a rare smile. “There you are . . . and just in time, too. We were talking shop.”

  “Shame on you,” Kathy replied. “You came here to escape that.”

  “And to be with the two of you,” Bo replied gallantly. “Which reminds me,” Bo said, as he turned to look at Victoria. “Kathy and I have some news to share . . . We’re going to get married.”

  Victoria felt a surge of jealousy and hurried to suppress it. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m so happy for you! Have you chosen a date?”

  “Not yet,” Kathy replied. “Your father’s calendar is pretty full at the moment, but you’ll be the first to know when we nail it down.”

  “I don’t think Robin will be able to attend,” Victoria said. It was meant to be a joke but didn’t come across that way.

  Bo scowled. “I guess you haven’t heard . . . Your sister was charged with disobeying a direct order, found guilty, and sentenced to four years in Leavenworth.”

  Victoria felt a sense of triumph. The contest was over! “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said sweetly. “But not surprised. Would you like another beer?”

  PEAVEY FIELD, KANSAS

  Dark gray clouds had massed in the north and were preparing to roll south. The temperature was starting to drop, causing Mac to shove her hands into her pockets. Fifteen days had passed since President Sloan had signed her pardon, and Mac was standing in the airport’s two-man control tower, looking out across the airstrip. The battalion’s troops were lined up for PT, and Sergeant Major Price was putting them through their paces. The noncom wasn’t using a bullhorn—but Mac could hear him anyway.

  Price had been serving six months for “borrowing” a Bradley while intoxicated and doing doughnuts in a city park prior to joining the Marauders. He’d been chosen by Quick, who had served with Price in the past and swore by him. Was Price’s crusty persona for real? Or part of an elaborate act? It didn’t matter. The noncom’s hard-ass manner was perfect for a battalion comprised of ex-criminals.

  Later, once PT was over, Price would form the troops into companies and march them up and down the runway like ROTC kids on parade. Not to train them . . . All of the battalion’s soldiers had been through basic. No, the purpose of the exercise was to forge them into a team. A process Quick likened to “herding cats.”

  But while Price worked to turn prisoners back into soldiers, Mac had to find the means to house, feed, and arm them. The latter was especially difficult since supplies of every sort were in high demand. Fortunately, Mac had a secret weapon in the person of Captain Amy Wu, who had already proven herself to have the combined skills of a street hustler, a beady-eyed accountant, and a thief. Not the outright thievery that had landed her in prison, but the sort of borderline shenanigans that were often a bit sketchy.

  The recent delivery of three wrecked Strykers served as a case in point. The vics were sitting in the division’s junkyard, where they were slated for shipment to a reconditioning center in Mic
higan, when Wu came across them. It wasn’t clear how the transaction had gone down. But somehow the vehicles were reclassified as “available for reassignment” and trucked to Mac’s Marauders. Within a matter of days, Wu’s mechanics had been able to create two fighting machines by using parts from the third. And that was nothing short of a miracle.

  But not everything had gone so smoothly. Because the battalion’s soldiers weren’t allowed to mix with the 31st, they couldn’t use the brigade’s chow hall. That meant they were living on a steady diet of MREs. It was a problem that was starting to take a toll on the unit’s morale.

  Such were Mac’s thoughts when she heard movement and turned to see Quick poke his head up through the hatch. “Good news, boss . . . They found Private Arley! He was at his mother’s house, eating cookies.”

  Arley had gone AWOL three hours after being released from prison. Mac said, “Good . . . At least he didn’t rob a gas station or something. Put him in front of the troops, remind them why desertion constitutes a serious crime, and send his ass back to the slammer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m supposed to attend a meeting at brigade HQ. Keep an eye on Wu, and everyone else for that matter.”

  Quick grinned. “Will do.” Then he was gone.

  Rather than keep a private from spending time with Sergeant Major Price, Mac chose to drive herself. An MP saluted as she left the base. The presence of so many soldiers was a boon to the civilians who did business out of the colorfully painted trucks that were parked along the fence. There were barbers, tailors, and food vendors.

  Mac passed them and took a left. There was a line to get into the base. After a short wait, she entered the checkpoint. A sharp-looking MP threw a salute, checked her ID, and waved her through. Mac was early for the meeting, and there was a reason for that.

  The 31st was camped on the campus of what had been a technical school. After asking a pedestrian for directions, Mac found the two-story building with the HEADQUARTERS COMPANY sign out front and went inside. A corporal looked up from her computer. “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Major Kroll.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Which command are you part of?”

  “I’m the commanding officer of the 2nd battalion, AKA Mac’s Marauders.”

  Mac saw the corporal’s eyes widen. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what the Marauders were. Which was to say a battalion of fire-breathing ax murderers. The soldier behind the desk was no exception. “I’ll let Major Kroll know that you’re here. Please have a seat.”

  Mac didn’t want to sit, so she continued to stand, and was staring out of a window when she heard a polite cough. Mac turned to find that Kroll was waiting for her. She had a steely-eyed demeanor and the blocky body of an amateur weight lifter. “I’m Major Kroll . . . You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes,” Mac replied. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s take this to my office,” Kroll said. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

  Mac followed Kroll into a box furnished with three chairs, a messy worktable, and twin computer screens. “So,” Kroll said, once they were seated. “What can I do for you?”

  “My battalion is quartered at Peavey Field,” Mac began. “And, according to verbal orders from Colonel Lassiter, my soldiers aren’t allowed to enter this area. That means they can’t use the chow hall. Yet, according to army regs, soldiers who are unable to access a chow hall are entitled to a subsistence allowance of roughly $300 a month. So I’m here to request that they receive the money they’re entitled to.”

  Kroll’s eyebrows met as she frowned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Major, but there aren’t any food vendors at Peavey Field. That means there’s nothing to spend money on.”

  “That’s true,” Mac agreed. “But I have a solution for that. I assume you’re familiar with the civilian food trucks lined up the road adjacent to the main gate. As soon as my soldiers begin to receive their subsistence allowances, some of those vendors will migrate to Peavey Field. Or the 31st could establish a field kitchen at our location. That would be acceptable as well.”

  Kroll allowed her annoyance to show. “It would, would it? How nice! Well, I can think of a third possibility . . . I could reclassify your battalion as deployed, thereby making your personnel ineligible for a subsistence allowance, and ship you another pallet of MREs.”

  “You could do that,” Mac said tightly. “But if you did, I would leak a story to the press about the way that my battalion is being treated. What would the general think of that? Or the president, for that matter?”

  There was anger in Kroll’s eyes. “I don’t like threats.”

  “And I don’t like eating MREs three times a day.”

  A chilly silence followed. Kroll spoke first. “I will discuss the matter with Colonel Lassiter.”

  “Give him my best,” Mac said as she stood. “And don’t stall. That would really piss me off.” Then she left.

  Mac’s body was trembling as she left the building. Had she overplayed her hand? Would Lassiter put her back in prison? Maybe . . . But how dare they! Her troops were entitled to food or the means to buy it—and what could be more basic than that?

  Mac circled the block twice in an effort to calm down before getting back in the Humvee and driving to the headquarters building. It was a two-story affair topped with all manner of antennas and a Phalanx Close-In Weapon System.

  Mac was expected inside and followed a staff sergeant into the auditorium where General Brock, Colonel Lassiter, and his direct reports were scheduled to meet. Most of her peers were polite but standoffish. The single exception was the lieutenant colonel in command of the brigade’s cavalry squadron. His name was Connors, and he was built like a fireplug. “Welcome aboard, Macintyre,” he said. “Don’t mind our friends here, they’ll come around after a while. I read the after-action report on the withdrawal from Richton, and you can join my outfit anytime!”

  A lot of people were seated, but most of the front row was open. Connors led her down to the centermost seats. “Lead from the front. The legs will follow.” Mac knew that “legs” was a not-altogether-complimentary term for the army’s infantry units and couldn’t help but laugh.

  The meeting began right on time. As Colonel Lassiter took the stage, Mac wondered if Kroll had spoken to him yet. “Good morning,” Lassiter said. “And welcome to the command briefing for Operation Iron Shield. If that name sounds familiar, it’s because of the Iron Dome mobile all-weather air-defense system deployed in Israel sometime ago.”

  Lassiter’s eyes swept the room. “Not to belabor the obvious, but I can assure you that the rebs would love to use the latest version of Iron Dome, which Boeing was working on prior to the May Day impacts. Fortunately, we’re the ones who will benefit from those efforts. And here, to talk about our role in Iron Shield, is Secretary of Defense Garrison.”

  There was a round of enthusiastic applause as Garrison entered the auditorium. And for good reason. Although Frank Garrison had been a gentleman farmer prior to the war, with no military experience, he’d proven himself to be a capable Secretary of Defense. Garrison had wispy hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Energy seemed to crackle around him as he took center stage. True to his personal style, Garrison wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Between 2000 and 2008, an estimated eight thousand projectiles rained down on Israeli population centers,” Garrison said. “But, after the Iron Dome system went operational in March of 2011, roughly 90 percent of incoming missiles were intercepted. That was an amazing accomplishment and one we should seek to emulate.

  “As I speak to you, cities like Springfield, Tulsa, and Nashville are being pounded by mortars and surface-to-surface missiles. Never mind the fact that two of those cities belonged to rebs until recently and are home to people
who considered themselves to be Confederate citizens. That says a lot, doesn’t it? These people don’t care whom they kill . . . Here’s what an Iron Dome battery looks like.”

  Mac looked up at a large screen as a series of images appeared. “The batteries are mobile, and each one of them incorporates a radar unit, missile-control unit, and several launchers,” Garrison told them. “And since each battery is armed with twenty interceptors, it can protect about ninety square miles of territory! That means that a single unit could protect Louisville, Cleveland, or Baltimore.”

  Garrison pressed a button, and the screen went dark. “But that’s the old system . . . And, if the rebs put enough missiles into the air all at once, they could overwhelm it. That’s why Iron Shield will incorporate lasers that can converge on incoming targets and destroy them. But because weather conditions can interfere with laser technology, we’ll have a backup capability that includes directed-energy weapons and conventional interceptors.”

  Mac could see the importance of not only protecting cities, but also what had been reb cities, as Sloan attempted to reunite the country. The scale of what he was trying to accomplish was enormous—and she hoped he’d be able to pull it off.

  “So,” Garrison said, “your job will be to protect the batteries from ground attacks, including commando raids. Our greatest moment of vulnerability is now, before the units deploy and come online. That suggests the need for considerable speed. We must put this system in place quickly. Are there any questions?”

  The urgency in Garrison’s voice triggered Mac’s imagination. Rockets and artillery shells could be lethal and often were . . . But were they the only reason for concern? Or was there something more behind the sudden push? “Yes, sir,” Mac said as she stood. “Is there any reason to believe that the rebs might throw short-range nukes at us?”

  All eyes swiveled from Mac to Garrison. His face looked drawn. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” he admitted. “That possibility exists. Do we believe that such an attack is imminent? No . . . But there’s no way to be sure. That’s why it’s important to act quickly. And not just along the line of conflict . . . but up and down the East Coast, too! I would remind you that the rebs have nuclear subs, and the capability to launch missiles from the Atlantic. That puts cities like Boston, Chicago, and Indianapolis inside the kill zone.”