Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  There was total silence in the room. Odds were that most of the officers had friends and/or family in one or more of the cities Garrison had mentioned. The Secretary of Defense took a seat as Colonel Lassiter returned to the stage. “Everything you heard is top secret, and for your ears only. Tasking orders will come your way by 1800 hours this evening. Dismissed. Major Macintyre will remain.”

  Mac felt a profound emptiness in the pit of her stomach as the other officers filed out. Once they were gone, and Garrison had departed, Lassiter stepped down off the platform. Mac stood. “So, Major . . . It didn’t take you long, did it?” he inquired.

  “Is this in regards to my conversation with Major Kroll, sir?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Lassiter stepped in close. Their faces were only a foot apart. Mac had to summon every bit of her willpower in order to stand fast. She could smell his aftershave. “Don’t ever threaten one of my officers again,” Lassiter growled.

  Mac wanted to say something along the lines of, “I shouldn’t have to,” but knew that would be a big mistake. “I won’t, sir.”

  Lassiter took a step back. “Good. As for the chow problem, that was my fault, not Kroll’s. I should have anticipated the issue, and I failed to do so. That said, I still don’t want to have your whack jobs running around my base. So from this point on, hot meals will be delivered to your battalion three times a day. Are you satisfied?”

  It was an honest admission, as well as a good-faith solution to the problem. Mac’s respect for Lassiter increased exponentially. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good. By the way . . . you won’t receive any orders this evening. There are two reasons for that. Your people are in a training cycle—and it looks like a special job might be coming your way. The kind of thing your unit should be perfect for. That’s as much as I can say right now.”

  Mac came to attention. “We’ll be ready sir.”

  Lassiter nodded. “Go back to Peavey Field and whip your outfit into shape. I’ll let you know when more information becomes available. Dismissed.”

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  Sloan was in a budget meeting when news arrived that a rebel tank column had pushed its way up from southeast New Mexico and captured the city of Albuquerque. The president learned of the loss when his Chief of Staff, Wendy Chow, arrived to pull him out into the hall. Secret Service agents tagged along as they walked to the underground situation room. Many of Sloan’s National Security Council members were present—including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Herman Jones, the Director of National Intelligence Martha Kip, and National Security Advisor Toby Hall. “So what the hell happened?” Sloan inquired as he took his seat. He was pissed. “How could the Confederates assemble a tank brigade and move it north without being spotted?”

  “We’re looking into that,” Jones said. “It’s too early to say for sure. But the preliminary reports suggest that the rebs sent the tanks and their support vehicles into the Roswell area aboard trucks, hid them at separate locations, and assembled the unit at the last moment.”

  Sloan frowned. “Roswell as in UFO Roswell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Perfect. The press will love that. So, how long until we push them back out?”

  “That depends,” Jones said cautiously.

  “On what?”

  “On what we choose to do,” Jones said equably. “Should we pull a brigade off the line in Oklahoma City or Little Rock? And send it west?”

  “That would weaken the line,” Sloan replied. “And create an opportunity for the rebs to break through.”

  “Precisely,” Jones said. “And that might be what the Confederates are hoping for.”

  Sloan swore under his breath. “What would you recommend, then? We can’t let them remain in Albuquerque.”

  “Actually, we could,” Jones said. “Not forever . . . Just until the strategic situation shifts our way.”

  “You must be joking! The rebs take control of a Union city, and we allow them to stay! Try explaining that to an insurance agent in Cleveland . . . Never mind the people who live in Albuquerque.”

  Jones smiled tightly. “I don’t have to. That’s your job, Mr. President.”

  “You’re a dickhead, Herman. You know that?”

  “Yes, sir . . . So they tell me.”

  Sloan laughed. “Seriously . . . If we allow the rebs to stay in Albuquerque, what then? Could they break out? And take more territory?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jones replied. “At this point, the rebs have stretched their supply chain as far as it can go without breaking. I believe that capturing Albuquerque was an inexpensive way to score a victory and make Southern voters feel good. And, if we’re stupid enough to pull a brigade off the line, then so much the better.”

  Sloan was thinking. And as he did so, an uneasy silence settled over the room. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll let the rebs have Albuquerque for a while. But, while they’re sitting there snacking on sopaipillas, we’ll attack their supply line. They can defend it, or allow it to be cut. The choice will be up to them.”

  Martha Kip raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “If we don’t plan to pull a brigade off the line, then what will we use to attack them?”

  “We’ll use our secret weapon,” Sloan said mysteriously. “Notify the press . . . I’m going to Albuquerque, or as close as I can get. I need to show the country that I care. Oh, and find Major McKinney. I have a job for him.”

  PEAVEY FIELD, KANSAS

  A four-engined transport was parked on the runway. But the rain was falling so hard that Mac could barely see the airplane as she stepped out of the headquarters building and prepared to make the mad dash across the tarmac to Shelter Five. Her poncho was equipped with a hood, which she pulled up over the black beret. Then she began to run.

  The rain pattered on her poncho and water splashed away from her boots as Mac passed the C-130 and crossed the final stretch of pavement. Captain Roy Quick was there to welcome her as she entered the shelter. “I’m sorry to bring you out in the rain, boss,” he said. “But we have a grade-A fuck-up on our hands, and I thought you’d like to see the problem firsthand.”

  Rain rattled on the metal roof as Mac threw the hood back and shook water off the poncho. Most of what had been a hangar was occupied by a Stryker M1126A2. The vic was equipped with slat armor, generally referred to as a birdcage, and was partially lit by a roll-around work light. “How come you never call me over to celebrate something that went well?” Mac inquired.

  “Because nothing ever goes well,” Quick replied with a grin.

  “All right, what’s the problem?”

  “That’s the problem,” Quick said, as he pointed at the truck’s slat armor. “According to the list of mission requirements issued yesterday, we’re supposed to load two vics onto C-130s. And, since Strykers were designed with that possibility in mind, it should be easy. But, with slat armor on, each truck is two feet wider than a Herc’s cargo bay. Fortunately, Sergeant Rico was smart enough to check.”

  Mac groaned. “Shit.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. The so-what is that we’ve got to remove the cages from two vehicles.”

  “You’d better make that three,” Mac replied. “In case one of the primaries develops engine trouble prior to takeoff.”

  “Roger that.”

  “How long will it take to remove the armor?”

  “At least a day.”

  “We’re supposed to be combat-ready on six hours’ notice,” Mac said. “What if we get a call twenty minutes from now?”

  “Then we’re screwed.”

  “Put three teams on it,” Mac suggested. “One for each vic. And tell the wrench turners they have four hours to get the job done.”

  Quick made a face. “That means we’ll have to cut the armor off. And
that will make it difficult to put it back on later.”

  “Do it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How about Alpha Company? Are they ready?”

  “Overman is working them hard. They’re running the perimeter.”

  “Okay . . . Stay on ’em. I have no idea what sort of fricking mission the brass have in mind, but whatever it is will have hair all over it. And some of our jailbirds have been sitting on their asses for years.”

  Quick produced one of his trademark grins. “Duly noted, boss. I’m on it.”

  Mac nodded. “I know you are, Roy . . . And thank God for that.”

  Mac returned to the little headquarters building where a long list of tasks awaited her attention. Wu and her staff had been busy. That meant there were requisitions to approve, personnel matters to attend to, and dozens of bulletins, memos, and briefing papers to read. And that’s what she was doing when a sergeant yelled, “Atten-hut!”

  Mac came to attention along with the rest of the headquarters staff as Colonel Lassiter and two companions entered the office. One was an aide and the other was a civilian in rumpled clothing. Lassiter wasn’t wearing a poncho, so his beret was soaked, and his shoulders were wet. He paused to look around. “As you were.”

  Wu and her people went back to work, or pretended to, as Lassiter made his way over to Mac’s desk. It consisted of a sheet of raw plywood resting on two sawhorses. She tossed him a salute, and he returned it. “Good afternoon, Major . . . I’m glad to see that you and your pirates are hard at work.”

  Mac was intensely aware of the fact that the people in the room could hear everything that was said and knew that some version of Lassiter’s comments would make the rounds the moment he left. Rather than object to the pirate remark, she chose to ignore it. “Welcome to the 2nd, sir. Would you like a tour?”

  “Yes, I would,” Lassiter replied. Then he turned to the soldier seated to his right. She was busy entering data into a computer. “What’s your responsibility, Corporal?”

  Mac held her breath. What would Kobo say? She’d been in the slammer for faking records calculated to get her boyfriend a promotion. Kobo stood. “I’m a soldier, sir . . . My first job is to fight! But I’m a human-resources specialist, too—and responsible for the battalion’s personnel records.”

  Mac suppressed a smile. Kobo was playing the colonel like a pro. Lassiter nodded. “Well said, soldier. As you were. All right, let’s find out if the rest of the battalion is as sharp as Corporal Kobo is. Lead the way, Major.”

  Mac considered grabbing her poncho on the way out but feared that Lassiter would perceive that as a sign of weakness. So after putting her beret on, Mac led the other officers out into a steady drizzle. The tour took more than an hour. Lassiter spent most of his time talking to the troops. A process that was both nerve-wracking and instructive. Officers might try to bullshit him, but the enlisted folks had a tendency to tell the truth, and Lassiter was paying close attention. Mac filed the process away for future use.

  The surprise inspection went well until Lassiter entered Shelter Five, where weary techs were busy using cutting torches to remove OLD BOY’s slat armor. That was when the colonel demanded to know what the hell was going on.

  The lighting was poor, so maybe Sergeant Hernandez didn’t realize who he was talking to, although Mac believed he did. It had been a long day, and the noncom was pissed. “What does it look like we’re doing? We’re cutting the fucking slat armor off this fucking vic, so it will fit into a fucking C-130.”

  The comment was followed by an ominous silence as Lassiter absorbed the information. Then he laughed and slapped Hernandez on the back. “Well said, Sergeant. Carry on.”

  But there was a look of concern on Lassiter’s face as he turned to Mac. He had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the background noise. “Will your Strykers be ready to load by 2100 hours?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Your mission is a go . . . Assemble your officers. I’ll brief them.”

  It took fifteen minutes to clear the HQ building and bring all the battalion’s officers in. Except that some of the platoon leaders weren’t officers. They were senior noncoms. A compromise Mac had been forced to accept when it turned out that Leavenworth wasn’t holding enough 01 and 02 officers to meet the battalion’s needs. Just one of the many problems yet to be resolved.

  “Okay,” Lassiter said, once all of them were packed into the small room. “Here’s the skinny . . . Your battalion has been chosen to carry out a top secret mission. Security is extremely important, and that’s why this base is on lockdown. My MPs are on the gate and stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter. No one can enter, and no one can leave until the mission is over. Any questions about that? No? Good.

  “Thanks to the information included in your pretasking orders, you already know that it will be necessary to transport a company of infantry and two combat-ready Strykers over a considerable distance. That will require three C-130s. From this point forward, the transports will be referred to as Yankee One, Two, and Three.” The battalion’s officers and noncoms were scribbling notes, and Mac was no exception.

  “Yankee One is already on the ground,” Lassiter told them. “And Yankee Two and Three are slated to arrive at 2100 hours. Two will be carrying a nine-person special ops team. They will be split into two groups—one for each of the Strykers.

  “Yankee One will depart first and land at Pyote Air Base near Odessa, Texas. The strip hasn’t been used for a long time. And, based on an aerial reconnaissance carried out five days ago, we know that it’s deserted. The runways and taxiways, hardstands and flight-line apron are usable but overgrown.”

  Mac took it in. Texas! Holy shit, right in the heart of Dixie! And she wasn’t the only one to take note of the fact. Glances were exchanged, and someone said, “Oh, goody.”

  Lassiter nodded. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen . . . You are going to land inside enemy territory. Alpha Company will land and secure the base. Once that’s accomplished, Yankee Two and Three will put down and off-load. Then the Strykers, with special ops personnel aboard, will haul ass for Odessa. The trip will take approximately forty-five minutes. The package will be asleep in the Tarlo Hotel when the operators enter and take him prisoner. Once he’s in custody, the Strykers will take him to Pyote Airfield, where he will be loaded onto a C-21A Learjet for an all-expenses-paid trip up north.

  “At that point, assuming the tactical situation allows, you will load the Strykers onto their respective planes. The moment they are wheels up, Alpha Company will board Yankee One for the return trip. The enemy won’t be expecting us, and there aren’t any military bases located nearby. So it’s possible that you’ll be able to go in and get out without a shot being fired. Do you have any questions?”

  Captain Overman raised his hand. “Yes, sir. What about air cover?”

  “That’s a good question,” Lassiter said. “The decision was made to bring the Hercs in low and slow in an effort to evade detection. And if we were to send fighters in high enough to protect the C-130s, they’ll light up every radar screen in Texas. So some zoomies will be on standby with an estimated response time of fifteen minutes.”

  Mac suppressed a groan. Fifteen minutes would be an eternity in the midst of a firefight. And she’d been wearing a uniform too long to believe that the special ops people would be able to get in and out without firing a shot. But what was, was.

  Once Mac’s people had been dismissed, Lassiter and his companions made their way over to where she was standing. “What did you think?” Lassiter inquired. “Did I cover everything?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe you did.”

  “Good. You may have noticed the civilian in our midst. This is Cory Olinger. Cory is a war correspondent for the New York Times, and he’s going to accompany you on the mission.”

  Mac opened her mouth
to speak but stopped when Lassiter raised a hand. “Don’t waste your time, Major . . . The decision to bring Cory along was made at the very highest levels.”

  Mac wondered what “the very highest levels” meant. Had Sloan been involved? Was he trying to justify the Military Reintegration Program? He was rolling the dice if so, because the battalion would look bad if the mission went poorly.

  But Lassiter expected the mission to go well. He’d said as much. So maybe the mission was a no-brainer that was calculated to make everybody look good. If so, the reporter would tell readers how good Mac’s Marauders were. Olinger extended a pudgy hand. It was soft and damp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Major . . . Maybe you could answer a question for me . . . Will they have barf bags on the plane? I tend to get airsick.”

  Mac looked at Lassiter, who rolled his eyes. “I have to get back to my office. Take care, Major . . . And make me proud.” Then he was gone.

  Olinger looked lost. “I’ll check on the air bag thing,” she assured him. “But I won’t be able to spend much time with you during the next few hours. I have a lot to do.”

  “That’s okay,” Olinger said. “I’ll tag along.”

  Mac’s attention shifted to the multitude of details that could spell the difference between success and failure. What was it that President Carter had said when asked if he had regrets? “I wish I’d sent one more helicopter . . .” But he didn’t, and the mission to rescue the hostages in Iran failed. Mac was determined to avoid that kind of mistake.

  So she made her way from place to place, checking and rechecking. Were the soldiers in Overman’s company carrying extra water? There wouldn’t be any at the airfield in Texas, and what if they had to fight the following day? Each soldier could need eight or nine bottles of water. Then there was the question of ammo. Should the Strykers carry more than they usually did? Hell yes, they should.