Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  And what if the so-called “package” was wounded? Or a special operator for that matter? Mac ordered Quick to identify the best medic in the battalion and assign him or her to the ops team. On and on it went until Yankee Two arrived. It was completely dark by that time, but the runway lights were on as the cargo plane touched down. Sheets of rainwater flew to the right and left as the C-130 came her way. Olinger was standing at Mac’s side, holding a small recorder. “What’s so special about that kind of plane?” he wanted to know.

  “They have a range in excess of two thousand miles loaded,” Mac replied, “and they can cruise at something like 360 mph. But their real claim to fame is that they can land on an unprepared field like the one in Pyote.”

  If Olinger said something, his words were lost in the roar as the C-130’s pilots put all four engines into reverse, and the plane slowed dramatically. As soon as Yankee Two cleared the runway, Three came in for an equally noisy landing. It was still taxiing away when someone touched her arm. “Hey, Mac, we meet again.”

  Mac turned to find that Thomas Lyle was standing beside her. But now, rather than a butter bar, he was a first lieutenant. “Thomas! Are you running the special ops team?”

  “Cory Olinger,” the reporter interjected. “New York Times. Could I have your full name please?”

  “No, you can’t,” Lyle replied. “Nor can you name any of the people on my team. Not unless you want to wind up in some deep shit. Tom will have to do.”

  “Tom?” Olinger inquired. “Not Thomas?”

  “My mother is the only person who calls me Thomas,” Lyle replied. “My mother and the major here.”

  “So the two of you have served together before?”

  “That’s classified,” Mac said. “Turn the recorder off, Mr. Olinger. Or I’ll have one of my men confiscate it.”

  Olinger looked hurt. “I’m just doing my job.”

  “So are we. Turn it off.” Olinger obeyed.

  Mac took Lyle aside. “So, Tom, what do you think?”

  “The mission looks good on paper,” Lyle replied cautiously.

  Mac smiled. “So you’re worried.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Me too.” They laughed.

  “I suggest we run this like the Revell snatch,” Lyle said. “I’ll handle the grab . . . The rest of it belongs to you.”

  “That works for me,” Mac replied. “I’m giving you my best medic. Please make her feel welcome.”

  “We will,” Lyle promised. “Are you coming with us?”

  “Of course I am . . . Somebody has to keep an eye on you.”

  “Thanks, Mom. If anyone can get us in and out, you can.”

  “I’ll do my best. Who’s the target?”

  “The Confederacy’s Secretary of Energy. Some dude named Oliver Sanders. He’s the one they put in charge of siphoning oil out of the petroleum reserves and selling it.”

  Sloan, Mac thought to herself. This has Sloan written all over it. Does he know that I’ll be part of the team that’s going after Sanders? And if so, how does he feel about that?

  The question, like so many others, went unanswered. “Come on,” Mac said. “We have work to do.” The rain continued to fall.

  CHAPTER 11

  Coyote is always out there waiting, and Coyote is always hungry . . .

  —NAVAJO PROVERB

  NORTH OF TIJERAS, NEW MEXICO

  The long, cold night was coming to a close, and the President of the United States was sore. He’d been riding for the better part of two days by then, and even though his parents had horses, he hadn’t ridden in years.

  His mount was a huge but good-natured brute named Kenny. He had only one fault, and that was to veer off the trail every once in a while, in hopes of nibbling on whatever greenery was available. Fortunately for Sloan, the horse didn’t get many opportunities because of New Mexico’s semiarid countryside.

  The presidential party consisted of six people, including a Navajo named Joe Akalii (Cowboy) who led the way, Major Sam McKinney in the two slot, Sloan, and three Green Beret bodyguards, all of whom were suffering silently.

  But even though the group was small, it could call on a lot of firepower. A Predator drone was circling high above, two A-10 Warthogs were flying lazy eights fifty miles north of their position, and a Black Hawk helicopter was parked on a mesa twenty miles away.

  The purpose of the trip was to free Albuquerque from the Confederates. Sloan couldn’t bring in troops to capture the city without weakening the line elsewhere. But what he could do was sponsor a resistance movement aimed at cutting the rebel supply line, which ran up from Texas and into Albuquerque.

  He couldn’t phone the request in, however. Not according to people who knew the area. No, if Sloan wanted to bring the Navajos on board, he’d have to show some nation-to-nation respect. And that meant a meeting with Chief Natonaba, a much-respected leader, who could cut a deal if he thought it was in the tribe’s best interest.

  But would he? According to Congressman Velasquez, who represented Albuquerque, Natonaba had a very Navajo-centric view of the world. “Don’t promise anything you can’t deliver,” Velasquez had cautioned. “Natonaba has a long memory. He talks about the Scorched Earth Campaign of 1863 as if it took place yesterday.”

  After looking it up, Sloan discovered that 1863 was the year Kit Carson’s troops forced Navajo captives to march 350 miles to Fort Sumner. Many of them died along the way.

  Sloan’s train of thought was interrupted as the horse in front of Kenny came to an abrupt halt causing his mount to do likewise. And when Sloan saw McKinney dismount, he was quick to do likewise. His butt was sore, and so were his knees. “Joe will take care of the horses,” McKinney said. “We’ll go forward on foot. Bring your rifle just in case.”

  Sloan was wearing a tac vest, his tac vest, meaning the one he’d worn in Richton. And he was carrying the same M4. He nodded as Joe went about the business of leading the horses in under a rocky outcropping, where they would be less visible from above.

  Once the horses were secure, McKinney led the rest of the group forward. As the trail wound its way around the side of a hill, a sickly-looking yellow blob rose in the east. It was barely visible through a veil of particulate matter. But by the time the presidential party arrived on a flat area on the south side of the hill, there was enough light to see by.

  A large water tank occupied the center of the site. Sloan could tell that the name TIJERAS had been painted on it even though the E and the R had been obliterated by a jagged hole. An artillery shell perhaps? Something like that.

  Gravel crunched under their boots as the men advanced. When they were about fifty feet away from the tank, a man stepped out into the wan sunlight. He was wearing a flat-brimmed hat, a sheepskin coat, and a pair of ancient chaps. The M16 was barrel up and resting on his right shoulder. His eyes were focused on McKinney. “President Sloan, I presume?”

  “Nope,” McKinney replied. “That would be the gentleman behind me. Please place the assault weapon on the ground and take a step back. Are you carrying a pistol? If so, place that on the ground as well.”

  There was a twenty-second pause while the man considered the order. “Maybe you should do the same.”

  McKinney shrugged. “This isn’t personal, sir. There are a lot of people who want to kill the president, and we don’t know you.”

  Another five seconds passed before the man placed the M16 on the ground and took a step back. McKinney was about to follow up regarding the pistol when Sloan took three paces forward. Slowly, almost reverently, he laid the M4 next to the M16. Then he straightened. “Yá’át’ééh.” (Good morning.)

  The other man smiled. “Yá’át’ééh, Mr. President. You did your homework. I’m Chief Natonaba. Welcome to the Navajo Nation.”

  The challenge was there, since the Navajo Nation didn’t qualify as a
nation in the true sense, even though Natonaba wanted people to think of it that way. But Sloan chose to sidestep the issue for the moment. “Thank you, Chief Natonaba. I wish the circumstances of our meeting were different. We’re in enemy-held territory.”

  “Yes,” Natonaba agreed. “Yet you came to Tijeras. Why?”

  “Come with me,” Sloan said. “I’ll show you.”

  Together they walked out to the point where they could look down onto the devastated town of Tijeras. I-40 cut through it like an ugly scar. Sloan had seen the community from above. But the aerial photographs had a clinical quality. These images were real. And the fire-blackened buildings, the shot-up vehicles, and the haphazard grave markers had the emotional weight that a picture couldn’t convey.

  Sloan felt a rising sense of sorrow knowing that 257 soldiers and civilians had died trying to keep the Confederate Army out of Albuquerque. Natonaba must have been experiencing similar emotions. “The Navajo Nation lost thirty-two warriors in the fight,” he said tightly. “Together with the army, they held this pass for two days.”

  “That’s a terrible loss, and I’m very sorry,” Sloan said. “Unfortunately, I’m here to ask you and your people to make even greater sacrifices. My generals tell me that the Confederates are using two routes to funnel supplies into Albuquerque. One follows Highway 285 north through Vaughn, New Mexico, then west through Mountainair to I-25 north. And that takes them into the city.

  “The other involves taking convoys north to I-40 before turning west and driving to Albuquerque. That means they have to pass through Tijeras.”

  “Yes,” Natonaba agreed. “It always works the same way. They send attack helicopters through first. The gunships arrive during the hours of darkness. They attack anything with a heat signature, and that includes cattle. Once that’s over mine-protected vehicles lead the convoy in. They are nearly impervious to mines and IEDS. Stryker vehicles follow, each carrying a squad of infantry. The supply trucks are behind them.”

  Sloan nodded. “That matches what I’ve been told. And that’s why I came. I want you and your warriors to seal off both supply routes. We’ll provide you with the military-grade weapons required to do so. In a month, two at the most, the rebs will be forced to withdraw.”

  Natonaba frowned. “Why don’t you bring a brigade of troops in?”

  “I don’t have any to spare,” Sloan told him. “If we pull a brigade off the line back East, the Confederates could break through.”

  “So you care more about the cities of Springfield and Clarkesville than you do about Albuquerque.”

  There it was . . . the sort of challenge that Sloan had been expecting. “No, that isn’t true. We believe the attack on Albuquerque was a feint designed to boost morale in the South and pull troops away from the main line of battle. So we have three choices. We can do what the rebs want us to do, we can let Albuquerque remain under enemy control until the strategic situation improves, or we can cut their supply lines and take the city back in sixty days or so. Which course of action do you like the most?”

  Sloan was playing hardball and could see the anger in Natonaba’s eyes. “Hundreds, even thousands of my people could die,” the chief objected.

  “Yes,” Sloan agreed. “Tens of thousands of Americans on both sides will die before the war is over. But remember . . . your people are Navajos, but they are Americans, too, with a heritage of valor. More than three hundred code talkers received Congressional Silver Medals for saving thousands of lives during World War II.”

  Natonaba’s expression softened. “You are a manipulative son of a bitch.”

  Sloan nodded. “That’s part of the job. Will you fight?”

  “We’ll fight.”

  They shook hands.

  IN THE AIR OVER NORTHERN TEXAS

  Major Robin Macintyre was trying to look cool as the C-130 called Yankee Two flew low over Texas. Looking cool was important because it sent the right sort of message. “There she was,” some private would say, “sitting there reading a magazine while we flew over enemy-held territory!”

  And it was true. Mac was staring at a magazine even though the words were a blur, and her thoughts were elsewhere. She stole a look at her watch. It was 0036. Yankee One was supposed to land in ten minutes. What would Overman and his company encounter? A deserted airport? Or a whole shitload of trouble? Not knowing was driving her crazy.

  Mac looked across the cargo bay to see that Lieutenant Lyle was asleep. Or was he? Were the closed eyes part of an act? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  As for New York Times correspondent Cory Olinger, he was hunched over an airsick bag, staring at the deck. The faint odor of vomit hung in the air. Mac wrinkled her nose. Still, the reporter was there, even if flying was difficult for him. And he deserved credit for that.

  A crewperson appeared at Mac’s side. Her flight suit was so large it made her look like a kid. “Yankee One is on the ground,” she announced. “And there is no resistance so far.”

  “That’s good news,” Mac said. “What’s our ETA?”

  “Fifteen minutes, ma’am.”

  Mac looked at Lyle. The Green Beret was awake now . . . Or maybe he had been all along. “It’s time to load the team,” Mac said.

  Lyle nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Three special operators were slated to travel aboard CALIFORNIA GIRL, in addition to Lyle, Mac, Olinger, and the Stryker’s two-person crew. The other vic, a Stryker called LUCKY LOU, was riding on Yankee Three.

  CALIFORNIA GIRL had been loaded ass in, so she could roll straight out the moment that the ramp was down. And as Mac entered the cargo compartment, it felt like walking into a coffin. She didn’t like being cooped up inside a metal box even if it was safer there.

  Once the special operators were strapped in, the bullshit began. They were teasing a member of the team about the size of his nose, and he was bragging about all of the many things he could do with it. But Mac knew it was an act . . . a way to conceal the fear they felt. The fear she felt . . . Fear of dying, yes. But the greatest fear was that she would fuck up, and in doing so, cost other people their lives.

  “We’re thirty seconds out,” the copilot announced over the team’s radio network. “Yankee One is off the runway, Alpha Company has deployed, and Yankee Three is fifteen minutes out. Have fun out there.”

  Mac waited for the thump as the plane’s wheels made contact with the runway, followed by a series of bumps as the C-130 rolled through potholes and over pieces of debris. Engines roared as they went into reverse, and the passengers were thrown sideways.

  As the transport jerked to a stop Mac knew that crew people were hurrying to free the Stryker from its tie-downs. The moment that process was complete, Kona started the vic’s engine and drove it down the ramp. There was a bump as the rear wheels came off. A Green Beret named Anders had agreed to serve as Mac’s RTO. He was holding a handset to his ear. “Captain Overman is on the east side of the field,” Anders said.

  “Good,” Mac replied. “Tell him we’re on our way.”

  The trip across the field took no more than three minutes. After the truck came to a stop, Mac had to wait for the ramp to go down. It bounced under her boots. Overman was waiting to receive her. He produced a grimace, which Mac knew to be his version of a smile. “Good morning, Major . . . Here’s your coffee.” Mac watched Overman pour the steaming-hot liquid into a mug. “The cream and sugar is already in there,” he added.

  “I would promote you to colonel if I could,” Mac said as she took a sip. “So things went well?”

  “We own this dump,” Overman replied confidently.

  “How long can we hold it?”

  “That depends on what the rebs throw at us,” Overman said cautiously. “But, assuming we have air cover, we could hold the field for twelve hours. Then we’ll run out of supplies.”

  Mac noticed that Olinger was standin
g a couple of feet away, recording the conversation. What had Lassiter told her? It would take the zoomies fifteen minutes to arrive on scene. That was a long time. And what if the rebel air force was waiting to intercept them? Would the brass send more planes? Or write the Marauders off? “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Mac replied.

  “Here comes Yankee Three,” Lyle said. And sure enough . . . Mac could hear the C-130’s engines. Flares had been placed along both sides of the strip, which meant that Three’s pilots had it easy compared to their counterparts in planes One and Two.

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the C-130 to land, and disgorge the LUCKY LOU before taxiing off the runway. “Okay,” Mac said, as she met Overman’s gaze. “Hold the fort . . . Assuming things go well, we’ll return within two hours. But if the wheels come off, you are to pull out immediately. Do you read me?”

  “Five by five.”

  “Good. Mr. Olinger will remain here . . . Please support his efforts to the extent your duties allow. Let’s do this thing.”

  After returning to the CALIFORNIA GIRL, Mac made her way through the cargo bay and up into the forward air-guard hatch. Then it was time to don her brain bucket, complete with night-vision gear, and a pair of gloves. It was damned cold in the desert at night, and the windchill would make it worse. Maps had been downloaded onto the Strykers’ nav systems, and the TCs had hard copies just in case. “This is Boomer Six,” Mac said into her mike. “Let’s haul ass.”

  Mac had to hang on as Corky Kona put her boot down. Then they were off. Roughly fifty miles separated the tiny town of Pyote from Odessa. And Mac hoped to make the trip in forty minutes. She looked back, saw the LUCKY LOU’s lights, and turned forward again. The lights weren’t really necessary since both drivers had night-vision gear, but civilians would notice if they were off. Especially on the freeway.