“We are five people short of a full load,” a green hat shouted from inside the plane.
Mac swore. Five soldiers. Dead? Maybe. That would be bad enough. “We leave no man behind.” That was the motto. But did it make sense to sacrifice more lives, perhaps all of their lives, to retrieve dead bodies? No, not to Robin’s way of thinking.
But what if one or more of the MIAs were alive? Lying in a ditch, watching the last plane take off? How would that feel? Mac knew how it would feel. But she also knew that fifty-plus lives were at stake. She looked at Lyle and knew that he knew. Here was the cost of command. “We’re out of here,” Mac said, as both she and Lyle made the jump. Hands reached out to pull them up as a soldier yelled, “Look out! Here comes a vehicle!”
The Humvee was behind them, and catching up quickly. It was armed with a .50, which began to fire three-round bursts. “Throw your grenades!” Lyle shouted. “All of them!”
Half a dozen soldiers threw whatever they had left. That included a dozen fragmentation grenades, a canister of red smoke, and an illumination device. They bounced into the air and went off right in front of the Humvee. It swerved, hit a pothole, and flipped.
The Herc was airborne by then . . . And as the nose came up, Mac had to grab onto a metal support or be thrown back into the still-rising ramp. As the hatch closed, Mac took the opportunity to look around. That was when she realized that the plane was only half full! And that made sense. The rest of her troops had been on Yankee One.
Overman came back to greet her. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head. “You made it. Thank God for that.”
Mac’s throat felt tight. It was difficult to speak. “How many? How many did we lose?”
Overman looked away. “Fifty-six, including the air crews.”
That was something like half of the people who’d gone on the mission. Mac wanted to cry but couldn’t because she was the CO. And COs have to suck it up. Mac struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “And the wounded?”
“Just about everyone,” Overman replied. “Nine of them are serious.”
“Shit. And Olinger?”
“Follow me,” Overman said, and led her forward.
And there, kneeling next to a wounded soldier, was New York Times correspondent Cory Olinger. His clothes were covered in blood, and he was helping a medic. “Olinger is okay for a fucking reporter,” Overman said. And that, Mac knew, was high praise.
A pilot spoke over the intercom. “We’re flying at thirty thousand feet with an F-15 Strike Eagle off each wingtip. Oh, and one more thing . . . General Jones sent you a message: ‘Well done. Take the rest of the day off.’”
That produced laughter, and Mac managed a smile. Mac’s Marauders. Her Marauders. A great deal had been lost . . . But something had been gained as well.
CHAPTER 12
It would be our policy to use nuclear weapons wherever we felt it necessary to protect our forces and achieve our objectives.
—ROBERT MCNAMARA
HOUSTON, TEXAS
After carving a path of destruction across Mexico, what remained of Hurricane Gloria was about to strike Texas. And, as the black SUV wound its way through the streets of Houston, General Bo Macintyre caught occasional glimpses of the low-hanging clouds that were sweeping north from the Gulf. Drops of rain appeared on the windshield, only to be obliterated as the wipers squeaked back and forth. I wish I could get rid of my problems that easily, Bo thought to himself.
And there were problems . . . lots of them. Not the least of which was dealing with self-obsessed, weak-kneed, poll-driven politicians. But that’s how he had to spend his day. So be it. He would use the opportunity to fight for more of everything. Because that’s what he needed in order to win: more soldiers, more weapons, and more time. And if the past was a guide to the future, he would get at least some of what he wanted.
The Hotel Americas was shaped like a huge cube and boasted more than a thousand rooms. The building seemed to swallow the SUV as the vehicle followed a ramp down to the formal entryway below. A doorman hurried to open the door and, since Bo was dressed in civilian clothes, was unlikely to recognize the stern-looking general who appeared on TV at least once a week.
Other people did, however . . . including two of Bo’s aides, who were dressed in mufti. They fell in behind Bo as a very solicitous assistant manager led the party to a private elevator. It took them to the fourth floor, where many of the hotel’s meeting rooms were located.
Another assistant manager was waiting to greet Bo as he stepped out. And he was “thrilled” to have such a distinguished guest in the hotel.
Bo felt nothing but contempt for suck-ups and men of military age who weren’t in uniform. So he didn’t bother to acknowledge the manager’s comments as he was shown into a medium-sized meeting room. And that was when Bo felt the first stirrings of concern. The tables were facing each other, and one was a good deal longer than the other. Five chairs were arranged behind it, while there was only one at the small table. Why? Had a mistake been made? Or was he about to be grilled?
There was some milling around, a good deal of glad-handing, and plenty of fake conviviality as a gaggle of civilians entered from an adjoining room. Had they been in a meeting? To discuss him? Bo sensed the answer was yes.
Finally, as the bullshit storm began to subside, staffers were asked to leave. And that included Bo’s aides. He knew what that meant . . . The civilians were going to kick his ass but planned to do it privately, to prevent leaks.
After taking his seat, Bo found himself facing a panel that consisted of President Morton Lemaire, Secretary of Defense Harmon Gill, Secretary of the Army Orson Selock, National Security Advisor Mary Chaffin, and the Director of the Confederate Intelligence Agency Anthony Vale. Lemaire opened the meeting. “First, please allow me to thank you for coming, General Macintyre . . . We know how busy you are.”
That was bullshit, of course, since Bo had no choice. But, like all generals, Bo was part politician. “You’re welcome, Mr. President. And thank you for inviting me . . . I’d rather be here than working on the budget.” That produced the predictable laugh.
“So,” Lemaire began, “I’d like to congratulate you, your staff, and your soldiers on the capture of Albuquerque! It was the sort of lightning strike that General Patton would have approved of.”
For some reason, Bo’s superiors were obsessed with World War II generals, and rarely made mention of men like Harold G. Moore, Norman Schwarzkopf, and Stanley Allen McChrystal. Probably because they’d never heard of them. “Thank you, sir.”
“And your people did a helluva job down in Brownsville,” Gill added. “They kicked Cabrera’s ass.”
Victoria had been in charge of that mission, and Bo felt a momentary flush of pride. “Thank you, sir.”
“Plus, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the commando raid on Norfolk,” Lemaire added. “Three ships sunk. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”
They’re warming me up, Bo thought to himself. “I hate to admit it, but the navy might have had something to do with that one,” Bo replied. The joke produced a round of chuckles, but Bo knew that an avalanche of shit was coming his way.
“But,” Gill said, “in spite of our considerable success, I would describe the present state of the war as a stalemate. Would you disagree with that assessment?”
Gill’s father was a well-known conservative politician, and Gill had been the CEO of a large defense contractor prior to the war. The man was likeable in many ways, and a dyed-in-the wool Libertarian, which Bo perceived as a good thing. But what Gill wasn’t was a soldier . . . And like so many civilians, Gill had a simplistic view of war.
Still, Gill was the boss, and Bo understood the need to choose his words with care. “I agree in the broadest sense, sir. Although the specifics are important. For example . . . we have the edge where orbital warfare is concerned, and the
y have the capacity to build more planes than we can.”
“So noted,” Gill said. “But rather than analyze the strengths and weaknesses of both sides, the purpose of this meeting is to find a way to win. And who better to consult than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs? So tell us, General . . . Rather than keeping on keeping on, is there some way we could break the stalemate and put some points on the board now?”
Bo looked from face to face. “That depends,” he temporized.
“On what?” Chaffin demanded.
“On what you’re willing to do,” Bo answered. “Are you willing to do the hard things? Will you authorize the air force to carpet bomb Chicago? Will you green-light the use of cluster bombs? And what about tactical nukes? If we nuke a hundred targets on Monday, we will be victorious by Friday.”
Lemaire frowned. “But what good is a nuclear wasteland?”
“It wouldn’t be good so far as our enemies are concerned,” Bo replied. “But the use of tactical nuclear weapons could save the lives of our troops, the same way it did when our great-grandparents dropped a bomb on Hiroshima during World War II. A massive attack would destroy the Union’s factories, break the enemy’s will to fight, and put an end to Sloan’s socialistic government.”
“I don’t know,” Gill said doubtfully. “It would cost billions to rebuild.”
Bo spoke as if to a child. “With all due respect, sir . . . Why would you rebuild? All you would need to do is prevent the rabble from streaming south. Kingdoms will rise and fall. Cults will rule . . . And die-hard socialists will attempt to re-create the existing freeocracy. But surveillance drones can be used to watch the sheep and target leaders as necessary. That is how we can win.”
It wasn’t the first time that such options had been discussed. But it was the first time they’d been put forward as part of an overall strategy. And Bo’s unapologetic argument in favor of destroying half the country in order to save the rest of it left the civilians mute. A good ten seconds passed before Lemaire cleared his throat. “Thank you, General . . . I think I speak for everyone when I say that I appreciate your candor. I’m sure your comments will fuel some very interesting discussions during the days and weeks ahead.
“Now, there’s another matter we need to address. Secretary Gill? I believe you have something you wish to share with the general?”
Gill stood and circled the table to place a newspaper in front of Bo. “It pains me to say this, General . . . especially in light of your selfless service to the Confederacy. But this sort of thing has to stop.”
Bo looked down. A copy of the New York Times was lying in front of him. The headline read: A MISSION INTO HELL. And there, directly below it, was a photo of his younger daughter. Robin was a major now! Since when? She’d been court-martialed and sent to prison last he’d heard. “Go ahead,” Gill said, having returned to his seat. “Read it. We’ll wait.”
The caption under the photo read: “Major Robin Macintyre, commanding officer of Mac’s Marauders, led a mission deep into enemy territory.”
Bo could feel their eyes on him as he skimmed the article. He was, needless to say, familiar with the snatch. Finally, having finished the story, he looked up. “Kids these days . . . You never know what they’ll do next.”
Selock laughed. But he was the only one.
“I’m glad you can find humor in the situation,” Lemaire said icily. “But we lost thirty-seven soldiers at Pyote Field, and their families are very upset. Nor can I ignore the fact that your daughter’s troops were able to abduct a member of my cabinet.”
Bo started to respond but was forced to stop when Lemaire raised a hand. “It would be one thing if the raid were an isolated incident. Many loyal Southerners have family members who are fighting for the North, and the reverse holds as well. But the raid is part of a pattern . . . Major Macintyre led the effort to rescue President Sloan from Richton, Mississippi. And it isn’t unreasonable to suggest that Sloan would be dead had it not been for your daughter. And what then? There’s a very good chance that the North would still be in chaos.
“Then Major Macintyre went after Robert Howard who, as you’ll recall, was working with us. And now this.”
Bo was angry. Angry at Robin . . . And angry at the assholes arrayed in front of him. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded. “I don’t have any influence over Robin. We’re estranged . . . And we have been for years.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do,” Secretary Gill replied thinly. “You can do one of the hard things that you like to talk about. Your daughter is an enemy combatant. Treat her as such.”
Bo looked from face to face. All of them were willing to meet his gaze. They’d met, taken a vote, and sentenced Robin to death. And the assassin? That would be him, or someone chosen by him. But could he do it? The decision was easier than it should have been.
ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
When the meteorite exploded over Washington, D.C., the National Cemetery across the river in Arlington was spared. Some called that a miracle, a sign of God’s compassion. But Mac thought a truly compassionate God would have saved the living rather than the dead.
For whatever reason, Arlington had been spared except for damage to the trees, many of which were now branchless sticks or shattered stumps. But the graves? Some of the markers had been toppled. Fortunately, the remains were safe underground.
Mac had been there before to visit her ancestors’ graves, the first of whom fought for the South and died at Gettysburg. The others had fallen in World War I and Korea. Macintyres had fought in World War II and Vietnam, too, yet come home safe, as her father had after fighting in Afghanistan. But Mac was there to bury half of Alpha Company.
Under normal circumstances, the services would have been spread out over days or weeks. But the public affairs people had gone to great lengths to group them together. Why? To better recognize the nation’s loss? Or to create a made-for-TV spectacle that would remind people of the daring mission into enemy territory and make Sloan look good?
Or was that too cynical? Mac knew Sloan had to look good in order to get elected. And, all things considered, she wanted him to remain in office. The fighting president. That was the kind of president the nation needed.
The staff car slowed and came to a stop. A sharply dressed private opened the door and delivered a crisp salute as Mac got out. “Good morning, ma’am.”
It wasn’t a good morning, and Mac resisted the temptation to say so. “Good morning, Private. How long have you been here?”
“Since 0600, ma’am.”
It was cloudy, cold, and well past 0900. “Thanks for getting things ready, Private . . . We appreciate it.”
The soldier looked surprised. No one thanked him for anything. “You’re welcome, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
A snowflake twirled down between them. Mac nodded. “Me too. They were good soldiers.” And with that, she walked away.
A lieutenant was waiting to lead her to the area where Mac’s Marauders were to be laid to rest alongside the air force personnel who had died with them. Chairs had been set up . . . more than four hundred of them. A temporary speaker’s platform was in place. And there, beyond the stage, the lines of open graves could be seen. They were on part of the 624 acres of land that had once belonged to Confederate General Robert E. Lee. It was an irony not lost on the reporters who were there to cover the event.
Overman showed Mac to her seat as streams of people filtered into the area. The officers acknowledged each other but didn’t engage in chitchat. Neither was in the mood. What followed was a tried-and-true ceremony multiplied by fifty. Not fifty-six, because six soldiers were MIA and might be alive. Were they? It seemed unlikely. But what if?
Mac thought about that at least ten times a day. The army took pride in “leaving no man or woman behind.” Yet she had . . . And the knowledge continued to ea
t at her. That in spite of what her soldiers told the debriefers. Mac remembered one in particular. The soldier’s name was Cramer, but everyone called him Howdy, because that’s how he greeted people. “The major arrived after loading was under way and fought to keep those bastards off our backs. There wasn’t no way she could know where everyone was. As for taking off . . . Hell, we had to take off or die. And what good would that do?”
Investigating officers had agreed with Howdy, Mac had been cleared of what some family members called “dereliction of duty,” and that was that. Except that it wasn’t over because Mac couldn’t stop thinking about it.
A train of caissons arrived. So many caissons that it had been difficult to find enough of them. The caskets were removed, placed in three carefully spaced rows, and covered with flags. American flags.
Then, as the officer in charge led his team off to one side, the Chief of Chaplains for the Union Army stepped forward. In keeping with the request for a nondenominational service, he had chosen the poem “Eulogy for a Veteran” by an unknown author. Puffs of lung-warmed air accompanied his words.
Eulogy for a Veteran
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
The words were moving . . . And Mac allowed herself to cry as the chaplain backed away and the burial team took over once again. The audience was ordered to rise, and the volleys of carefully timed rifle fire began. Normally, a party of seven soldiers would fire three volleys. But in the case of this burial, there were so many salutes that two teams of riflemen were required so that each squad would have time to reload.
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