Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Gun smoke drifted through the air as the noise went on and on. Was that intentional? So the ceremony would look more impressive on television? Maybe. But Mac didn’t give a shit. She wanted her soldiers to receive the honors due them.

  Once the volleys were over, a bugler played “Taps,” as the caskets were lowered into the ground. The mournful sound never failed to move Mac, and this time was no exception. Would someone play “Taps” for her someday? Of course they would. Every soldier has to die . . . The only question was when.

  The snow fell more thickly as the spectators took their seats, and teams of soldiers folded each flag and delivered it to the next of kin. The ceremony came to a close after that, and General Herman Jones passed among the mourners, offering each a card, along with the nation’s condolences.

  Mac was there as well, and some of the family members came over to speak with her. Most were pleasant, but one woman wasn’t. She was wearing a snow-dusted scarf over her long hair, her eyes were red from crying, and a handkerchief was clutched in her right fist. “How dare you come here!” the woman demanded. “Kevin was alive! I know he was! He came to me in a dream. ‘The major left us to die.’ That’s what he said. May you rot in hell.” And with that, she turned away.

  Mac bit her lip and wondered if it was true. As the last of mourners left, Mac was still there, looking out over the graves, when a woman appeared beside her. She was wearing a white-knit cap and a thick coat. Another mother? Intent on damning her to hell? That’s what Mac assumed as the woman spoke. “Major Macintyre?”

  Mac braced herself. “Yes?”

  “I have a message for you.” The woman handed Mac an envelope. It was blank except for a presidential seal. Mac felt her heart beat a little faster. She opened it. And there, tucked inside, was a note card. Two words were scrawled on the heavy stock. “I’m sorry.”

  The note hadn’t been signed, nor was that necessary. Mac felt a sense of warmth suffuse her body as she read the words again. Then, having placed the card back in its envelope, she turned to discover that the woman was gone. “I am the diamond glint on snow.” The blanket of white lay over the cemetery like a shroud.

  FORT HOOD, TEXAS

  Warehouse 72 was a nondescript building located in an out-of-the-way part of Fort Hood. Victoria parked her car and went inside. The air was chilly and smelled of disinfectants. A civilian was seated behind the waist-high counter. She had short hair and too much eye shadow. “Hello . . . How can I help you?”

  “My name’s Macintyre . . . Kathy Ivers is expecting me.”

  The woman nodded. “Right . . . I’ll page her.”

  Ivers arrived two minutes later. She was dressed in a white coat over green OR scrubs. Her white clogs made clacking sounds as she walked. “Major Macintyre? I’m Kathy . . . Everything is ready. Please follow me.”

  The facility was part of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner System, which was charged with carrying out autopsies on all soldiers killed in action, including those who fought for the North. The operation’s main purpose was to gather detailed information regarding how each person had been killed in order to identify deficiencies in body armor and vehicle shielding.

  But there were secondary benefits as well. Especially where the examination of enemy casualties was concerned. What about their body armor? Had improvements been made? And if so, should the Confederacy copy them?

  Victoria was there for another reason, however. She wanted to look at the bodies of the people her sister had left behind when she fled Pyote Field. “Leave no man behind.” That was the motto. But Robin had left five bodies behind rather than stay and fight for them. The bitch.

  Ivers led Victoria back through a maze of corridors to the cold room, where the cadavers were laid out on stainless-steel tables. There were three men and two women. All were nude and, with the exception of an African-American male, looked exceedingly pale under the bright lights.

  Victoria had seen dead bodies before. Lots of them. But always on the battlefield. And what she saw in front of her was unsettling. Some of the soldiers were staring at the ceiling. Others lay with eyes closed. One woman had lost an arm in the fighting. It lay next to her . . . And there was a wedding ring on her hand.

  A Y-shaped incision had been made under the soldier’s breasts. It ran all the way down to her pubic bone. Widely spaced stitches had been used to close it. “The autopsies are complete,” Ivers explained. “Their brains were taken elsewhere for examination, but their organs were replaced.”

  Victoria raised an eyebrow. “In the anatomically correct positions?”

  “No, of course not,” Ivers replied. “That would be a waste of time. We dump them into the chest cavity. The effects found on or near each body are displayed next to them. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thanks,” Victoria replied.

  “There are some coats hanging over there,” the tech said. “Feel free to borrow one if you get cold.” And with that she left.

  Victoria eyed the bodies. They were a beginning point, a way to prepare for her latest assignment. “Kill your sister.” Her father had given the order over drinks in a nice restaurant. And who better for the job? Victoria knew Robin the way only a sister could. And she hated Robin the way only a sister could. The psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung had a theory about that . . . He called it the Electra complex, meaning a psychosexual competition between a girl and her mother for the affection of her father. Except that Victoria had been forced to compete with both her mother and her sister.

  Victoria knew that some people, most people, would see that as a problem. Screw them. It was, to her mind, a logical extension of the Social Darwinism upon which conservative principles were based. It made sense that she, as the person most deserving of her father’s affection, would have it. And the fact that Victoria knew what she was doing meant she was sane.

  But orders to kill Robin were one thing . . . Getting the job done was another. There were plenty of potential obstacles. Robin wasn’t likely to have bodyguards as such . . . Majors didn’t rate that kind of protection. But she was in command of a battalion. And if even half of the press reports were true, Robin’s jailbirds were in love with her. So an assassin would have to get past them in order to put the bitch down.

  Then there was the woman herself. Somehow, some way, Victoria’s once-reticent sister had transformed herself into a badass officer who was quite capable of defending herself.

  So how to get close enough? Perhaps, by spending some time with the dead bodies, Victoria would find an answer. As Victoria circled the tables, she paused every now and then to examine a wallet, handle a piece of jewelry, or look at a photograph. One image caught her attention. The picture was that of a young man with a striking resemblance to one of the dead soldiers . . . a private named Linc Holby.

  A brother perhaps? Yes. And the letter made mention of how happy their parents had been the day he was released from Leavenworth. Was that why Linc had kept the letter? And continued to carry it around? Of course it was.

  As Victoria stood there, holding the letter, an idea occurred to her. What if someone pretending to be Linc Holby’s brother turned up at Robin’s base and asked to speak with her? Would Robin agree to a private meeting? Yes, she would! Robin was sure to feel guilty about leaving Linc behind. Very guilty. And that would provide the opening Victoria needed. She took all of Holby’s effects, signed a receipt for them, and left.

  NEAR FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

  Traveling from Texas to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, turned out to be a lot more difficult than Victoria had anticipated. Months earlier, she’d been able to ride her motorcycle north, using back roads and common sense. Now, security was tight, very tight, all along the heavily disputed border between North and South. So the team’s first attempt to enter Union-held territory failed.

  That forced them to request a plane. It flew them west across Mexico a
nd out over the Pacific before turning north. After a long, nine-hour flight, the transport touched down in Canada. And, because the Canucks were on friendly terms with the Confederacy, the team was able to charter a second plane, which took them east to a rural airport north of Duluth, Minnesota.

  From there, a hunting guide led them down through a myriad of trails to the point where a beat-up van was waiting. It was the property of a Southern sympathizer, and the Confederate flag sticker in the rear window attested to that fact. Victoria ordered Sergeant Ric Radic to scrape it off. His job was to provide security and handle communications.

  Sergeant Jimmy Clay had been chosen to impersonate Holby’s brother, lure Robin off base for a meeting, and kill her. Corporal Suzy Quan, better known as Suzy-Q, was an ex-beautician and makeup artist. Her task was to make Clay look like Holby to the extent that was possible. Who knew? Maybe Robin had met Linc’s brother . . . If so, the likeness would be important.

  From Minnesota, they followed a meandering path south through Iowa and into Kansas. So, by the time they arrived in Leavenworth, two weeks had passed since Victoria had viewed the bodies. Was Robin still there? Probably. Mac’s Marauders had been badly mauled at Pyote Field, and Victoria figured it would take a while for her sister to get replacements and train them.

  An apartment had been secured for the group, and the key was right where the Confederate agent had left it. The fully furnished crash pad was pretty funky, but that didn’t matter. If all went well, the team would be gone within a matter of days.

  After settling in, the next step was to learn as much as they could about what was going on inside the base. Were the Marauders there? And was Robin present?

  Victoria figured that the best and least risky way to gather such intel was to visit the correct bar and make some new friends. With that strategy in mind, Victoria put on a skimpy outfit and, with Clay in tow, made her way to a military nightspot called the Bomb Shelter. It was, according to information online, “A favorite with off-duty army personnel.” And, since the bar had 1,236 positive reviews, that appeared to be true.

  So Victoria had every reason to expect the thump, thump, thump of bass as they arrived, a meaty bouncer on the door, and a packed room. But after making her way down a flight of concrete stairs, Victoria discovered that the door was unattended, the music wasn’t that loud, and the nightclub was practically empty. “What’s up with this?” Clay wanted to know. And Victoria wondered the same thing.

  The décor consisted of army paraphernalia dating back to WWI. There were various types of helmets, sandbags around the empty stage, and a dramatically lit Huey in the middle of the room.

  And that was just the beginning. Packs, entrenching tools, boots, and more were perched on beams or hanging from nails. And any wall space not taken up by regimental flags was covered with layers of photographs that had been taken all over the world. Almost all of them featured one or more soldiers standing in front of a building, a vehicle, or a landmark.

  Once the two of them were seated, a waitress arrived. Her outfit consisted of a tee shirt with GO ARMY on it, short shorts, and combat boots. A bejeweled utility belt with pouches completed the look. “Good evening . . . Would you like to order drinks?”

  “Yes,” Victoria replied. “But where is everyone?”

  “You’re from out of town?”

  Victoria saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. We heard this was a hopping place.”

  The girl nodded. “It was until they split the brigade up into smaller groups and sent them off to who knows where. See that photo? The larger one? Those guys were regulars. Business sucks . . . especially when you’re working for tips.”

  “Where did they go?” Clay inquired.

  The waitress shrugged. “I asked, and they said it was secret. Are you ready to order? Or shall I give you a minute?”

  “We’re ready,” Victoria assured her. Once the orders had been placed, and the waitress was walking away, Victoria turned her attention back to the montage. The photo with the three soldiers on it was not only larger than the rest but pinned on top of them as if it had been added recently. Victoria peered at the image in hopes of recognizing something in the background. An entire brigade had been subdivided and dispersed. Why? Army Intelligence would want to know.

  “What is that thing?” Clay inquired, as he pointed to the vehicle immediately behind the soldiers. Victoria hadn’t paid any attention to it until then. But now, on closer inspection, she realized that she didn’t recognize it either. A missile launcher of some sort? Yes, but what kind?

  The waitress arrived with drinks, and Victoria took the opportunity to ask more questions. “How about Mac’s Marauders? Did they leave, too?”

  “Oh, no,” the girl answered. “They’re still here. But they’re in a training cycle, so we haven’t seen them for a while.”

  If Victoria hadn’t been a soldier herself, she might have been surprised by how much the girl knew. But that sort of savvy was typical of military bars. The soldiers would come in, shoot the shit, and unintentionally reveal all sorts of stuff. Never mind the warnings from officers like her.

  Once the waitress turned away, Victoria took the group shot down and slipped it into her bag. Later, after they returned to the apartment, she would order Radic to scan it and send it off. Chances were that the people in Texas would know what kind of launcher it was.

  After a couple of drinks and good food, the twosome returned to the apartment with boxed meals for Radic and Suzy-Q. They were inside enemy territory, so one of them would need to stand watch at all times. Victoria took the first two-hour stint and went to bed. She’d been asleep for less than an hour when Radic knocked on the door.

  The apartment had only the bare minimum of furnishings and, while there were enough beds, there wasn’t any bedding. So Victoria had to turn on a light and wiggle her way out of her sleep sack before she could answer the door. Quan had the neighboring twin bed and turned over to face the wall. “Yeah,” Victoria said groggily. “What’s up?”

  “Some guy named Alpha-Four-Niner-Six wants to talk to you,” Radic said as he offered the sat phone. Her father wanted to speak with her? That was a surprise, and Victoria felt a growing sense of apprehension as she took the phone. “This is Alpha-Four-Niner-Seven.”

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Bo Macintyre said flatly. “Get your team out of there by 0300. And when I say ‘out of there,’ I mean as far away as you can get . . . Oh, and one other thing . . . Your launcher is part of a new short-range antimissile screen that can blow our stuff out of the sky. We knew they were working on it but didn’t realize the system was being deployed. Think about what that means.” Victoria heard a click followed by static.

  Victoria’s mind was racing. A change in plans . . . Get clear by 0300 . . . Why? Because they’re going to drop some heavy-duty shit on Fort Leavenworth, Victoria thought to herself. Was one of the antimissile batteries located at the fort? Hell, yes.

  Suddenly, Victoria understood. Because the Union was deploying a system that could intercept conventional and nuclear weapons, the Confederacy was determined to inflict some pain while they still could. Assuming it wasn’t too late. What was that her father had said down in Port St. Joe? “Victory always comes at a cost. And I think we should pay the price before the Union grows any stronger.”

  Shit, shit, shit! Her own army was going to nuke her ass! Victoria jerked the door open. “Clay! Radic! Grab your stuff . . . We’re getting out of here. And I mean now!”

  FORT RILEY MILITARY RESERVATION, NORTH CENTRAL KANSAS

  Night exercises were a pain in the ass. But because a great deal of combat took place during the hours of darkness, such efforts were very important. And that was why Mac’s Marauders had been sent 130 miles west to Fort Riley where they could play hide-and-seek with other armored units and get what Sergeant Major Price called, “their get-go juice back.”

 
; And that was important. Having lost half of Alpha Company, and with new people arriving every day, there was a need to strengthen unit cohesion. “Keep ’em busy,” Colonel Lassiter had advised. “Work their asses off.” And Mac had done her best to comply.

  She found ways to test squads, platoons, and companies. How good were their leaders? How rusty were the soldiers who’d been in prison? And were their technical skills up to date?

  Nor was the headquarters company spared. Wu and her people were expected to fight if it came to that, and had been tested along with everyone else.

  So there the troops were, spaced out along the top of a steep embankment, waiting for an “enemy” convoy to pass below. But would it? According to the thermal images streaming in from one of the battalion’s drones, it would.

  But what about the convoy’s drones? Their job was to spot concentrations of enemy troops so that the convoy’s commander could call in an air strike. Mac had a solution for that, however . . . Or hoped that she did. Thanks to countless years of erosion, a rock ledge had been exposed, and it hung rooflike over the embankment, giving Mac’s troops a place to hide. Hopefully, the partial “roof” would screen them from the convoy’s drone. That’s what Mac was thinking about when there was a bright flash of light, followed by a second flash, and overlapping explosions.

  Mac’s initial assumption was that the officer in charge of the exercise was throwing them a curveball . . . Something he did on a frequent basis. But before she could give the possibility much thought, her RTO offered her a handset. “Warlord is on the horn, ma’am.”

  Mac took the instrument and held it to her ear. The message was for all COs, and Warlord was in midsentence. “. . . I repeat, not a drill. The rebs fired two short-range missiles at us. Both were intercepted by Iron Shield launchers and destroyed in midair. We believe that the enemy missiles were armed with nuclear, repeat nuclear warheads. That means there could be some fallout. Especially in the aftermath of an airburst. Those who can shelter in their vehicles should do so. Those who can’t should seek whatever shelter is available and await orders. Decontamination units will be dispatched soon.