Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  “We believe both warheads were relatively small and expect that the radiation will disperse in a week or two. In the meantime, monitor your troops for any signs of radiation sickness. Over.”

  All of Mac’s people would fit into her Strykers, and all of the Strykers were equipped with a CBRN (chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear) warfare system, which would keep the crew compartments airtight and positively pressurized. So their course of action was clear.

  After giving the necessary orders, Mac scrambled up the embankment and onto the flat area above. As troops hurried to board the trucks, Mac saw a flash of light off to the east. Fort Leavenworth? Mac hoped the interceptors had been able to protect that base as well. But were more missiles on the way? If so, one or more might get through.

  Mac forced herself to wait next to the vic called HELL ON WHEELS until all of her personnel were accounted for. She ushered Tilly up the ramp before entering the Stryker herself.

  The interior was crowded, and Mac felt a rising sense of claustrophobia as she sat down. Sergeant Major Price was seated across from her. He grinned. “I don’t know about you, Major, but I could use a beer.”

  Mac nodded. “Me too . . . Put out the word. Off-duty personnel will assemble to complete mandatory beer training once we’re off duty. I will buy the first round.”

  A cheer went up inside the vic. Mac’s Marauders were on the mend.

  CHAPTER 13

  Speak softly and carry a big stick.

  —WEST AFRICAN PROVERB

  MCCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, WICHITA, KANSAS

  Sloan could have arrived in a black SUV or limo. But Press Secretary Doyle Besom was forever looking for ways to portray “the fighting president” as a man of action. So nothing less than a military vehicle would do. The flags flying from the Humvee’s antennas snapped in the breeze as the vehicle rolled past a long line of KC-135 Stratotankers that were parked next to the main runway. Sloan’s arrival would make a good picture when viewed from above, which it would be, since the TV networks had permission to fly camera drones over selected portions of the base.

  An air force colonel was waiting to open the door and salute Sloan as he emerged from the vehicle. Sloan returned the gesture and shook hands with the officer. Cameras followed the two men up a flight of metal stairs to the top of a reviewing stand. Drones swooped in to capture tight shots of the president’s face as a general stepped in to greet him.

  Then, after a formal introduction from the general, Sloan stood in front of the microphones. His eyes swept the mostly military crowd. “My fellow Americans . . . The oligarchs who rule the Confederacy attempted to destroy this base using two missiles fired from Texas. Each weapon was armed with a tactical nuclear warhead packing explosive power equal to seventy-two tons of TNT. Or, put another way, the equivalent of seventy-two two-thousand-pound bombs.

  “Fortunately, our newly deployed Iron Shield system kept one of the weapons from striking this base. Sadly, the other missile fell on the town of Belle Plain, where more than a thousand people died.”

  Sloan paused to let the words sink in. “Meanwhile, the Confederacy launched similar attacks on Fort Riley, Fort Leavenworth, and half a dozen other targets. I’m happy to say that all of those weapons, with the exception of the one that hit Belle Plain, were intercepted.

  “Please remember that a significant amount of radiation was released into the atmosphere, however. So if you live in an area where one or more warheads exploded, be sure to follow the instructions provided by state and local authorities. Scientists assure me that so long as citizens take the right precautions, they should be fine. But if you, or someone you know, has symptoms of what could be radiation poisoning, see a doctor right away.

  “Now let’s ask ourselves some very important questions. Why was the Confederate government willing to use nuclear weapons? And how should we respond? What I’m about to say falls under the heading of conjecture . . . That’s all we have to work with since the enemy hasn’t seen fit to comment on their motivations.

  “But to my mind, the sudden escalation from conventional weapons to nuclear weapons signals weakness and desperation. Having been unable to take more of our territory, it appears that President Lemaire and his flunkies are turning to a different strategy. What if their new goal is to lay waste to the North, in the hope that they can create a state of continual chaos and simply wall us off? If that’s their plan, they might decide to fire nuclear-armed missiles at population centers. To counter that possibility, we will continue to expand the Iron Shield system and put appropriate civil-defense measures in place.”

  Sloan stared into the cameras. “Regardless of their reasoning, we need to respond. But how? After I heard what happened to the town of Belle Plain, I wanted revenge, and my first impulse was to launch a counterstrike, knowing that the Confederacy doesn’t have an effective antimissile system. So our missiles were likely to get through.

  “But as emotionally satisfying as that would have been, I remembered something very important. Who would die when our missiles fell? The oligarchs in their underground shelters? No, they would be safe. The casualties, and there would be thousands of them, would consist of the people who allowed themselves to be co-opted.

  “Some might say that they deserve to die for supporting an evil government . . . And I can understand that view. Yet what about our first civil war? Reconstruction wasn’t pretty, but it beat the alternatives.

  “So,” Sloan added, “the following message is for the oligarchs and the people who support them. Do not use tactical nuclear weapons again. If you do, we will intercept most, if not all of them, and retaliate in kind. There will be no further warnings and no negotiations. Just death raining down from the sky. And consider this . . . Rather than fighting a war you can’t win, how about agreeing to a cease-fire in place? Let’s exchange words instead of bullets.”

  There was no applause. Just jagged spears of lightning on the horizon, followed by the soft mutter of thunder. Rain began to fall, and Sloan looked up into the sky. Was a satellite staring down at him? Probably.

  “Mr. President?”

  Sloan turned to see that the general was getting wet. “Come on, General . . . I hope air force coffee tastes better than the sludge the navy serves. Let’s get out of the rain.”

  NEW MADRID, MISSOURI

  The Humvee slowed to a crawl as it followed a six-by-six into a traffic jam. Mac had never been to the river town of New Madrid before, which wasn’t too surprising since it was a small community with a population of only three thousand people. She had looked it up, however—and been interested to discover that the Battle of Island Number Ten had been fought there.

  Back during the first civil war, the Confederates had been determined to prevent the Union Army from using the Mississippi River as a path south. It took the Northern army a month to break through—but they did on April 8, 1862. And now, more than 150 years later, the town of New Madrid was about to play a role in the Second Civil War.

  From what Mac could see, New Madrid was a pleasant place, or had been, before the military came to town. Now the streets were clogged with trucks carrying supplies for Flotilla 4. Whatever that was.

  The orders had come down shortly after the attack on Fort Riley. Mac’s Marauders were to pack up and drive to New Madrid. Once there, Mac was supposed to report to Colonel George Russell who, according to what she’d been able to learn, was a member of the Army Corps of Engineers and Flotilla 4’s commanding officer. And that was the extent of what she knew. Her driver braked as an MP waved them down. He tossed Mac a salute as she opened the side window. “Where are you headed, ma’am?”

  “We’re Mac’s Marauders,” she told him. “I have twenty Strykers loaded with troops plus some support vehicles. Where do you want us?”

  The MP consulted a clipboard and nodded. “Right. Follow the road into town. When you see the car wash, turn right and drive i
nto the field beyond. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks. And where would I find Colonel Russell?”

  “His office is on the Mississippi,” the soldier replied. “Go down to the river. You can’t miss her.”

  Mac thanked him, returned a salute, and turned to her driver. “You heard the man . . . Take a right at the car wash.”

  They didn’t have far to go, but it still took fifteen minutes to get there. Once they arrived, Mac was pleased to see a hand-lettered sign with MAC’S MRDRS on it, plus a row of sanikans and a green Dumpster. The preparations were too good to be true! It appeared that someone was on the ball.

  Roy Quick arrived a few minutes later, and Mac went over to speak with him. “We’ve got plenty of room, so spread the vehicles out and throw revetments up to protect them on three sides. And let’s get a perimeter in place.”

  Quick nodded. “I like what I see . . . But we’re going to need water.”

  “I’m about to check in,” she told him. “I’ll ask Colonel Russell about that.”

  As Quick left, Mac turned to find that Corporal Atkins was standing a few feet away. The ever-present RTO weighed no more than 110 pounds but never complained about the gear she was required to carry. Her eyes were huge behind the lenses of her army-issue “birth control” glasses. “Ma’am?”

  “Come on . . . We’re going to visit the man.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The river was a block and a half to the east. The water had a greenish-brown appearance, and the eastern bank appeared to be relatively close. Or was that an island? Mac wasn’t sure.

  Mac got her first look at the vessels of Flotilla 4 as she passed a cluster of shiny storage silos. They were moored to the orange buoys anchored offshore. A white-over-red pusher boat was moored in front of Mac. And its blunt bow was in contact with the first of two empty barges, both of which were equipped with cranes.

  But the pusher boat and its barges were dwarfed by the large motor vessel moored to Mac’s left. It was well over two hundred feet long and a plaque bearing the name MISSISSIPPI was clearly visible on the ship’s starboard side. Mac noticed that a gun tub had been installed on the boat’s bow, where a group of sailors were gathered around an M163 Vulcan Air-Defense System. The weapon hadn’t been designed for shipboard use but would probably work.

  Mac led Atkins to the point where a couple of smart-looking soldiers were guarding the riverboat’s aluminum gangplank. One of them saluted. “Good afternoon, ma’am . . . Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m Major Macintyre, and I’d like to see Colonel Russell if that’s possible.”

  The soldier nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We were told to expect you. Can I see your ID please?”

  After showing their cards, both women were allowed to cross the gangplank. It bounced under their boots. Once aboard, Mac stopped a passing sailor. “Where would I find Colonel Russell?”

  “Deck three, ma’am,” the man replied, as he jerked a thumb upwards. “A ladder is located just aft of here.”

  As she made her way toward the Mississippi’s stern, Mac saw that the “ladder” was actually a set of stairs. For some reason, the navy felt compelled to rename common items. She led Atkins up to deck three and through a varnished doorway. A private was there to receive her. “Name please?”

  “Macintyre.”

  He consulted a clipboard. “Yes, ma’am. We are expecting you. Please take a number.”

  There was a dispenser on the table next to him. The kind normally seen in a bakery, or the Department of Motor Vehicles. The current number was seventy-nine. Mac frowned. “You’re joking.”

  “No, ma’am. Except in the case of emergencies, the colonel sees people in the order they arrived. He says that keeps the process fair, and rewards promptness. Please have a seat.”

  As Mac entered the waiting area, she saw four civilians, two army captains, and an air force lieutenant. There were empty chairs next to the zoomie, so Mac sat in one and Atkins took the other. The lieutenant smiled. He had blue eyes and a boyish face. “Good afternoon, Major, and welcome to Colonel Russell’s navy. Michael Hicks at your service.”

  “Robin Macintyre. You’re a pilot.”

  “Sometimes, yes. But I’m serving as a combat-control specialist at the moment. When the colonel wants the rain, it’s my job to bring it.”

  “So we’re going to get shot at?”

  Hicks grinned. “Oh, yeah . . . From both sides of the river and on a frequent basis.”

  Mac was going to interrogate Hicks further when a male voice called the number 73. Hicks stood. “Wish me well, Major . . . The colonel beckons.” And with that, he was gone.

  Nearly thirty minutes passed before Mac’s number was called, and a private ushered her into Russell’s office. The officer was seated behind an oak table with his back to a large window. Mac could see the pusher boat and the barges beyond. She came to attention and popped a salute. “Major Macintyre, sir . . . Reporting as ordered.”

  Russell returned the salute and gestured toward one of two guest chairs. Both were made of oak, lacked any sort of padding, and had straight backs. Like a restaurant that wants to move customers through. “Welcome aboard,” Russell said. “Have a seat.”

  As Mac sat down, she saw the sign on Russell’s desk. It was made of brass and turned her way. The inscription read: BE BRIGHT, BE BRIEF, AND BE GONE.

  The tools of Russell’s trade were laid out like instruments on a tray. Mac saw a pen, a mechanical pencil, a complicated calculator, a protractor, and a rectangular magnifying glass all positioned with the precision of soldiers on parade. The rest of the table was bare except for an in-box/out-box combo to her right. The out-box was full to overflowing.

  Russell’s eyes locked with hers. He had thinning hair, gray eyes, and a straight nose. “You arrived in New Madrid twenty-six minutes early and immediately went to work settling in. I like promptness, Major. And I like efficiency. So based on what I’ve seen so far, you and I are going to get along. How much do you know about Flotilla 4 and its mission?”

  “Very little, sir.”

  Russell nodded, as if that was to be expected. “As the Union Army pushed south across the New Mason-Dixon Line, and the rebs were forced to retreat, they began to blow bridges along the Mississippi. Not all of them, mind you . . . because they had an ongoing need to move troops and supplies east and west. But they dropped enough spans to block the river and slow us down. We had no way to respond at first.”

  Russell made a steeple with his fingers. “But,” he added, “things have changed. Something big must be afoot at Fort Knox because we have orders to head south and clear obstructions. The kinds of obstructions that would impede barge traffic.

  “I’ve been working on this river for seven years, so trust me when I say that ours would be a difficult task under normal circumstances. But now, with people shooting at us, the job will be even more challenging.

  “Each time we pause to clear underwater wreckage, it’s likely that the enemy will attack. To counter that threat, you and your battalion will go ashore and provide the flotilla with security. Do you have any questions?”

  Mac had plenty of questions but, in light of the sign on Russell’s desk, forced herself to focus. “Not about the basic mission, no. But I have twenty Strykers and more than two hundred troops. How do you plan to accommodate them?”

  Russell hooked a thumb back over a shoulder. “See the pusher boat? And the barges in front of it? Your Strykers will be loaded onto the barges. As for the troops, most of them will be billeted on the Mississippi, where, I might add, a cabin has been assigned to you. Is there anything else?”

  “My officers and I appreciate the preparations that were made for us,” Mac said. “But we need water.”

  “I think you’ll find that a water tanker is in place when you return,” Russell told her. “There’s no need for anythi
ng more permanent since I expect all of your vehicles and personnel to be aboard the barges by this time tomorrow. We’re scheduled to depart at 0600 the following morning.”

  Atkins was waiting when Mac left the office, and they returned to the unit together. After some quality time with Russell, Mac wasn’t surprised to discover that a water tanker had arrived during her absence. It was parked between two supply trucks. What was she supposed to do with them? There were lots of details to take care of and no procedures to work from.

  Mac worked until 2200 hours that night, slipped into her sack, and awoke seven hours later. The sun was little more than a pus-colored smear behind a screen of gray clouds as Mac entered a temporary enclosure and suffered through a cold shower before getting dressed. Breakfast consisted of an MRE Sloppy Joe and a cup of coffee.

  Then it was time to head down to the river and get things rolling. It took the better part of twenty minutes to find the pusher boat’s captain, and when she did, he was sitting in the Mississippi’s well-appointed dining room feasting on free food. His name was Foley. And he was dressed in a ball cap and dirty khakis. “My name’s Macintyre,” Mac told him, as she took the seat across from him. “Your crew is supposed to load my Strykers this morning.”

  Foley eyed her over a forkful of hash browns. He had beady eyes and purplish lips. “I have a contract with the government,” he said. “And according to the terms of that contract, we begin work at nine. So, when nine o’clock rolls around, we’ll load your vehicles.”

  Mac frowned. “What are you going to do when we’re downriver, and the rebs attack before nine o’clock?”

  Two rows of yellow stumps appeared when Foley smiled. “I’ll do whatever I’m told . . . But it will cost the government time and a half. Now go find someone else to bother.”