Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Mac went back to the ship after that, took a shower, and went to dinner. Some of her troops were in the dining room, and Mac asked for permission to join them. Most had been in Leavenworth and clearly liked the fact that she’d been there, too, if only for a brief time. The conversation centered around how bad the food had been, which guards were the most overweight, and the nature of the journey ahead. “How ’bout it?” a private wanted to know. “Are we going to see action?”

  “I’d put money on it,” Mac told him. “So get a good night’s sleep. Odds are that we’ll be up to our asses in it tomorrow.”

  But it didn’t turn out that way. In spite of problems with the crane on Barge 2, and the difficulties associated with bringing Barge 1 in close enough, all of the Strykers were loaded by the time heavily filtered sunlight washed over the land. A single blast from the Mississippi’s horn signaled the flotilla’s departure.

  The special ops boats went first, followed by Barges 1 and 2, and the pusher boat. The Mississippi was last in line, and her engines were barely turning over as she ghosted through the low-lying mist.

  As the day progressed, the gray clouds produced big drops of rain. And as Mac stood on Barge 1’s bow, she could see the thousands of interlocking circles that the droplets made as they hit the surface of the river.

  But there wasn’t any gunfire . . . No rockets . . . Nothing. Just the steady thump of the Mississippi’s engines, the sound of water gurgling away from the blunt bow, and an occasional burp of noise from her radio. The whole thing felt spooky.

  After passing Friar’s Point and Ferguson, they anchored north of Rosedale. And that was a dangerous place to be. They were well within the reach of rebel aircraft.

  Mac decided to sleep on Barge 1 just in case. And that’s where she was, snoozing in COWBOY’s cargo compartment, when the shit hit the fan. No one had to tell her. The steady rattle of gunfire said it all. Flotilla 4 was under attack. But by what?

  Mac was fully dressed. All she had to do was roll off the bench-style seat and grab her gear as she rushed outside. Atkins materialized out of the gloom. “We’re under attack from speedboats, ma’am. The Riverines have engaged them, but they need help.”

  An explosion lit up the night as Mac put her vest on. One of the attackers? Mac hoped so. “Give me the handset.”

  Atkins gave it over, and Mac thumbed the key. “This is Rocker-Six . . . Strykers will fire on enemy boats independently, but be careful! We have two friendlies out there . . . So make dammed sure you know who you’re aiming at.”

  The battle was a sight to see. Tracers cut the darkness into abstract shapes as .50s opened up from both sides of both barges. Explosions marked hits as the 40mm grenade launchers fired, and the cacophony of sound was punctuated by an occasional boom as one of the battalion’s 105mm guns went off.

  The broadsides lit up the night, allowing Mac to see what appeared to be two dozen speedboats dashing in and out. Most were little more than glorified speedboats armed with machine guns. But there were some larger craft as well, one of which mounted a minigun, and Mac had to duck as 7.62mm rounds clanged, banged, and buzzed all around her. Someone screamed, and someone else yelled, “Medic! We need a medic over here!”

  Under normal circumstances, the swarm-style attack would have been successful. But the massed firepower provided by the Strykers was too much for the thin-skinned pleasure boats. Those that could fled downstream, with the Riverines in hot pursuit. Mac called them back, fearful that an ambush could be waiting.

  It was about 0430 by then, and Mac kept her troops at their battle stations until the sun rose, and it seemed safe to let half of them stand down. Then she went down to inspect Lasser’s boat. It had taken a lot of small-arms fire, but the ballistic armor had done its job, and none of the sailors had been hit.

  As the boat circled the flotilla, a great deal of damage was revealed. Foley’s pusher boat was all shot up, and the spud barge’s crane was blackened where a rocket had struck it, but it was the Mississippi that had suffered the most. Not only was she the most important target, she was the biggest target as well. Her formerly pristine superstructure was peppered with thousands of holes, shattered planks marked the spot where a rocket had punched through the radio shack, and a blood-splashed pontoon boat was still moored alongside. It was filled with the bodies of the would-be boarders the Riverines had slaughtered.

  As for the rest of the badly-shot-up assault boats, the current had taken them downstream, where they would serve as a potent warning to anyone with plans to attack Flotilla 4. Was that it then? Would they be allowed to reach Vicksburg without further combat? Sure, Mac thought to herself. When pigs fly.

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  The apartment was located in the basement of an old building in the French Quarter. Victoria was seated at a card table. And as she stared at a news feed, she could hear the muted thump of a bomb exploding nearby. The lights flickered, and chips of green paint drifted down from the ceiling to settle around her. Victoria was deeply disappointed. A decisive sea battle had been fought and lost. And no wonder, Victoria thought to herself, since their ships outnumbered ours two to one.

  She knew that the numerical advantage stemmed from a number of things, including the fact that most of the navy’s ships had been moored in Union-controlled ports on the day war was declared. Just as most of the army was stationed in the South.

  It was more complicated than that, of course, since some military personnel fled from the North to the South, and vice versa, depending on their political views and cultural backgrounds. Still . . . there had been reason for hope, and that hope was gone.

  More bombs exploded, and Victoria felt the floor shudder in sympathy. You need to concentrate, she told herself as she watched the news. You have a job to do.

  Strangely enough, at least three TV stations remained on the air. Why? Their towers would make excellent targets. Because the Yankees want the stations on the air, Victoria concluded. They’re winning, and they want the locals to know that . . . And, once they’re in control, they’ll use the TV stations for propaganda purposes.

  But Victoria was grateful regardless of the reason. Her job, which was to simultaneously flood New Orleans and blame it on the enemy, was going to depend on good timing. And thanks to the local news teams, Victoria had a reasonably good understanding of what was happening.

  After defeating the Confederate fleet at sea, the Yankees had been able to close in on New Orleans quickly. The final assault began with bombing raids that were still under way. Meanwhile, the enemy used amphibious landing craft to put Marines ashore at Port Fourchon, while Riverines surged upriver, shooting anything that moved.

  And as those attacks went forward, three amphibious assault ships were standing offshore, where they were launching landing craft and helicopters loaded with Marines, some of whom had already landed near Chalmette and Meraux. From there, they would be able to follow Highway 39 into the center of the city.

  Victoria turned to Sergeant James Clay. He was seated at a table piled high with electronics. “Hey, Jimmy, we’re getting close. Run a check on those detonators.”

  The team had been able to place about two dozen satchel charges in key locations around the city. Each case was loaded with military-grade C-4 rigged for manual or remote detonation. And by sending a “check” signal to the charges, Clay could determine if the system was working properly. “Roger that,” Clay responded as he began to type. There was a moment of silence, followed by a heartfelt, “Damn it!”

  Victoria frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “The signal isn’t getting through.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no way to be sure,” Clay replied. “But I think we’re being jammed.”

  Victoria felt a surge of frustration. It made sense. Even though the Yankees wanted to keep the local TV stations on the air, there were lots of functions they would
try to suppress—voice communications and targeting systems being excellent examples. And all they would need to do the job was some properly equipped jammer drones. She stood. “Stay here, monitor the news, and be ready to come if I call for you.”

  Sergeant Radic had been lounging on the beat-up couch. Now he was up and on his feet. There was a look of concern on his face. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to arm those charges manually,” Victoria told him. “Then I’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate with a cold beer.”

  “No offense, ma’am, but that’s bullshit,” Clay put in. “All of us should go.”

  “Thanks,” Victoria said, “but no thanks. My bike is the fastest way to get through clogged streets. And one person will attract far less attention than three would. You have your orders . . . Carry them out.”

  Victoria left her pack behind, knowing the team would take care of it for her. All she needed was her helmet, a jacket, and a pair of boots. A flight of well-worn stairs took her up to the ground level, where a shabby door opened onto a stinking alley. It was dark, but a flash of light lit the city as a bomb exploded, and the ground trembled.

  Thanks to the length of heavy-duty chain that connected the BMW to an overloaded Dumpster, the bike was still there. Victoria hurried to free it, and the chain went into a pannier. Then she threw a leg over the seat, turned the key, and heard a satisfying roar.

  Victoria didn’t need a map because she’d been present as each charge was placed. The plan was to blow key pumping stations first. Then she would turn her attention to certain floodwalls. An extraordinary amount of rain had fallen since the meteor impacts, which meant that Lake Pontchartrain was higher than it should have been. So once the walls went down, and without enough pumps to counteract it, water would flow in. Lots of water. Victoria smiled as she put the BMW into gear and took off.

  There were twenty-five main pumping stations in New Orleans, and Victoria hoped to blow ten or twelve of them, knowing that destroying them all would be next to impossible given the situation. As Victoria turned onto a main street, she found herself surrounded by panicked refugees. An aid unit was trapped in the fleshy tide, a frustrated police officer was shouting orders, and a street vendor was selling popcorn.

  And the chaos was good from Victoria’s perspective because she’d be free to make her rounds. The explosives were concealed inside the ubiquitous metal service boxes that belonged to the power company. The C-4 was contained in locked cases. Each one was marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and bore a toll-free number that would channel callers into an office at Fort Hood.

  Once a fiberglass case was exposed, all Victoria had to do was enter a three-digit code into the combination lock, insert a special key, and give it two complete turns. Then she had ten minutes to get clear. As for any civilians who happened to be present when the charge went off, well, they were soldiers of a sort. And would have to die for their country.

  Everything went smoothly at first. But as the sun started to rise, and the streets emptied, the situation started to deteriorate. Victoria had just blown the second floodgate on her list when the Apache helicopter attacked her.

  Rockets flashed over her head, and explosions blew chunks out of the street, as the chopper roared over. Victoria’s mind was racing as she turned to the right and raced away. What was going on? Were the Yankees firing on anything that moved? Or had a sharp-eyed drone operator spotted her and seen the pattern? Wherever the woman went, things exploded. Yes, it was always best to assume the worst.

  No sooner had that thought occurred to her than the Apache appeared four or five blocks ahead. It was flying straight at her. Victoria saw a puff of smoke, and knew that the helicopter’s 30mm chain gun would eat her up if she stayed on the street. So she wrenched the handlebars to the left and entered an alley. Shit, shit, shit. There was no way in hell that she was going to escape, unless . . .

  Victoria opened the throttle, weaved in and out of the mazelike streets, and took a right on Bonnabel Boulevard. She ran the bike north, straight toward Lake Pontchartrain, but had to slow for a last-minute curve. After that, it was full speed ahead out onto a narrow finger of land. Then she was airborne. But not for long. The bike fell like a rock. Cold water consumed Victoria as she felt the impact of a shock wave and heard the muffled thud of an exploding rocket. Then, weighed down by her clothing, she began to drown.

  JUST NORTH OF VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI

  Rather than wait for Flotilla 4 to reach Vicksburg and begin work on the fallen bridge there, the rebs sent an armada upstream to attack the Union vessels. And the wave of attackers consisted of what Mac feared most, which was helicopters. She was standing on Barge 2 as the first helicopter attacked Barge 1 and drew blood. Rockets struck OL’ SLAB SIDES, which was sitting on the deck of Barge 1. The Stryker was destroyed, and its two-person crew was killed as the Apache flashed overhead.

  The helicopter was firing its chain gun by then, and as Mac turned to watch, hundreds of slugs struck the pusher boat. They couldn’t penetrate the bolt-on armor, however—thereby saving Foley’s mostly worthless life.

  The sailors had brought the 20mm Vulcan mounted in the Mississippi’s bow into action by that time. It could fire six thousand rounds a minute, and the swarm of slugs ate the first helicopter alive. Mac watched the Apache stagger, fall, and crash atop the Mississippi’s superstructure. A fire broke out, crew people rushed to respond, and the ship’s horn produced what sounded like a moan of pain.

  The second chopper was making its run by then. Rockets hit the spud barge’s crane, and it seemed to fall in slow motion. There was a loud crash as it hit the deck, and some of the wreckage fell into the river. That produced drag and caused the barge to swerve.

  Mac was forced to turn away as half a dozen jet skis surged upriver, and the special operations boats went to meet them with guns blazing. A jet ski exploded, and someone shouted, “They’re carrying bombs!”

  Mac yelled, “Kill them!” into her handheld radio, but not before one of the extremely agile watercraft slammed into SOC-R 1. Mac watched in horror as Lieutenant Lasser and her crew vanished inside the explosive waterspout that lifted the front half of the boat twenty feet up into the air.

  The Strykers were firing by then, and Mac had the satisfaction of seeing explosion after explosion as the twin broadsides blew the suicide bombers to smithereens. It should have been enough. And Mac thought it would be enough until Quick spoke. “We have two, make that three, gunboats inbound at twelve o’clock.”

  After acknowledging the transmission, Mac issued orders to the Stryker crews. “Open fire on the gunboats the moment they appear . . . Meanwhile, I want all of the truck commanders to get on machine guns. The remaining helicopter will be back . . . Let’s blow that son of a bitch out of the sky!”

  Mac’s words proved to be prophetic, as the Apache made a gun run from the north. Bullets tore into the Mississippi’s still-burning superstructure and killed some of the civilians who were fighting the fire. As the chopper swept over the already damaged spud barge, Mac was standing between the rows of Strykers, firing her pistol up at the Apache, when Atkins threw her down. Bullets clanged as they hit the spot where Mac had been standing.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Atkins said as she let go. “But shooting at an Apache with a nine is just plain stupid.”

  Mac couldn’t help but laugh. There was a hysterical quality to it. “Yeah . . . That wasn’t my brightest moment. Thank you.”

  By the time the women were back on their feet, the Strykers were firing on the gunboats. Mac got a look at them as she peered through the gap between two vics. The forty-five-foot response boats had been Coast Guard property originally. Now they had been pressed into service as gunboats. Each carried a minigun up front and twin LMGs in their cockpits. Bullets raked the barge as the rebs fired.

  But the Strykers were nearly impervious to small-caliber stuff . . . And when they fired, a
metal hailstorm hit the boats, tore them to shreds, and triggered a series of secondary explosions. That part of the battle ended before it truly began.

  But, after turning around, the Apache was back! As Mac watched, a man with an AT4 rocket launcher made his way up to the front of the barge, where he flipped the remains of a cigar into the river. It was Sergeant Major Price who, true to his notion of how senior noncoms were supposed to behave, was about to go mano a mano with an enemy attack ship.

  Mac saw a puff of smoke as the rocket left the tube. Then, in a beautiful piece of timing, the missile hit the helicopter head-on. The resulting explosion tore the Apache apart and threw chunks of metal every which way. One of them took the sergeant major’s head off. Mac heard herself utter an animal-like cry as the noncom fell. The best of the worst. That was Price . . . And Mac felt as if her heart would break.

  She heard a roar and looked up in time to see an A-10 flash by. The plane was a welcome sight, but it was too late for Price and all the rest of them. Vicksburg had fallen to Union forces on July 4, 1863, during the first civil war. Independence Day . . . Now it was going to fall again.

  ABOARD THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER GEORGE WASHINGTON,

  SOUTH OF NEW ORLEANS

  The sky was almost the same color as the aircraft carrier’s haze-gray paint, and when the sea heaved, the ship did, too. Even after taking some seasick pills, Sloan was still looking for his sea legs as he followed Major McKinney through a hatch and down a corridor.

  A dozen people stood as Sloan entered the wardroom, and he waved them back into their chairs prior to taking the one that was reserved for him. “So,” Sloan said, as his eyes roamed the faces around him. “Give it to me straight. How are we doing?”

  He knew the answer of course . . . But the discussion had to start somewhere. All eyes went to Admiral Carrie Moss. Sloan saw that the mysterious smile was still in place. “Operation Swordfall is a success,” Moss said without hesitation. “We put our troops ashore, we pushed the enemy out of New Orleans, and we’re in control of the city’s infrastructure.”