Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  After a few drinks, and a discussion of the bad weather, Garrison took charge of the conversation. “Let’s get to it,” he said. “Here’s the situation . . . As you know by now, Washington, D.C., took a direct hit from a meteorite. That was a devastating blow. Our country was left without leadership, and that opened the way for a group of people who want to take over. They call themselves the New Confederacy, and they plan to run their country like a corporation. The president would be replaced by a CEO. He or she would report to a twelve-person board of directors, and citizens fortunate enough to own land would become shareowners. The rest of the population would become disenfranchised.

  “But as bad as that sounds to most of us . . . Plenty of so-called haves would vote for a system that puts them on top. That, plus a well-coordinated fear campaign, explains how the so-called New Order has been able to gain traction.

  “Meanwhile as the A-holes who run the Confederacy sell their crap to anyone who will listen, they’re busy stealing anything that isn’t nailed down. Take the Strategic Petroleum Reserve for example . . . According to our sources, they’re selling the oil abroad—and using the money to buy voters. In light of these facts, President Sloan plans to restore the federal government, and unify the country.”

  Mac stared at him. “Even if that means starting a civil war?”

  “Yes,” Garrison answered firmly. “And that’s why I’m here. Military force will be required to stop the Confederacy—and that means we’ll need units like this one. Units that shouldn’t exist. You and your personnel swore an oath to defend the United States of America . . . Not to steal equipment from the army and go into business for yourselves.”

  Mac opened her mouth to object, but Garrison raised a hand. “I know, I know . . . You were cut off and looked for a way to survive. I’ve heard that malarkey before. And we’re willing to accept that explanation for the moment, realizing that the government won’t tolerate mercenaries forever. Let’s talk business. We want to hire Mac’s Marauders . . . How much will that cost?”

  “No offense,” Mac countered, “but how are you going to pay?”

  “I guess you haven’t heard,” Garrison replied. “The Third Continental Congress met and voted to reboot all federal agencies. That includes the IRS under the leadership of Interim Commissioner Marsha Rostov. So get ready to pay your taxes.”

  “And there’s another thing,” McKinney said as he entered the conversation for the first time. “President Sloan’s forces took Fort Knox away from a renegade general a few weeks back.”

  “So you know him?”

  McKinney nodded. “I work for him.”

  “He’s a soldier then,” Evans suggested.

  “Yes,” McKinney said. “Although he has a lot to learn. The troops love him, though . . . Because he fought alongside them.”

  Mac liked McKinney’s style . . . And his frank assessment went a long way toward making her feel better about Sloan.

  A civilian entered the room and said something to Evans. He thanked her and turned to the others. “Let’s put the business discussion on hold until after dinner. Please take a plate from the back table and follow me. We’ll get our food and bring it back here.”

  The meal exceeded Mac’s expectations. Steaks had been cooked on a smoke-blackened barbecue, a pot of baked beans was waiting, and there was plenty of fresh-baked corn bread. Vegetables were hard to come by, though, and nowhere to be seen. But it was a good dinner, with plenty of Mexican beer to wash it down.

  Once the dishes were cleared away, negotiations resumed. Mac was unsure of herself. Not only did she lack business expertise, she had no way to know what the unit’s overhead would be or what the competition was charging.

  But eventually the discussion came down to a charge of four ounces of gold per day, which was one ounce more than the folks in Miami had paid. And that felt pretty good. But what if there’s a more generous client out there? Mac wondered. If we take this opportunity, we could miss out on that one.

  When Garrison spoke, it was as if he could read her mind. “I’d like to remind you of something, Captain . . . The time is coming when units like Mac’s Marauders will have to rejoin the United States Army or fight it. Which side of that equation would you like to be on?”

  It was an important question. Would Sloan succeed or fail? Mac couldn’t be sure. But the unit will be no worse off if he fails, Mac told herself. Whereas you could be in a world of hurt if he succeeds and you are on the wrong side of history. She stood and extended a hand to Garrison. “You have a deal. Let’s kick some Confederate ass.”

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  The enormous white tent was Besom’s idea. It had been purchased from a special-events company in Louisville and erected in front of the Fort Knox depository. That meant any photo of the tent would not only show the modest way in which Sloan had chosen to live but would remind people of the president’s recent victory and the fact that the government was sitting atop a whole lot of gold. All of which made sense but meant Sloan had to wear a winter coat most of the time, even though strategically placed space heaters whirred around the clock.

  Sheets of fabric had been used to divide the “new White House” into functional areas, one of which was Sloan’s office. It was equipped with beat-up campaign-style furniture that was supposed to convey the sense of a general in the field. Sloan was seated behind his desk, reading an intelligence summary, when three people were shown into the “room.”

  Sloan had interacted with all of them in his role as Secretary of Energy, but never in one place, and the fact that they’d chosen to come as a group was not only interesting—but part of why he’d been willing to fit them into a crowded schedule. Emile Durst represented the Coal Coalition, Joe Cobb worked for the shale industry, and Adele Eakins was a well-known lobbyist for the wind-power people.

  Sloan circled around to greet each person, invited them to sit on the canvas director’s chairs that fronted his desk, and returned to his seat. “So,” Sloan began. “This is a surprise. Where are the biofuel folks? And the solar people?”

  Cobb was dressed cowboy-style, in a barn coat, khaki pants, and hand-tooled boots. He’d spent a lot of time out in the sun back when it was still visible, and the lines on his face were reminiscent of a road map. “The biofuel people are selling what little bit of corn they have to food processors,” Cobb answered. “And the solar people are selling most of their panels to homeowners for pennies on the dollar.”

  “That makes sense,” Sloan allowed. “But I assume you folks are doing well.”

  “We are,” Eakins agreed. “But for how long?” Eakins was a fortysomething dishwater blonde. She looked like a soccer mom but had a master’s in aeronautical engineering.

  Sloan frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It’s going to take years for us to rebuild, and as we do so, your companies are certain to grow and profit.”

  “We want to be part of the solution,” Durst put in. “But we have some concerns.”

  Here it comes, Sloan thought to himself. Stick to your guns. “Okay,” Sloan said. “And what are those concerns?”

  Durst was wearing a camel-colored overcoat over a suit and tie. His breath fogged the air. “There are rumors that you’re going to attack the South.”

  “What I’m pushing for,” Sloan replied, “is the full restoration of our sovereign territory. And that includes the states south of the so-called New Mason-Dixon Line. I hope the secessionists will change their minds and remain with the Union. I sent a letter to CEO Lemaire saying as much.”

  Cobb looked Sloan in the eye. “And if he refuses?”

  “Then we’ll take whatever actions are necessary to unify the country.”

  “And that means war,” Eakins insisted. “Don’t bullshit us, Sam . . . We aren’t stupid.”

  Sloan struggled to contain his steadily rising anger. “So you’re opposed to un
ification?”

  “There would be a lot of casualties,” Cobb answered evasively. “Six hundred and twenty thousand men died in the first civil war.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Sloan said. “So that’s it? You, as the representatives of your respective industries, came to warn me about the possibility of casualties?”

  “War is a complicated enterprise,” Durst said. “We need time to ramp up . . . So while unification is important—there might be unintended consequences.”

  “That’s right,” Eakins added. “We’ve read your speeches. So we’re aware of your plan to repatriate the petroleum reserves down south.”

  “The oil in those reserves belongs to the citizens of the United States,” Sloan reminded them. “It’s my duty to take it back.”

  “But that could be problematical,” Cobb warned. “You were Secretary of Energy . . . Think about what will happen to energy prices if you dump all that oil on the market. Why not wait for a while? What’s the hurry?”

  Sloan sighed. There it was. The real reason why the lobbyists were sitting in front of him. Their clients would profit from the reconstruction process. But they’d make even more money while energy prices were sky-high. And that, rather than the full restoration of the country’s lawful government, was their focus. Sloan looked from face to face. “There could be a price drop,” he allowed. “But I doubt it. In fact there’s so much work to do that demand could outstrip supply.”

  “So you’re going to push Congress to authorize a war,” Eakins said grimly.

  “I’m going to push Congress to rebuild this country,” Sloan replied. “Whatever that may entail.”

  The meeting came to an end shortly after that. As the lobbyists left, Sloan knew that a lot of campaign cash was walking out of the tent with them. There were other donors, however . . . And he’d find them. “How did it go?” Besom inquired as he entered the room.

  “Not very well,” Sloan confessed. “They’re afraid that energy prices will drop after we capture the oil reserves.”

  Besom made a face. “All right, so be it. But I’m taking names . . . And when this is over, there will be a price to pay. Are you ready for the tour?”

  “The tour” was another one of Besom’s ideas and was set to begin the following morning, with a ground-hugging flight to Virginia. From there, Sloan was scheduled to fly north, west, and back again. The plan was to spend one night in each one of the twenty-five contiguous states that constituted the Union. Sloan was looking forward to the trip and dreading it as well.

  Cars came to collect Sloan, Besom, and Jenkins the next morning. In his new role as Interim Director of the Secret Service, Jenkins had assembled a team of five ex–law officers to protect Sloan. They barely knew each other and were learning on the job, but some protection was better than none.

  The cars took them to Godman Army Airfield, which was part of Fort Knox. Air Force One was waiting. Except that the postimpact version was equipped with two engines—and could barely accommodate Sloan’s party. It could fly low, however, below the cloud cover, and land at small airports. And that would be necessary because of the consistently bad weather, and the fact that the North could no longer access the Global Positioning System.

  Everything went well at first. Thanks to Besom’s advance people, there were welcoming crowds waiting for Sloan at airports, attentive audiences filled the halls where he spoke, and there were offers of support at the dinners he attended.

  America is rising, America will come back together, and America will be greater than it was before. Those were the messages Sloan delivered at each stop. And he believed in the first two even if the last one was unlikely to materialize during his lifetime.

  City followed city in what became a blur of places, faces, and memorable moments. Those included a standing O in Pittsburgh, fireworks in Detroit, and a clear blue sky in Lincoln, Nebraska. Then the presidential party put down in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  Prior to the meteor strikes, the state had been ranked with Alabama as one of the most conservative places in the country. And, according to what Besom had heard from his growing cadre of operatives, nothing had changed.

  In fact, most observers agreed that the only thing that prevented Wyoming from aligning itself with the New Confederacy was the fact that all of the state’s neighbors were pro-Union. If only by small majorities. And that was why Besom had wanted to skip Cheyenne.

  Sloan had a different perspective however. “We can’t win what we don’t fight for,” he said. “And we need to show the citizens of Wyoming that we care, even if only 10 percent of the population agrees with us.”

  But when Air Force One landed, it was snowing, the crowd waiting at the airport was waving Confederate flags, and there was no security other than what Sloan had with him. Jenkins and his people hurried Sloan past the hostile crowd and into the second of three black SUVs. The vehicle took him to a hotel, where about a dozen pro-Union people were waiting. Their homemade signs were nearly invisible in the forest of professionally printed New Whig Party placards and at least a dozen Confederate flags.

  Sloan knew that, like the original Whig Party back in 1830, the new Whig Party favored a strong Congress and a weak presidency. A political structure which, if implemented, would not only be more responsive to lobbyists—but could be used to adopt many elements of the “New Order” that controlled the South. That would require changes to the Constitution, of course . . . But what better time to push for such changes than when the country was on its knees? And people were frightened?

  As the security team escorted Sloan into the hotel, he could hear the names they called him, and feel the animus that hung in the air. “Hang the bastard!” someone shouted. A cheer went up. Sloan regretted his decision to visit Cheyenne by that time, but he wasn’t willing to cut and run.

  The inside of the hotel felt extremely warm after the cold air outside, and Sloan got only a brief glimpse of the comfortably furnished lobby before being escorted down a hall and into a meeting room. It wasn’t especially large. Besom knew better than to reserve a room that might look empty in photographs. Union loyalists were seated in the first two rows. But the rest of the room was packed with Whigs. And they were clearly hostile as Sloan took his place behind the podium.

  The noise level dropped slightly as Besom gave the usual introduction, but began to increase as Sloan spoke. His eyes searched the room looking for a friendly face. “I come from a farm family,” he began, “so it’s a pleasure to visit the Cowboy State.” That produced a smattering of applause but not much.

  “Our country has been through some hard times,” Sloan continued, “but I . . .”

  “He’s an imposter!” a woman shouted. “The real president is dead!”

  “I am the real president,” Sloan insisted. “But if you want someone else, then vote in the next election.”

  “Bullshit,” a man said. “I want someone else now!”

  Sloan saw the pistol come up, heard Jenkins shout “Man with a gun!” and was reaching for his own weapon when half a dozen shots were fired. The would-be assassin jerked spastically as the bullets struck him—and a blood mist drifted away from his head. His body went slack at that point and dropped out of sight. His wife screamed and threw herself on top of the corpse.

  There was a roar of outrage as more guns were drawn, and people began to blaze away. Sloan brought the Glock up, saw a woman pointing a revolver at him, and shot her in the chest. That was when Jenkins grabbed Sloan from behind and dragged him toward an exit.

  Besom was holding the door open, so that Secret Service agents could carry one of their own out of the room, and calmly firing a pocket pistol into the crowd. The press secretary didn’t seem to care who he hit—so long as it was a Whig.

  Thanks to Jenkins, the SUVs were waiting out back. The presidential party hurried out of the building and piled into them. It was nearly dark as the moto
rcade raced back to the airport. Air Force One’s engines were running, and the plane was ready to go.

  Sloan allowed himself to be hustled on board—but refused to take a seat as the plane started to taxi. A man was laid out on the floor just aft of the cockpit, and three people were bent over him. “Who got hit?” Sloan demanded. “How is he?”

  Jenkins got up off his knees. “Agent Castel was killed, Mr. President.”

  Sloan felt sick to his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have come here.”

  The wheels left the ground, and Air Force One began to climb. “Idaho will be better,” Besom predicted bitterly. “It couldn’t be worse.” Sloan hoped it was true.

  SUPERIOR, ARIZONA

  There were a lot of tearful good-byes as most of Mac’s Marauders and their vehicles rolled through Superior, Arizona, on the way to Fort Knox, Kentucky. Would all of the soldiers return? It didn’t seem likely . . . But Mac planned to bring as many of them home as she could. Assuming she survived—which was by no means certain.

  About sixteen hundred miles lay between Superior and Fort Knox. Mac hoped to complete the trip in four or five days, and for good reason, since the unit would remain on half pay until it arrived. The pickup truck designated as Roller-One cleared town first, followed by Mac’s Humvee. The column included fifteen vehicles. That left Evans with two Strykers, a Humvee, and an armed pickup truck. That was why the Apache had been left behind. If the base was attacked, the helicopter could make a crucial difference.

  The route Mac had chosen was going to take them northwest on Highway 60 to 191 and Interstate 40. They would follow it into New Mexico but stay west of the border with Texas because that area was subject to raids.

  The gray clouds were low, and the source of occasional bouts of sleet, as the mercenaries motored up through Show Low and St. Johns. As usual, the Marauders had to share the road with all manner of cars, steam-powered trucks, pedal-powered carts, horse-drawn buggies, and, on that particular day, a motorized skateboard! Its rider was wearing a football helmet and knee pads. He waved cheerfully as he zipped past.