Henderson nodded. “Fortunately, that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Russia took some serious hits, and they’re busy gobbling up all of the ex-Soviet states, plus anything else that isn’t nailed down. That’s going to be a big issue postreconstruction, but there isn’t anything we can do about it now.”
“The secretary is correct,” Martha Kip agreed. She was a fiftysomething blonde who had spent fifteen years in the CIA and five at the NSA before Sloan chose her as National Intelligence Director. “As for Iran,” she added, “we might see something good develop there. Indications are that the Grand Ayatollah is dying of cancer—and there’s a real possibility that a more progressive leader will succeed him.”
Sloan was just getting to know Kip but liked her style. He turned to Henderson. “I know you’re thin on the ground, but let’s get ready to take advantage of the change if the Ayatollah dies, and a more amenable person takes his place.” Henderson nodded as he scribbled something on a pad.
Sloan made eye contact with Jones. “How about the war, General? Do you have anything new to report?”
“General Hern has been able to hold on to every square foot of territory we’ve taken,” Jones answered proudly. “That said, we’re stalled just north of the Mississippi state line.”
It was the very thing that Sloan feared. A long, grinding war that would take a terrible toll on both sides and leave the country vulnerable to external threats. In an effort to end the war quickly, Sloan had approved an airborne assault deep into enemy-held territory, where he hoped to seize an oil-storage facility and establish a foothold. Unfortunately, that effort had been a colossal failure. Sloan still had nightmares about it.
So what to do? Grind away? Or press the Joint Chiefs for a new strategy? Sloan made a mental note to speak with Jones privately. “My compliments to General Hern,” Sloan said. “Please tell him how much I appreciate his efforts. We will, needless to say, continue to monitor the situation. What else have we got?”
Attorney General Allston cleared his throat. “The preliminary report regarding the assassination attempt is in, Mr. President, and the findings are significantly different from what we expected.”
Sloan’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”
“Based on what the FBI has been able to piece together, the assassins weren’t rebels,” Allston replied. “They were members of an obscure religious cult associated with a man who calls himself the warlord of warlords.”
Sloan was well aware of the fact that while his government had succeeded in restoring law and order to many areas of the country, that wasn’t true everywhere. Criminal gangs, led by self-styled “warlords,” had taken advantage of the chaos to carve out personal kingdoms. It was a problem that hadn’t been fully addressed because of the war. “Okay, who is this guy? And why does he want to kill me?”
“His name is Robert Howard,” Allston answered. “He’s an ex–army noncom who, according to various sources, is very charismatic. So much so that he runs his own religious cult. Based on his military experience and personality, he controls most of north-central Wyoming.
“As for why he wants you dead, the answer is simple . . . Howard can see the handwriting on the wall. Once the federal government is fully restored, it will turn its attention to him. And he wants to maintain the status quo.”
Sloan turned to Jones. “Are we working this?”
The general shook his head. “Not really, Mr. President. Most of our assets are pointed south.”
“I get that,” Sloan replied, “but we need to squash this bug. Not because of the attack on me—but for the citizens of Wyoming.”
Jones nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Sloan turned his attention to Besom. “What about optics, Doyle? What’s the flavor of the day?”
Besom stirred. “With very few exceptions, the press corps assumed that the assassins were rebels, Mr. President. So their stories are slanted in that direction. The general effect has been to demonize the Confederacy.”
“So how will we correct that?”
Besom’s eyes bulged. “Correct it? I don’t understand.”
Sloan frowned. “Shouldn’t we set the record straight?”
“Hell no,” Wendy Chow responded. “Not yet anyway.” The White House Chief of Staff had been on the job for less than a month. But her tough “I don’t suffer fools gladly” persona had already made itself felt.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Reggie,” Chow continued. “But we never pointed the finger at the Confederacy . . . We said that an investigation was under way. I think we should leave it at that for a few weeks. Then we can issue a report.”
Sloan knew that he should force his staff to tell the truth. He also knew that there was a need to cement public support for the war. And, if the public believed that the Confederates were behind the assassination attempt, that would help. He let the matter ride. The meeting droned on.
MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE
Second Lieutenant Thomas Lyle was something of a surprise. Rather than the fuzz-faced kid Mac had expected, Lyle was a hard-edged veteran who’d spent six years in the army prior to graduating from OCS. Mac, Lyle, and Haskell were geared up and standing next to Stryker one-two as the light continued to fade. “Okay,” Mac said. “Any last-minute questions?”
“Yes,” Lyle said with a straight face. “Can I have my mommy?”
Mac laughed, and Haskell stared. “Too late for that,” Mac replied. “Let’s haul ass.” With Mac in one-one, Lyle in one-two, and Haskell in one-three—every vehicle would have a leader even if the others were lost.
Once the officers were inside their respective vehicles, the ramps came up, and the mission began. Mac didn’t like being cooped up in a steel box, especially one that stank of sweat and hydraulic fluid. So she made her way forward to the point where she could stand on a filthy seat and stick her head up through an air-guard hatch. The Stryker was in motion by then—and the ride was smooth when compared to other military vehicles.
After rolling through the inner perimeter, the Strykers had to pass through a buffer zone prior to exiting the base via a heavily guarded gate. It wasn’t dark yet, and Mac waved at a sentry. He waved back.
The truck’s commander was a noncom named Lamm . . . And Mac heard the usual high-pitched whine as he put his foot on the accelerator. The house where General Revell’s lover lived was out in the country. The plan was to swing wide, go off road, and use the cover of darkness to reach the objective without engaging the enemy.
Would someone notice the vehicles? Yes, of course they would. But given all the military activity in the area, Mac didn’t think the locals would report the Strykers. Even if they did, what could the caller say? “Something drove through my pasture.” Maybe the rebs would respond, but it didn’t seem likely.
Lamm could see the manually loaded route on his nav system and didn’t require directions from Mac. That left her free to eyeball the surrounding countryside. It had a greenish glow thanks to her night-vision gear, and there wasn’t much to see other than the widely separated lights belonging to people who were ignoring the blackout. And that was fine with Mac.
The next twenty minutes were spent pursuing a zigzag course that took the Strykers to within a mile of the constantly shifting front line. Then, confident that friendly forces could see their identification friend or foe (IFF) signals, Lamm sent BULLY BOY through a fence and into a field.
Mac was forced to hang on with both hands as the truck bucked over a rock and headed downslope to what was supposed to be a shallow stream. And if it wasn’t? They’d be screwed. But the rebs wouldn’t expect Union vehicles to use the streambed as a road.
The stream was shallow but thick with water-smoothed rocks, and Mac was thrown every which way as all eight wheels fought for a purchase. When Mac looked back over her shoulder, she took comfort from the fact that two sets of taped headlights were following along behi
nd. So far, so good.
As Mac turned forward, she saw a head-high obstruction coming straight at her, and heard Lamm yell, “Duck!” Mac realized that the vic (vehicle) was going to pass under a bridge as she dropped into the cargo compartment. That was when she felt the Stryker jerk, heard a muffled bang, and realized how lucky she’d been. Fortunately, the soldier who’d been standing in the rear hatch had heard the warning as well. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
Mac returned the gesture before going topside again. The light machine gun mounted forward of the air-guard hatch was still there, but the .50 cal and the remote weapons station had been sheared off, along with one of two whip-style antennas.
The vic rocked from side to side as it powered its way through a rock garden. The transmission dropped into a lower gear as Lamm drove up a sloping bank and into the adjoining field. Mac had seen drone footage of their route and didn’t remember seeing a bridge. Shit! They were lost. “Lamm . . . That bridge shouldn’t have been there. We took a wrong turn somewhere. Tell the others that we’re going to pull up and kill the lights.”
Mac ducked down into the cargo bay, where four amped-up Green Berets stared at her. “No problem,” she assured them. “I’m checking our twenty . . . We’ll be off and running in a minute or two.”
The rebs had taken control of the country’s nav sats early on and were encrypting all of the signals. That meant Mac couldn’t rely on GPS to find her location. But she had a fistful of maps collected from the battalion’s Intel officer the day before, and one of them was titled HISTORICAL LANDMARKS, RUTHERFORD COUNTY, TENNESSEE. It was the sort of cartoony map often found in motels but might help her to get oriented. And sure enough . . . As Mac scanned the map, she spotted the bridge that, according to the caption, had been the site of a skirmish during the first civil war.
By comparing the historical map to a road map, Mac managed to figure things out. After going off road, Lamm had turned south into the first streambed he’d come to rather than waiting for the second one and entering that. But if they turned east, and crossed the streambed they’d left, the task force could get back on track.
Mac took the maps forward to share with Lamm. His face fell once he realized the mistake. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I screwed up.”
Mac knew Lamm, and knew there was no need to chew him out. He would take care of that himself. “No prob,” she lied. “Shit happens. Warn the others. Let’s roll.”
Mac directed a reassuring smile to the green beanies before returning to her perch topside. She was acutely aware of the fact that one-one had been stripped of its most potent weapon, leaving it with two pintle-mounted M249 light machine guns for self-defense. And that was one more reason to avoid a shoot-out if she could.
BULLY BOY waddled over broken ground, dived into the streambed, and threw gravel as it powered up the opposite bank. Wires snapped as the Stryker broke through a fence and kept going. The terrain was fairly level until they entered the next stream, and Lamm took a right.
Mac was forced to hang on as the vic wobbled over another streambed filled with water-smoothed rocks. The other Strykers were close behind. After a quarter mile or so, Lamm turned and angled upwards before arriving on a flat spot next to a country road. That led to a stand of trees about half a mile from their objective. “Get off the highway and position the truck for a quick getaway,” Mac instructed.
Then, using her tactical radio, she gave the other truck commanders similar orders. The ramps went down the moment the vics were parked. That was Lieutenant Lyle’s opportunity to run a last-minute check on his troops. Then he came to see Mac. She was standing next to one-one’s hatch. A bar of light leaked sideways to illuminate the left side of her face. “I don’t expect a lot of resistance,” Lyle told her. “Revell won’t have much of an escort, assuming he’s there. How could he? Without everyone finding out what he’s been up to? So things should go smoothly.
“But,” Lyle continued, “if the poop hits the fan, and I tell you to haul ass, then do it. I’m aware of your reputation, Captain. And that includes the Silver Star. But if I say ‘go,’ it’s your duty to save as many people as you can. Do you read me?”
Mac was a captain, and Lyle was a lieutenant. So he couldn’t give her orders. But Mac understood. “I read you, Thomas.”
“It’s Tom. Only my mother calls me Thomas.”
Mac grinned. “Roger that, Thomas.”
Lyle chuckled, whispered something into his mike, and disappeared. At that point, all Mac had was six crew people to defend the vics. But what was, was. The waiting began.
Now that the engines were off, Mac could hear the distant rumble of artillery as North and South fought a war not that much different from World War II. Was her sister Victoria out there somewhere? Killing Union soldiers? And what about their father, General Bo Macintyre? The man who, both wittingly and unwittingly, had done so much to shape his daughters. Was he doing battle with his peers? The men and women with whom he had gone to West Point.
And then there was President Sloan. After fighting their way north from Mississippi together, they’d been forced to go their separate ways. He was an interesting man . . . A leader who would put his life on the line—even if he was something of a Boy Scout. But what’s wrong with Boy Scouts? Mac asked herself. The question went unanswered, as an engine was heard and a pair of headlights appeared. Mac held her breath as the pickup rolled past and vanished around a curve. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes since Lyle’s team vanished into the night?
Mac glanced at her watch. Only five minutes had passed, and it would be at least half an hour before the operators reached the house. Time seemed to slow.
Mac made the rounds, issued unnecessary orders, and generally made a pest of herself. It was either that or go stark raving mad.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Mac heard Lyle’s voice on the radio. She could hear him pant in between bursts of words. “Charlie-Six. We’re two out—no casualties—don’t shoot us. Over.”
Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief as she acknowledged the transmission. The team was safe! Nothing else mattered. Mac ordered the truck commanders to start their engines and drop their ramps. Lyle appeared out of the darkness seconds later. He was followed by two operators, with the general sandwiched between them.
The scene had a greenish hue, but Mac could see the duct tape that covered Revell’s mouth and how big his eyes were. “We caught him with his pants down,” Lyle announced.
“Load him onto one-two,” Mac ordered. “What about his bodyguards?”
“Dead,” Lyle replied flatly. “We had to smoke his mistress, too. She tried to shoot Corporal Fredrick with a pearl-handled .38.”
Mac wondered what the woman’s husband would think, put the thought aside, and was there to welcome the rest of the operators as they appeared out of the darkness. A noncom finished the count. “All present and accounted for, sir!”
Lyle nodded. “Load ’em. Let’s haul ass.”
The three-vehicle column was under way three minutes later. Given the possibility that the Strykers had been spotted earlier, and a trap set for them, Mac had ordered Lamm to use a different route for the return trip.
The route was calculated to take the vics through a suburb where very little combat had taken place on the theory that there wouldn’t be a lot of patrols in that area. Mac was standing in the air-guard hatch, and by tracking the unit’s progress on a map, she could ensure that Lamm was making the correct turns.
Everything went well at first. Thanks to her night-vision device, Mac could tell that they had left farm country for the burbs. Minimansions were visible on both sides of the two-lane road—most of which sat on at least an acre of land.
Lamm had to steer around shell craters as they passed through a small town. Some of the downtown area had been destroyed by a fire. Once they were clear of the business district, the Strykers e
ntered the more densely populated area that lay beyond. Tract houses stood shoulder to shoulder, and the gated neighborhoods had fanciful names.
Mac figured they were about five miles out at the point where she spotted the roadblock. It was a casual affair that consisted of two Humvees and a squad of soldiers. A regular thing, then . . . Not the sort of heavily armed force the rebs would send to intercept the Union Strykers. She keyed her mike. “This is Bravo-Six . . . Blow through the roadblock and keep going. Two and three will engage the Humvees. Over.”
BULLY BOY came up on the roadblock seconds later. Mac fired the light machine gun mounted in front of her and saw sparks fly as her bullets glanced off a Humvee. That was when the one-one clipped the front of a Humvee and pushed it to the left.
The Confederates were quick to respond. A fusillade of bullets chased one-three, even as the Stryker’s gunner turned the remote-weapons station to the rear and fired the vic’s 40mm automatic grenade launcher. Explosions marched down the street.
The enemy soldiers weren’t easily deterred, however. The first Humvee was drivable and took off in hot pursuit. The driver veered right and left in an effort to avoid the exploding grenades even as his gunner fired the .50 that was mounted up top. The second Humvee was close behind but couldn’t fire without hitting the lead vehicle.
Mac swore and keyed her mike. The most important thing was to get Revell into Union-held territory, where the spooks could interrogate him. “This is Bravo-Six . . . One-two will pass one-one, and proceed to base. One-one and one-three will turn and engage. Execute. Over.”
Mac heard Lyle object, told him to shut up, and felt a sense of relief as one-two passed BULLY BOY and accelerated away. Lyle might be a second louie—but the truck commander reported to Mac.
Once two was clear, Mac ordered Lamm and one-three’s TC to part company at the next intersection, turn, and confront the oncoming Humvees. Both drivers managed to execute the maneuver perfectly. BULLY BOY was largely toothless without the .50 . . . But the vic had two LMGs. And the angle was such that both could fire.
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