One-one was beginning to take rounds from a Confederate .50, when Second Lieutenant Marvin Haskell stood on top of one-three. He was holding an AT4 launcher on his right shoulder, and the range was short. The rocket flew straight and true. A flash of light marked the hit. The Humvee bucked and blew up. Mac felt the shock wave.
Maybe Haskell saw that . . . And maybe he didn’t, as a stream of bullets swept across the top of one-three and dumped him into the street.
Every weapon that one-one and one-three could bring to bear was focused on the remaining Humvee at that point, and it shook as a hail of grenades and bullets struck it. Something gave, a gout of flame shot straight up, and the vehicle came to a sudden stop. Two rebs jumped out, but one of them was on fire.
“Let them go,” Mac ordered. She could see that one-three’s ramp was down and knew why. Mac watched as dimly seen figures carried something up and into the cargo compartment. The first platoon wasn’t about to leave their CO behind even if he was the most serious son of a bitch in the army.
It was wrong in a way, since even the slightest delay could prove costly. But there was a rule: “Leave no man behind.” And Mac believed in it. So she waited for one-three’s ramp to come up before giving the order. “This is Six. One-one will take point. Let’s haul ass. Over.”
The final leg of the trip went smoothly, thanks to the platoon of Union tanks that surged into enemy territory at the last minute, thereby opening a hole through which the first Stryker could pass. But things were beginning to heat up by the time Mac and the rest of her command passed through fifteen minutes later. And the tanks were happy to pull back the moment they could.
One-two’s return to base was somewhat anticlimactic to hear Lyle tell about it. A delegation of spooks was waiting to hustle General Revell onto a helo, which took off a few minutes later. All without so much as a “thank-you.” Neither one of them was surprised. Both had been in the army too long for that.
After chatting with Lyle for a few minutes, Mac excused herself and made her way across the tarmac to the motor pool. The first platoon was gathered around a burn barrel. Lamm shouted, “Ten-hut!”
Mac said, “As you were,” and could feel the sadness in the air. A sergeant offered her a stool—and a private gave her a cup of coffee. It was laced with rum. Drinking on duty was forbidden, but the troops knew that Mac would understand. They had gathered to say good-bye to Haskell . . . And a drink was in order.
Stories were told about the lieutenant, about the fact that he never laughed at jokes and could quote lengthy passages from army maintenance manuals. And there were other anecdotes, too. Like how he helped Private Kai cram for a test, the day his pet rat got loose in one-four, and his fear of hypodermic needles.
And as Mac listened, she realized how little she’d known about the young man who, when push came to shove, was a badass hero. Could she capture that? For the letter she would write to his parents? She’d try.
It was noon by the time Mac made it back to her quarters, only to find that a note was taped to the door. “Major Granger wants to see you.”
Mac sighed, turned around, and went outside. Shafts of sunlight angled down through broken clouds to turn the slush into water. Mac stomped her boots on the porch outside the command shack prior to going in. Woods was on duty and nodded. “It’s good to have you back, Captain . . . Dr. Havers is with the major now. It won’t be long.”
The prediction was borne out when the medical officer stormed out of the shack three minutes later. Why? Because Havers liked to put in requests for impossible things, that’s why . . . Like a full-on MRI unit for his dispensary. Mac knew because the doctor had to submit the requests to her first. She got up and went in.
After returning Mac’s salute, Granger made a face. “That son of a bitch is crazy. Have a seat.”
Mac sat down. “Sir, yes, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. First, congratulations on a job well done. The Intel people are thrilled! I’m sorry about Haskell.”
“I am, too,” Mac said simply. “You heard what he did?”
“Yes,” Granger answered. “That was very brave. If you want to write a rec, I’ll sign it. Maybe we can get him a Bronze Star.”
“I’d be happy to,” Mac said.
“Good. That brings us to item two. Some bastard at HQ cut a set of orders for you.”
“Orders? What kind of orders?”
“It’s a temporary assignment to a counterinsurgency battalion in Wyoming. It seems they have a warlord problem out there, and this outfit is supposed to cap him.”
“But why me?”
Granger shrugged. “Because you were a mercenary? And a mercenary isn’t all that different from a warlord? Or because your last name starts with M? How the hell would I know?”
Granger was pissed, and Mac knew why. The army was borrowing his XO but had no intention of giving him a replacement. A platoon leader would be named to run Bravo Company while she was gone. But neither one of them was ready to play XO. And that meant more work for Granger. “Who’s the CO?” Mac inquired.
“His name is Wes Crowley,” Granger replied. “We were in the same class at West Point. He graduated 998 out of 1,011 cadets.”
Mac’s eyebrows rose. “And he’s in command of a battalion?”
Granger made a face. “Yes, he is . . . With the temporary rank of lieutenant colonel. He’d been sidelined prior to the meteor strike. But now, what with the war, they’re giving him another chance.
“That said,” Granger continued, “don’t get the wrong idea. In spite of the fact that Wes wasn’t the best student at West Point—he’s got a talent for war. Something he demonstrated more than once in Afghanistan.”
“Sir,” Mac said, “I’m going to resign my commission and open a café. I will put that in writing and submit it later today.”
Granger laughed. “Don’t waste your time, Captain. You’re going to Wyoming. Give Crazy Crowley my best.”
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
The train was Doyle Besom’s idea—and Sloan had been resistant at first. Why ride a train if you could fly? Even if Air Force One was grounded frequently due to poor weather.
But Besom was a clever son of a bitch, and knew Sloan was an amateur historian. So once the press secretary reminded him of the way in which President Lincoln used train trips to build public support, Sloan became more interested. And now, after dozens of well-publicized stops, he had a new appreciation for an old method of politicking.
Sloan felt the train slow as it pulled into Union Depot Station. As Sloan looked out the window, he saw a large crowd waiting for him. That was in stark contrast to the thinly attended events held on his behalf months before.
Sloan was scanning his stump speech, looking for places where he could make mention of Minneapolis–St. Paul, when his Chief of Staff entered the compartment. She was dressed in a blue business suit, and her black hair was cut pageboy style, with bangs that hung down to her eyebrows. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but Secretary Henderson is here . . . He’d like to speak with you.”
Sloan frowned. “George is here? That’s a surprise. Of course. Send him in.”
Chow opened the door, waited for Henderson to enter, and withdrew. Sloan stood and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, George . . . What’s up?”
“Nothing good,” Henderson replied, as they shook hands.
Sloan sighed. “Okay, have a seat. Lay it on me.”
Henderson sank into a well-padded chair. “It’s about Canada, Mr. President.”
“Canada? What about it?”
“Canada invaded the United States just before dawn this morning. Or, more specifically, Canadian troops invaded the state of Maine.”
Sloan laughed. “Get serious.”
“I am serious,” Henderson replied. “General Jones will brief you soon. He’s on his way . . . But I wanted to
make sure you received news of the incursion before you gave your speech. So the American people can hear it from you.”
“Thank you, but Maine? Just Maine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But why?” Sloan demanded. “Don’t the Canadians have enough maple syrup?”
Henderson offered a weak smile. “I don’t know for sure, Mr. President. They haven’t said. But two possibilities come to mind. First, it could be a land grab, pure and simple. The current government is both conservative and nationalistic.”
“Okay,” Sloan said. “And the second possibility is?”
“The second possibility stems from the first,” Henderson replied. “According to a report from the CIA, Confederate diplomats were spotted in Ottawa recently. And the libertarian principles espoused by CEO Lemaire’s government are quite similar to those put forward by Canada’s newly elected prime minister.”
Sloan knew the “libertarian principles” that Henderson referred to would transform landed citizens into “shareowners” who would “own” a portion of the country. Corporations, which were people according to Lemaire, could buy shares and vote them. All in the name of “free markets.” “So you’re saying that the two governments are in cahoots?” Sloan demanded. “Anything’s possible, I guess . . . But why attack Maine?”
“General Jones has a theory about that,” Henderson replied. “He thinks it’s a way to suck resources away from General Hern—making it easier for the Confederates to hold the line south of Murfreesboro.”
Sloan considered that. The second theory made sense. If he ignored the attack on Maine, it would seem as if he’d written the state off, thereby alienating the entire country. Yet by sending troops to Maine, he’d weaken General Hern’s forces, and that’s what the Confederates wanted him to do. If true, it was a brilliant stroke on their part . . . And one he was completely unprepared for.
What about the rest of the almost four-thousand-mile-long border with Canada? All of it was undefended. The Canucks could launch a dozen mini-invasions if they wanted to . . . And Sloan would have to respond to each one.
The crowd on the platform was waving signs and chanting his name. What would he tell them? How would they react? Why was he so stupid? Someone should have been thinking about Canada . . . And that someone was him.
CHAPTER 2
Of all those in the army close to the commander none is more intimate than the secret agent; of all rewards none more liberal than those given to secret agents; of all matters none is more confidential than those relating to secret operations.
—SUN TZU
FORT HOOD, TEXAS
The air should have been eighty-five degrees instead of sixty-five. But that’s how things were now that less sunlight reached the surface of the planet. Still, the cooler air would make for a comfortable run. Not a long one, just 3.15 miles around an oval-shaped course located just off Sadowski Road.
The run was a daily ritual . . . something Victoria Macintyre did each morning before taking a shower and reporting to work at Fort Hood’s Special Forces Command.
As Victoria ran, she heard the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of feet coming up from behind her and pulled over to let the fast mover by. Except that he didn’t pass, and when she turned to look, Victoria saw that General Bo Macintyre was running next to her. Her father had a high forehead, arched eyebrows, and intense eyes. His typical “I don’t give a shit” grin was firmly in place. “I knew I could find you here . . . You’re way too predictable. That could get you killed.”
“Would that bother you?”
“Of course it would,” he answered. “Good officers are hard to find.”
And that, Victoria knew, was as mushy as any conversation with her father was going to get. That was fine with her. They knew what they knew, and there was no need to discuss it constantly. Would Robin agree? No, she liked the gushy stuff.
Bo began to pull ahead, just as he always did, trying to finish first. Victoria knew that her sister Robin would allow him to beat her, and Bo would resent it. He wanted to win fair and square or not at all. So Victoria increased her pace, blew past him, and left her father in the dust. She was sitting on a bench when he finished the run. He plopped down beside her. “I’m getting old.”
Victoria nodded. “And cantankerous.”
“I’ve always been cantankerous.”
“True . . . I can’t argue with that.”
Bo smiled. “I have orders for you.” Victoria reported to a colonel, who reported to Bo and was careful to stay out of the way.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“There’s a warlord in Wyoming. His name is Robert Howard. He was a Green Beret before the meteor strikes. Then he went over the hill—and took two of his buddies with him. Now he calls himself the warlord of warlords, and he controls a large chunk of north-central Wyoming. More than that,” Bo added, “Howard claims to be the reincarnated spirit of Subutai.”
Victoria frowned. “Genghis Khan’s chief strategist.”
“Exactly,” Bo said approvingly. “As Subutai, Howard claims to be the spiritual nexus around whom other members of Khan’s horde are supposed to organize prior to fighting a war for world dominance. That’s when the Khan will return to rule them. It’s total bullshit, needless to say, but an idiot is born every minute.”
Victoria eyed him. “Okay, and we care because?”
“We care because Howard is, and could continue to be, a destabilizing force. For example, Howard sent suicide bombers to kill Sloan a week ago and damned near succeeded.”
Victoria nodded. “According to the Intel summary, Sloan killed two people himself.”
“The man has balls,” Bo admitted. “And he’s a bigger problem than Lemaire thought he’d be.”
“Okay, I get it,” Victoria replied. “Howard is a good thing. For the moment at least.”
“Correct,” her father confirmed. “So the general staff wants you to go up there, give Howard a present, and make nice. The more resources he sucks away from General Hern’s army, the better. Hern is a grinder . . . Once he takes a yard of ground, he tends to hold it . . . And we need a way to weaken him.”
“Kind of like the Canadian attack on Maine.”
“Exactly like the Canadian attack on Maine.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“Written orders are waiting in your office.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s one other thing, Victoria . . . Something you need to know. The Union wasn’t paying much attention to Howard, but they are now, and that includes assembling a battalion to go after him.”
Victoria shrugged. “That’s predictable.”
“Yes, it is,” her father replied. “But there’s something more. We have an agent in that battalion . . . And, according to him, your sister has orders to join the unit.”
Victoria knew that Robin was fighting for the Union and that they had been within miles of each other in Murfreesboro. She frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because even though Robin was too lazy to attend the academy, and went to OCS, she’s had more than her share of success as a cavalry officer. Robin was the one they sent to rescue Sloan from the fuck-up in Richton . . . And she pulled it off. She’s dangerous, Victoria . . . Don’t underestimate her.”
Victoria felt a swirl of conflicting emotions. This was the first time she’d heard her father express approval of her sister since the day Robin graduated from high school, and it didn’t sit well. She was Bo’s favorite and wanted it to stay that way. “Don’t worry, sir,” Victoria said, as she switched to being a major again. “If I run into Robin, I will take her very seriously indeed.”
CASPER, WYOMING
The Osprey V-22 banked as it passed over Casper, Wyoming. The aircraft didn’t have windows, but the rear hatch was open, which allowed Mac to catch glimpses of the ground. What had been a
small city to begin with was even smaller after the cholera epidemic had decimated the population two months earlier.
The pain and misery associated with that wasn’t visible from the air, however . . . And as the VTOL continued to make a wide, sweeping turn—Mac had the impression of orderly streets, bare-limbed trees, and occasional patches of dirty snow. Then she got a glimpse of what must be Fort Carney. The makeshift military base was adjacent to a fire-ravaged housing development south of town. An array of antennas marked the center of the fort and were located next to what looked like a mound of dirt but probably marked the location of an underground command center.
That was surrounded by a ring of prefab buildings, some of which were vehicle shelters. A spiderweb-like network of roads and trenches led out to the vehicle-mounted surface-to-air missile launchers that would protect the base from unmanned drones, low-flying fixed-wing aircraft, and helicopters. And all of it was protected by a forty-foot-long wall of shipping containers.
They were made of steel, and the tops of the rectangular boxes had been removed so that they could be filled with tons of dirt. Mac knew that such containers were approximately eight feet wide. That meant the wall could withstand just about anything fired directly at it. And with machine-gun emplacements on top of the barrier and mortar pits behind it, Fort Carney would be a tough nut to crack. “Check your seat belts,” a voice said over the intercom, “we’re thirty from dirt.”
The engines tilted up, and what had been a plane became a helicopter. The Osprey landed hard, and the rotors were responsible for a momentary dust storm. Mac was content to let the engines spool down before releasing the harness and getting to her feet. “Don’t worry about your bags, ma’am,” the crew chief told her. “We’ll send them over to the BOQ.”
Mac thanked him, took her M4 carbine, and made her way down the ramp. A lieutenant was waiting to greet her. He was wearing a black Stetson like those worn by cavalrymen in the 1800s. It was covered with a fine patina of dust and decorated with crossed sabers and a gold cord. Being a cavalry officer, Mac knew that such hats weren’t authorized. But some unit commanders would tolerate them for the sake of morale, and it appeared that Lieutenant Colonel Crowley was one of them.
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