Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Oxley’s office was three doors down the hall from her father’s. Victoria glanced at her watch, confirmed that she had enough time for a side trip, and took a right instead of a left.

  A well-worn carpet led her to a door that should have borne her father’s name, rank, and title. The plaque was missing, and the door was locked. Mystery solved. Her father had been promoted, reassigned, or both. And because Bo’s movements were classified, he hadn’t been free to tell her.

  So, Victoria thought to herself, as she did an about-face. It looks like I’ll have to take Oxley seriously. She made her way to Oxley’s office, went inside, and paused at the reception desk. “Major Macintyre to see Colonel Oxley.”

  The civilian clerk was a middle-aged man with a comb-over and a snippy manner. “The colonel is busy. Sit down. He’ll see you when he’s ready.”

  Victoria chose one of six empty chairs. Most of the New Confederacy continued to enjoy Internet service, and she was checking her e-mail when the clerk called her name. The door to Oxley’s office was open. Victoria stepped inside and came to attention. “Major Macintyre, sir . . . Reporting as ordered.”

  Oxley was fortysomething and runner thin. His uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. “At ease, Major . . . Have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So,” Oxley said, as he made a steeple with his fingers. “I read your report regarding the attack on Fort Carney. The fact that we had an agent on Colonel Crowley’s staff led to a successful ambush. That part of the affair was well done.”

  Oxley smiled thinly. “Unfortunately, the rest of it was a full-on shit show. In response to Robert Howard’s request, and your recommendation, we took part in the attack on Fort Carney. Three Black Hawk helicopters were lost along with their crews even though the pilots had the correct recognition signals. That’s eighteen million predisaster dollars, Major . . . Never mind the lives lost. Howard doesn’t care . . . But I do.”

  Oxley’s comments had been carefully worded. At no point had he accused General Macintyre’s daughter of being incompetent, but the implication was there. And Victoria was seething with anger. She’d been able to watch the attack via a drone circling above. And it was a shit show. Something she was forthright about in her report.

  So what was the rehash about? Oxley wanted to throw his weight around and get back at the Macintyre family for the manner in which he’d been sidelined. Victoria was reminded of the old saying: What goes around comes around.

  But Victoria had been forced to deal with pissy COs before and wasn’t about to provide Oxley with a reason to write her up. “Yes, sir,” Victoria said. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Oxley said, as if an important understanding had been reached. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. And there’s no point in crying over spilled milk, is there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Oxley said. “As I mentioned in my e-mail, we have a new assignment for you.”

  “What about Howard, sir?”

  “Don’t worry,” Oxley replied. “We’ll take care of him . . . But he won’t be on the receiving end of any more helicopters.”

  The dig hurt, but Victoria kept her face blank. “Yes, sir. And the assignment?”

  Oxley was enjoying himself. He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been busy . . . So it’s possible that you missed the news stories regarding the so-called Resistance. They’ve been killing our troops, blowing things up, and spreading antigovernment propaganda. They claim to be fighting for what they call ‘a full restoration of the United States government,’ but they’re terrorists, pure and simple.

  “So the decision was made to create a military counterterrorism team, and the folks in Houston chose you to lead the team.” It wasn’t clear whether Oxley approved of the choice, but Victoria suspected that he didn’t.

  “Everything you need to know is on this thumb drive,” Oxley told her as he pushed a USB drive across the surface of his desk. “The material on it is classified, so take good care of it.”

  “Thank you,” Victoria said, as she accepted the device. “Whom will I report to?”

  Oxley produced a shit-eating grin. “That would be me, Major . . . I think we’ll make an excellent team. Don’t you agree?”

  Victoria didn’t agree, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Study the information on the drive and let me know if you have any questions.”

  Victoria knew a dismissal when she heard one and stood. “Yes, sir.” She saluted, Oxley threw one in return, and Victoria left. What was the old saying? “If you can’t take a joke, don’t join the army?” It was true.

  NEAR CASPER, WYOMING

  The Flying H Ranch was located in the Rattlesnake Hills region west of Casper. And as the van bounced along a dirt road, Mac wondered why anyone would choose to live in such a desolate place. Most of the terrain was rocky and cut by ravines. What grass there was stood in frozen tufts and seemed unlikely to support more than a few dozen cattle.

  But that’s where Sarah Huntington, the great-granddaughter of Fergus Huntington, had chosen to live. And she was the scout that Crowley had been working with prior to his death. So if Mac wanted to learn about Crowley’s secret plan of attack, Huntington was the person to see.

  That’s why Mac and a small group of soldiers had chosen to travel in a civilian van. Assuming that Howard’s spies weren’t aware of Huntington, and her relationship with Crowley, Mac didn’t want to tip them off.

  Perkins swore as the van topped a rise, took to the air, and landed hard. Perkins was riding in back with Mac’s RTO and two soldiers. “Damn it, Johnson . . . What’s wrong with you? Slow down.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Johnson said. But Mac was sitting next to the driver and noticed that he didn’t look sorry. She smiled. Even though officers were in charge, and NCOs ran the army, privates could make life miserable for their superiors when they chose to.

  Johnson braked as the road rounded the side of a hill—and passed a weather-faded sign. It was succinct if nothing else. TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

  The road ran straight as an arrow after that, and Mac could see a cluster of trees ahead. They framed a yellow double-wide and a scattering of shabby outbuildings. Huntington’s home? Yes. It was quite a comedown for the family that once owned a gold mine, lived in Huntington Lodge, and owned vast tracts of land.

  How Huntington wound up on Crowley’s radar wasn’t clear . . . But, while trolling through Crowley’s laptop, Mac came across her name under CONTACTS, and the note that went with it: “New scout/Operation Payback.” But it was password protected. And that meant Mac would have to talk with Huntington if she wanted to learn about Operation Payback.

  The van came to a stop. The old four-by-four pickup parked in front of the house suggested that Huntington was home. If so, she was in no hurry to come out and welcome uninvited guests. Mac didn’t blame her. Not with the horde roaming the land. “Stay in the van,” Mac instructed as she opened the door.

  It was cold outside—and Mac could see her breath. There were boot prints in the snow . . . Plus a lot of paw prints. Mac felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was being watched. That’s how it felt. And as she looked around, Mac saw them. Dogs . . . At least a dozen of them. Some of the mutts were sitting with tongues lolling out of their mouths. Others were crouched, as if prepared to attack, and one lay on its side as if waiting for her to scratch his tummy. Vapor misted the air around its snout.

  Mac’s carbine was in the van—but her pistol was holstered on her vest. Could she draw and fire in time? No. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. “Ms. Huntington?” Mac shouted. “My name’s Macintyre . . . Captain Macintyre. Colonel Crowley was murdered. I found your name on his computer. I’d like to talk to you about Robert Howard.”

  Seconds passed. Mac heard a noise and turned to see a person roll out fro
m under the pickup truck. She stood and took a moment to brush snow and ice off her clothes. One by one, the dogs gathered around her. One of them growled. “Are you Sarah Huntington?” Mac inquired.

  “Yes,” the woman answered. Huntington appeared to be in her fifties because of her sun-ravaged skin, but she could have been younger. Her hair hung down in braids, and she was wearing a duster. “Say your piece.”

  Mac saw that Huntington was holding a long-barreled revolver down along the outside surface of her right thigh. It was pointed at the ground but could come up in a hurry. “You were working with Colonel Crowley to finalize a plan called Operation Payback. Maybe that plan has been compromised. If not, I’d like to use it. Howard is a murderer, a thief, and a slaver. Plus he took prisoners in the town of Wright . . . Female prisoners. We might be able to save them.”

  Huntington’s hand moved, and the pistol seemed to jump into the cross-draw holster on her belt. “Show me some ID.”

  Mac produced her card, gave it over, and watched Huntington scan it. “Okay,” the scout said. “Your soldiers can leave the van . . . The dogs won’t hurt them.”

  Mac turned to the van and gave a thumbs-up. Doors opened, and her troops got out. Then, on an order from Perkins, they deployed with their backs to the vehicle.

  Mac turned back to Huntington. “Did you know that Crowley had been murdered?”

  Huntington nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “The police told you?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you find out?”

  “Follow me,” Huntington said, and walked away. Mac followed her to one of the sheds out behind the house. Smoke dribbled out of a metal stovepipe.

  “This is my smokehouse,” Huntington announced as she opened the door, and Mac followed her inside. Big chunks of meat hung from hooks. Mac was about to ask, “Why did you bring me here?” when Huntington pointed to a carcass. “That’s how I knew Crowley was dead.”

  The light was dim, and the air was thick with drifting smoke, so it took a moment for Mac to recognize Lieutenant Casey. He was nude and hanging head down. Large chunks of flesh had been ripped from his body. “The bastard is heavy,” Huntington commented. “But a buck weighs even more. That’s where the chain hoist comes in.” It was said matter-of-factly, one woman to another.

  Mac was aghast. “What happened to him?”

  “He came for me,” Huntington said. “And the dogs tore him up. I called them off, but it was too late by then. He bled out.”

  “But why store the body in here?” Mac inquired.

  “Where else would I put it?” Huntington countered. “I couldn’t go to the police, not without alerting Howard to my involvement, and the ground is frozen. I’ll bury him in the spring.”

  They left the smokehouse. Huntington’s story made sense. Not that Mac cared. Huntington could use Casey for dog food as far as she was concerned. “Did Casey know about Operation Payback?”

  “No,” Huntington said. “He didn’t.”

  “Good. What is the plan? And could it work?”

  It took Huntington three or four minutes to explain. Once she was finished, Mac couldn’t help but smile. “I like it. Are you still willing to sign on?”

  Their eyes met. “Howard is like a cancer that needs to be cut out,” Huntington answered. “Plus, if we free those prisoners, then so much the better. And there’s one more thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “That bastard is camped in my granddaddy’s lodge. That pisses me off.”

  SPRING HILL, TENNESSEE

  President Sloan was in Fort Knox, Kentucky, working on a speech. That’s what the press had been told. It wasn’t true, however. After weeks of grinding warfare, the Union Army had been able to advance a few miles. Reporters were calling it “the Battle of Spring Hill.” That was the sort of victory that Sloan had been hungering for. And rather than simply read the reports and watch battle footage, he had decided to visit the battlefield.

  No one liked the idea, especially the Secret Service, which was understandably worried about putting the president down so close to the front lines. But Sloan was insistent. So under the cover of darkness, he’d been flown to Murfreesboro, given a uniform to wear, and helicoptered out to the battlefield. General Hern had been notified, but no one else knew. And rather than lay on extra security, which might alert the rebs, Secret Service Director Jenkins was keeping everything low-key.

  That’s why no one other than Hern, his adjutant, and a squad of special ops troops were on hand to welcome “Major” Sloan when he landed. Once he was clear of the LZ, Sloan saw occasional flashes along the horizon—and heard a series of thumps as artillery rounds detonated. The Battle of Spring Hill might be over, but the war wasn’t.

  The still-rising sun was hidden by a thick layer of clouds as the two men shook hands. Hern was a big man. Not fat, just big. The general didn’t have a neck so far as Sloan could discern, which made it appear as if his head were perched on his shoulders.

  And jutting out over a pugnacious jaw was the unlit cigar that Hern was so famous for. When a reporter asked him about the stogie, Hern replied, “I’m going to light that son of a bitch when we enter Houston,” and Sloan hoped that day would come soon. “Good morning, Mr. President,” Hern said. “Thanks for coming.”

  Hern didn’t want him there, and Sloan knew that. It was a nice thing to say, however . . . And Sloan smiled. “Thank you, General . . . And congratulations.”

  “I’ll pass that on to the troops,” Hern promised. “They fought well.”

  Sloan nodded. “How bad is the butcher’s bill?”

  “We don’t have a final count yet,” Hern answered. “But according to the preliminary figures, we lost 6,241 soldiers. Another 11,748 were wounded. Some won’t make it.”

  The numbers were high. Higher than Sloan thought they’d be. What had the Duke of Wellington said? “Compared to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle won.” Or something like that. “And the rebs? They were Americans, too.”

  “Some were,” Hern conceded. “But something new has come to light. The Confederates are using Mexican mercenaries as cannon fodder. That’s one of the reasons why we won . . . Our forces attacked the section of the line that the mercs were in charge of. They fought bravely, but most were poorly trained.”

  Mercenaries . . . Bought and paid for with revenue from America’s oil reserves! Sloan had been forced to rely on mercs during the early days of the war. But that practice had been discontinued shortly after the debacle in Richton, Mississippi. He felt sorry for all of the dead soldiers, regardless of which side they’d been fighting for. “Show me. I want to see.”

  They got in a Humvee, followed by other Humvees, and drove away. The route took them down a country road and past a burned-out minimart.

  As they drove along, Sloan saw an artillery piece that was pointed at the sky, a row of body bags awaiting pick up, and the arrows that pathfinders had spray painted onto walls. All of the images were tiles in a ghastly mosaic Sloan would never forget.

  The Humvee left the road at that point, bounced through a drainage ditch, and entered a field. It looked as though an artillery shell had landed among a herd of cows. Their mangled bodies lay in concentric circles liked the petals of an obscene flower.

  Tires fought for purchase as the driver directed the vehicle uphill. They passed a group of rebel prisoners before arriving on the top of the hill. “This is as far forward as we can go,” Hern said. “But the view is pretty good.”

  Once outside, Sloan saw that the view was pretty good. Or pretty bad . . . depending on how one chose to look at it. Hern gave Sloan a pair of binoculars. As he brought them up to his eyes, Sloan saw a clump of shattered trees, some hastily dug earthworks, and a clutch of fire-blackened vehicles. Way off in the distance, a soldier could be seen. He was carrying a buddy on his back as he trudged south.
Victory, Sloan thought to himself. This is what victory looks like. He gave the binoculars back. “Thank you, General. It isn’t pretty . . . But I’m glad I came.”

  CASPER, WYOMING

  It was just past 0700, and Mac was standing atop Fort Carney’s defensive wall, looking north toward the city of Buffalo and what Robert Howard called “the High Fort.” A chilly breeze stung her cheeks—and ruffled her hair. Mac responded by ramming her hands even deeper into her pockets. She was in a bind.

  After reporting Crowley’s death, word had come down that a new commanding officer would arrive at Fort Carney in seven days. Meanwhile, assuming that Howard’s prisoners hadn’t already been auctioned off, that could happen at any time. Never mind whatever cruelties they were forced to endure in the meantime.

  There was something else to consider as well. What if the new CO refused to act on the Crowley-Huntington plan? And that was more likely than not. Even the most aggressive officer would want to get acquainted with their new command before launching an attack on the warlord of warlords.

  Plus, since the battalion had lost almost fifty people during the last week, the new CO might very well wait for reinforcements before heading north. All of which argued in favor of launching the attack immediately, before anyone could tell her not to.

  On the other hand, Mac knew that folks up the chain of command expected her to sit tight even if they hadn’t issued specific orders to that effect. So if she went after Howard on her own, and things went wrong, they’d hang her out to dry. What to do?

  Mac remembered the guilt-ridden man she’d spoken to in the town of Wright. The man who had committed suicide in front of her. What was his granddaughter’s name? Sissy? Yes. Was Sissy worth risking her career for? Yes. And time was short.

  It took the rest of the day and some of the night to get organized. Mac couldn’t justify taking more than one company after the attack on the fort. And, since Charlie Company was in the best shape, she chose it for the task. Bravo Company’s platoon leaders were pissed . . . But that couldn’t be helped.