Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

Mac laughed. He liked the sound of it, but not what followed. “Thank you, I think. And, if you lose the next election, give me a call.”

  “So you would? See me that is?”

  Mac smiled. “Yes. But what about Ms. Morgan? How does she fit in? I read an article about the two of you earlier today.”

  Sloan was struggling to formulate an answer when there was a knock on the door. He went to open it, and there was Beth. She was wearing her coat and carrying his over one arm. “The car is out front,” she said. “I’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

  Then, having turned to Mac, she nodded. “The uniform becomes you, Captain . . . Congratulations on your victory.” Then she was gone.

  Mac stood. Her face was professionally blank. “Can I be excused, sir?”

  Sloan swallowed. “Yes, of course.”

  Mac walked past him and out the door. The reception was over.

  FORT HOOD, TEXAS

  Victoria was in a covert-action suite within the Internet Warfare section of the fort’s military-intelligence complex. Her video conference with Union Underground leader Nathan Hale was about to begin. The meeting had been arranged through a series of e-mails, and was scheduled to last thirty minutes.

  Like any mission, this one had priorities, the most important of which was to learn whatever she could about the terrorist known as El Carnicero, or the Butcher. But Victoria hoped to capture Hale as well and thereby score a deuce. That’s why specialists were waiting to trace the incoming call.

  Victoria was seated on a white Tulip chair in a pool of light. A roll-around TV monitor was positioned in front of her, and the rest of the studio was dark. The tech sergeant who was in charge of tracing the call could communicate with her via an earbud. His name was Orson, and his voice was unnaturally loud. “Stand by. The call’s coming in.”

  Video appeared on the screen, swirled, and locked up. And there was a much younger Victoria. She was dressed in a high school cheerleader outfit and smiling for the camera. Had the shot been lifted from her yearbook? Yes, it had.

  The first photo was followed by a well-produced slideshow that included pictures of her as a cadet at West Point, running a marathon, and being promoted to major. All of which were intended to send a message: “We have resources, we know who you are, and we can find you.”

  Victoria’s respect for the Underground went up a notch as the final picture dissolved into a shot of a man wearing a latex mask. The likeness was that of Morton Lemaire, President of the New Confederacy. A joke then. “Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Nathan Hale.”

  “And I’m Victoria Macintyre.” Her identity was something she would normally protect, but there was no point in doing so now. Hale knew who she was even though his identity remained a secret. Union Underground one, Victoria zero.

  “Yes, you are,” Hale replied. “Plus you are General Macintyre’s oldest daughter and Captain Robin Macintyre’s sister. Did you know that forces under your sister’s command located and killed Robert Howard? He was an ally, wasn’t he?”

  Victoria didn’t know. The New Confederacy’s censors didn’t have the means to prevent determined citizens from getting outside information. But they could prevent it from appearing in local newscasts. Victoria felt a twinge of regret about the girl. The one that she’d been forced to kill in order to prove herself. “Yes,” Victoria lied. “My sister is on a roll. I suggest that we put the posturing aside and get to work.”

  Orson broke in. “They’re using onion routing to route the feed from computer to computer. Our Internet service provider will use timing analysis to determine where the call originated. So stall.”

  Hale was oblivious to the fact that Orson was speaking, so their words overlapped. “Absolutely,” Hale said. “As I indicated earlier . . . the Butcher is not, I repeat not, a member of our organization.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “He’s a serial killer,” Hale replied. “If the North and South weren’t at war, he would kill people anyway. He enjoys it.”

  The experts Victoria had spoken with agreed with that analysis. But she was playing for time. “Okay, but how do you explain the fact that all of his victims are Confederate soldiers?”

  “It’s like I said,” Hale replied. “He’s a psycho who is using the Underground as an excuse for what he does.”

  “Or,” Victoria said, “he’s an Underground operator who went rogue. And, because you have been unable to find him, you turned to us.” It was a stall . . . a way to keep the conversation going but one that produced some unexpected results.

  Hale shrugged. “There’s some truth to that. But what I said is true. He’s crazy.”

  Victoria felt the same sense of satisfaction she felt after winning a tennis match. “Thanks for your honesty . . . But I still don’t get it. So long as he kills our people, rather than yours, why get in the way?”

  “We have him!” Orson exclaimed. “And the bastard is only a few miles away . . . A special ops team is in the air. They’ll land in a minute or two.”

  “The Butcher is unpredictable,” Hale told her. “Who knows what he’ll do next?”

  Victoria felt the excitement that preceded a kill. “Like target you?” she demanded.

  There was a sudden commotion on the screen as what might have been a body passed in front of Hale. Then the image grew smaller as the camera zoomed out to reveal a monitor and the empty room around it. That was when Victoria understood the truth . . . The transmission was originating from a place other than the spot she was looking at. Hale laughed. “Seriously? You think we’re that stupid?” The video snapped to black.

  CHAPTER 7

  No man left behind.

  —US ARMED SERVICES

  NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE

  The trip from Fort Knox, Kentucky, to the base in Tennessee involved hitching rides on half a dozen southbound army trucks and took the better part of three days. So Mac was both relieved and tired when her latest ride dropped her off in front of battalion headquarters. Rather than the old warehouse complex, where the outfit had been quartered in Murfreesboro, the battalion was operating out of a rock quarry near the town of Readyville.

  A number of soldiers were out and about, but none of them looked familiar. Mac felt like a stranger until she heard a familiar voice and turned. Sergeant Lamm had been in command of BULLY BOY on the night they snatched General Revell. There was a smile on his face. “Good morning, ma’am, and welcome back. Here, let me help with that bag.”

  As Lamm escorted Mac past the helipad and over to one of the sandbagged tents, she had the perfect opportunity to quiz him. According to Lamm, the battalion was spending most of its time on recon and special ops missions. As for the war, Lamm was anything but optimistic. “We keep grinding away,” he said. “But the rebs continue to hold the line. This thing could go on for years.”

  Once they reached the tent, Mac thanked him and dropped her gear next to an empty cot before heading over to the Conex container where headquarters were located. The steel box was furnished with com gear, folding chairs, and a huge coffeepot. Major Granger was seated at a makeshift desk and rose to greet her. “You were supposed to arrive yesterday . . . When you failed to show, we ate the cake. Sorry about that.”

  Mac laughed. “The story of my life. Colonel Caskins sends his best.”

  “He’s a good man,” Granger observed. “The kind you can count on. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

  Mac knew the tour was an excuse to get out of the Conex and away from all the ears inside it. “We’re fine,” Granger told her, as they strolled past the makeshift maintenance shed. “Or as fine as a shorthanded Stryker battalion can be. But the big picture isn’t so good. The rebs have been using Mexican mercenaries to do a lot of fighting for them. Not only does that increase the number of people they can put in the field, it lowers their casualty rate and gives voters the impression
that they’re winning.”

  Mac frowned. “So the mercenaries are that good?”

  “They’re better than we thought they’d be,” Granger confessed. “And there are a lot of them. A division, according to current estimates.”

  Mac took it in. A division. That could mean as many as twenty thousand soldiers. It was a sobering thought, and one that caused Mac to think of her father. Was he responsible for the use of mercenaries? Or had the policy been foisted on him? Not that it mattered.

  “Captain Colby has been serving as the interim XO,” Granger continued. “But I want you to step in. Colby’s good . . . but not good enough to lead a battalion should that become necessary.”

  Though well acquainted with all of the extra work that went with the XO slot, Mac couldn’t help but enjoy the implied compliment. “Yes, sir.”

  “So get ready to jump in tomorrow,” Granger told her, as they circled back to the Conex. “Congratulations on killing that warlord, by the way . . . Too bad about Crowley.”

  “Yeah,” she lied. “Too bad about Crowley.”

  Mac spent the next two days shadowing Colby, meeting new people, and assessing the battalion’s readiness. She also spent a significant amount of time with her own company, which was short two vehicles and five people. One of whom was a mechanic. A situation not likely to be resolved anytime soon.

  Maybe it was the return to normal duty, or maybe it was the passage of time, but after two days with the battalion, Mac felt less jittery. And when she held her hands out in front of her, the tremors were nearly invisible. Not perfect . . . but better.

  On her fourth day back, Mac elected to lead a two-vehicle patrol down along the north bank of the Stones River. The tributary had been the scene of fierce fighting over the last few weeks as troops from both the North and the South surged back and forth across it. Now, having momentarily exhausted themselves, both sides had settled into an uneasy stalemate.

  That situation wouldn’t last much longer. But things were quiet as the GERONIMO and LUCY rolled along the highway that paralleled the river.

  Mac was up top, in GERONIMO’s front air-guard hatch, where she could see the surrounding countryside. Holes in the omnipresent cloud cover allowed shafts of early-morning sun to splash the forest on the far side of the waterway and promised a rain-free morning. The kind of morning cavalry officers loved because it’s easier to maneuver on dry ground.

  Mac didn’t expect to fight, however . . . The purpose of the patrol was to show the flag to the rebs camped on the south side of the river and get reacquainted with her troops. Not to mention the fact that it felt good to escape the Conex, and the administrative crap that went with being XO.

  Meanwhile, off to the south, Mac could see contrails—and hear the sounds of aerial combat. It served as a reminder that while her world was peaceful at the moment, other people weren’t so lucky. The detritus of past battles lay everywhere. And as the GERONIMO rolled past, Mac saw partially submerged tank traps out in the water, a section of pontoon bridge that was grounded on a sandbar, and all manner of defensive earthworks along both sides of the river. Union troops waved, and she waved back.

  Around noon, Mac ordered the drivers to pull over so that the Stryker crews could eat and take a bio break. She was sitting atop GERONIMO, spooning some diced fruit into her mouth, when Riley stuck her head up through the rear hatch. The RTO was new to the company and generally referred to as “the Owl” because of the army-issue glasses she wore. “We have orders, ma’am . . . An A-10 went down ten miles south of here . . . The pilot is alive and in hiding. The major wants us to go get him.”

  Mac’s mind began to race. Ten miles into enemy-held territory! That was a long way to go. “What about air cover?” she demanded.

  “We’ll have it,” Riley assured her. “The zoomies take care of their own.”

  Mac knew that was true. The enemy would have a hard time capturing the pilot with a couple of hogs circling above him or her. She tossed the fruit cup away and keyed her mike. “This is Six . . . The break is over. Button up and prepare for action. One of our pilots bailed out ten miles south of here, and he needs a ride. Over.”

  Ramps came up, hatches closed, and gunners checked their weapons. The GERONIMO was armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, and LUCY was equipped with a 40mm grenade launcher. Both were excellent weapons for the task at hand.

  The Strykers weren’t carrying any troops, however . . . So Mac’s total force consisted of herself, Riley, the truck commanders, their gunners, and a couple of ride-along privates who were there for training purposes. They could man a couple of M249s, though . . . And that would provide more firepower.

  Riley continued to relay information to Mac and the TCs as the two-vic unit pulled onto the road. “There’s a ford a mile east of here,” she told them. “And, according to HQ, a squad of rebs is on the south bank. Over.”

  “You heard her,” Mac said, as she fastened her chin strap. “Lucy will take the lead. Start firing as you enter the river. Over.”

  “Roger that,” LUCY’s gunner said. “Over.”

  Mac checked her machine gun as the LUCY passed. There was a tight feeling in her gut. She was scared and what else? Excited. Mac looked down at her hands. Were they shaking? It was impossible to tell because the GERONIMO was in motion.

  The LUCY took a hard right, ran down the riverbank into the water, and began to fire. Grenades arched high into the air and fell on the bunker beyond. Mac could see laundry strung up between the trees—and knew the rebs had been caught flat-footed. She felt sorry for the unsuspecting grunts as a grenade landed next to their ammo dump and set it off.

  Dirt, wood, and body parts were still raining down as LUCY lurched up out of the water—and waddled through the smoking ruins. “Way to go,” Mac said. “Put your foot in it. Over.”

  Wheels spun, locked up, and the GERONIMO’s tires threw mud as it followed the first vic up between shattered trees onto the level ground beyond. A voice crackled in her ear. “Short Bird to Bravo-Six . . . Do you read me? Over.”

  “Five by five,” Mac replied. “Over.”

  “My wingman and I are approaching you from the north,” Short Bird told her. “We’re going to mow the grass. Over.”

  Mac started to answer, but her words were drowned out by the roar of jet engines as a plane passed overhead. The A-10’s 30mm cannon produced an ominous growl as Short Bird fired on a target that Mac couldn’t see.

  In the meantime, Riley was feeding info to the truck commanders. “The brass put a drone up,” she explained. “They’re going to provide routing information. Take a left onto the highway, and the first right you come to. Over.”

  Mac saw the LUCY turn, and was thrown sideways as the GERONIMO followed suit. Regimental command was throwing everything they had at the rescue attempt, and that was good. But the rebs weren’t likely to sit on their hands. A Yankee A-10 pilot would be one helluva prize, not to mention a propaganda coup, when his picture appeared on the front of the Dallas Morning News. “Watch out!” LUCY’s TC hollered. “Roadblock ahead!”

  Mac swore. A quick-thinking Confederate had parked a six-by-six across the highway in an attempt to block it. But there was room on the right, and LUCY’s TC was quick to make use of it. Small-arms fire began to rattle against GERONIMO’s armor, and Mac could see that three soldiers were sprawled under the six-by-six, shooting at her. She sprayed them with 5.56 caliber rounds, and the firing stopped.

  After clearing the front end of the six-by-six, LUCY raced ahead, with the second vic in hot pursuit. And when the lead Stryker turned right, GERONIMO followed. The unpaved road ran straight as an arrow—and Mac could see smoke boiling up from a clutch of Bradleys up ahead. Short Bird’s work? Hell yes, and the air force pilot was still at it.

  The Warthog was so low that Mac could count the fittings on the plane’s belly as it flashed overhead. Rockets leapt of
f the plane’s wings, and orange-red explosions marked a target hidden in among the trees a thousand yards beyond the Bradleys. “You’re looking good, Bravo-Six,” the pilot assured her. “Sleeping Beauty is five miles ahead and taking a nap. Over.”

  Mac couldn’t help but grin. “Roger that, Short Bird. We’ll wake him with a kiss. Over.”

  “He’ll like that,” the pilot replied. “Especially since he doesn’t get very many kisses. We’re going around. Over. Hold one . . . Uh-oh . . . Two F-15s at twelve o’clock! Gotta go . . .” The transmission ended as the A-10 started to climb, and the reb fighter fell like a hawk as it dived on its prey.

  Mac wanted to watch but couldn’t. Her air cover had been pulled away, she was ass deep in enemy territory, and a pilot called Sleeping Beauty was waiting up ahead. “Riley,” Mac said. “Get Sleeping Beauty on the horn . . . Tell him to keep his head down and watch for us. Over.”

  Mac heard two clicks and knew the RTO was on it. They were up on the Bradleys by then. The tracks were on fire, and Mac could feel the heat as GERONIMO rolled past. Two bodies lay sprawled nearby. Death from above . . . Had Short Bird put eyes on any of the people he’d killed? It didn’t seem likely. Not when traveling at more than 400 mph.

  The trees Short Bird had fired at were coming up fast. Why? What had the pilot seen there? The answer arrived in the form of a 105mm cannon shell. It screamed past and exploded behind her. A tank! A fucking Abrams, which, having pushed out into the open, was preparing to fire again. “Take evasive action!” Mac shouted. “Fire smoke . . . And don’t run into each other.”

  LUCY cut left and GERONIMO angled to the right as another 105 round ripped through the space where they’d been. LUCY’s gunner was firing smoke grenades. So it was only a matter of seconds before a gray fog enveloped the scene. Mac couldn’t see but took some comfort from the fact that the tank commander couldn’t see either, as the GERONIMO bucked over an obstacle and nearly threw her out of the hatch.