As the Strykers emerged from the cloud of smoke, they entered a cow pasture. Most of the animals were dead, but one stood munching away. The .50 began to chug, as GERONIMO’s gunner yelled, “Target’s left!”
When Mac turned to look, she saw the soldiers. They were spread out in a skirmish line. Some raised their weapons. They’re searching for our pilot, Mac thought to herself, as she brought the LMG to bear. Where is the son of a bitch anyway?
Bullets buzzed past her, pinged the hull, and left bright smears where they hit. Mac pulled the trigger and saw half a dozen soldiers go down. Some had been hit, and the rest were diving for cover. A distant part of her brain took note of the fact that they were wearing strange uniforms. Mexican mercenaries? Yes, that made sense.
Then the thought was gone as LUCY waddled up out of a gully, and GERONIMO followed. “Sleeping Beauty is directly in front of us,” Riley announced. “Don’t shoot him.”
It was a levelheaded order, and Mac was impressed. The Owl had a good head on her and would make an excellent corporal, assuming she lived long enough to sew the stripe on. Mac turned forward in time to see a man wearing a flight suit rise up out of a filthy pond! He waded toward them with a pistol in hand.
Mac was about to issue an order when she saw that LUCY’s ramp was falling. In the meantime, GERONIMO’s commander turned to place his vic between LUCY and the Mexican troops. That’s when the .50 began to send heavy slugs downrange. Geysers of brown soil leapt into the air as the heavy machine gun traversed from left to right. “We have him!” LUCY’s TC exclaimed. “Over.”
“Well done,” Mac said. “Let’s haul ass. Geronimo will take point. We’re going out the way we came in, so watch for the tank. Over.”
Surviving members of the infantry fired on the Strykers as they left but to no effect. Mac’s eyes were focused on the trees where the tank had been. Was the monster still there? A shell exploded next to the GERONIMO, went off, and flipped the vic over onto its left side.
Mac was thrown clear and hit hard. She was lying on the ground, trying to breathe, when Riley came into view. The RTO’s black-rimmed glasses were firmly in place, but the right lens was cracked. “Are you okay? The Lucy’s waiting for us.”
Mac accepted Riley’s hand, let the other woman help her up, and heard the tank fire. The armor-piercing shell had scored a direct hit on GERONIMO and blown the Stryker to smithereens. She couldn’t see them. So it seemed safe to assume that Ramirez, Stephano, and private what’s-his-name were dead.
“Come on,” Riley said, and took Mac’s arm. As they ran, Mac knew the tank was aiming at the Stryker. And when the Abrams fired, LUCY would cease to exist. Then something streaked down out of the sky, hit the tank, and exploded! A secondary blast blew the turret straight up . . . It seemed to pause in midair before crashing down.
Mac was still trying to understand the sequence of events as she followed Riley up the ramp and into LUCY’s cargo compartment. As she fell into a seat, Mac saw that the pilot was seated across from her with his back to the hull. He was sopping wet, but he was pretty. So pretty that he could be called beautiful. As for the “sleeping” part of his call sign, there had to be a story to explain that. Falling asleep in a class? Something like that. The pilot spoke as LUCY pulled forward. “I’m sorry.”
Mac was about to say, “Sorry for what?” Then she remembered Ramirez, Stephano, and the nameless private. She could see his face . . . A kid trying to look tough. The pilot didn’t know any of them, needless to say. But he knew that people had died to rescue him. And he was sorry. Mac forced a smile as LUCY lurched over some unseen obstacle. “Shit happens, Lieutenant. It wasn’t your fault. Remember that.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” But Mac could see the pain in Sleeping Beauty’s eyes and knew that some vestige of it would live there forever. “I think Short Bird killed the tank,” she said, in an attempt to change the subject.
“No, ma’am,” Riley said from the seat next to her. “The Hellfire missile was fired by a Predator drone. It’s circling overhead.”
I’m going to survive, Mac thought to herself. Again. She looked down at her hands. They were steady. Why? Mac closed her eyes and let her helmet touch the hull. Three people had died in order to save a comrade. It didn’t make sense. Not mathematically. Yet, it did. And Mac felt proud.
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
The lighting was dim and the mood in the subterranean situation room was dark. People spoke to each other in hushed tones, as if in church. And no wonder. Live video was streaming in from Missouri, and all of it was grim. It appeared as if multiple tornados had ripped through Kansas City, leveling everything in their path. Malls, schools, homes . . . Everything.
And, according to preliminary estimates, more than five thousand people had been killed. But not by Mother Nature. No, this destruction had been wrought by man. Specifically, three B-2 Spirit stealth bombers based out of Lackland, Texas. Somehow, in spite of all the technology that was supposed to spot them, the planes had been able to cross into Union territory undetected.
Up until that point, neither side had intentionally bombed population centers. And that was something Sloan took pride in. The people who lived south of the New Mason-Dixon Line might be rebels, but they’d been Americans once and would be again one day. How could he bring the country back together if he bombed their homes?
President Lemaire had drawn the same line until now. Why the change? The answer was obvious. In spite of the stalemate on the battlefield, the North was winning. How wasn’t clear. Maybe perceptions had begun to change now that Southerners had lived under the oligarchs for a while. Perhaps government polling reflected that.
There was also the possibility that the resistance movement was gaining traction, or that Northern psyops efforts were succeeding, or who knows what else? Whatever the reason, the decision had been made to escalate. What to do? Sloan and his advisors would have to decide.
Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison was in the room along with Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Herman Jones, National Intelligence Director Martha Kip, National Security Advisor Toby Hall, and half a dozen others. They were seated around a long oval table—and all of them were staring at Sloan. That was when Sloan realized that he’d been silent for an uncomfortably long period of time. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you’ve seen the damage assessments. I’m sure you have suggestions about how to deal with this horrific act. Let’s start with General Jones.”
Jones had a buzz cut so short his black hair was barely visible against his brown skin. He had bright brown eyes and a square chin. “I’d like to tackle the second issue first,” Jones said. “Efforts are under way to figure out how the rebs managed to suppress our detection systems. That’s the first step.
“We will also increase the number of E-3 airborne early-warning and control missions. And, if you approve, we’ll move some surface-to-air batteries down from the Canadian border. Finally, we’re going to borrow twelve fighters from the navy in order to increase the number of interceptors available to deal with incursions.”
“I like it,” Sloan replied. “All except for moving the surface-to-air batteries. I don’t trust the folks who are leading Canada right now. Let’s leave the missiles where they are.” Jones nodded and made a note on the pad in front of him.
“Now,” Jones said, as he looked up, “let’s talk about offense. As it says in Leviticus, ‘an eye for an eye.’ Just say the word, and we’ll level the city of Dallas.”
The recommendation, or something like it, was what Sloan had expected to hear from Jones. And there was no way in hell that he was going to agree to it. But experience had taught him that it was best to let everyone have a say before saying no. And maybe, if he got lucky, someone else would take issue with the idea.
Sloan thanked Jones and continued to call on people until each person had spoken. All of them offered good suggestions, but only one of them took exception
to Jones’s plan, and that was Secretary of Homeland Security Roger Alcock. He was from Colorado—and favored cowboy hats, bolo ties, and Western boots.
“With all due respect, General,” Alcock began, “I think your plan is a bit shortsighted. Let’s say we succeed, and we level Dallas. Or some other city. How will the rebs respond? They’ll destroy Philly or some other soft target. We will retaliate, and so on, until the entire country is a field of rubble. There has to be a better way.”
Sloan took the opportunity to jump in. “I agree. But we can’t sit back and take it either. The general’s right about that. So while I oppose carpet bombing Dallas, or any other Confederate city for that matter, I don’t object to hitting strategic targets. And I have some in mind. As you know, Texas had something approaching energy independence prior to the war. What you may not be aware of is that in spite of a well-earned reputation for pumping oil, the Lone Star State was the nation’s fourth largest coal producer when the meteors struck.
“But here’s the rub . . . The stuff they mine in Texas is a low-grade form of coal called lignite. It’s found in deposits that sweep from the northeastern edge of the state down south. And guess who owns eleven of the twenty-four mines in the state? The answer is Coruscant Southwest, the largest electric utility in the state. The same company that enables Lemaire to provide his constituents with cheap electricity even as it pollutes their air.
“But that’s not all,” Sloan added, as his eyes roamed the faces around him. “Coruscant’s CEO sits on the Confederacy’s Board of Directors . . . So, if we strike a blow against the company, we strike a blow against him.”
“I don’t know,” Jones said doubtfully. “I guess we could drop some bunker-busters on top of the mines. That would shut them down for a while . . . But deep targets are difficult.”
“I have some good news for you,” Sloan replied. “Most of the coal mines in Texas are located in rural areas. That limits the possibility of collateral damage, and they’re on the surface. Destroy the draglines used to harvest the lignite, and the operators will be out of business. What do you think?”
All eyes were on Jones. He smiled. “Holy shit, Mr. President . . . No offense, but I’m not used to getting targeting guidance from civilians! But I like it. We’ll put those mines out of business by this time tomorrow.”
There was more. And an hour’s worth of discussion followed. Sloan should have felt better as he left, but he didn’t. Another problem loomed. How to best part company with Beth Morgan? Especially now that the FBI investigation inspired by Beth’s journalism was over, Senator Pickett had been arrested, and Sloan was about to benefit.
But the need to part company with Beth had been clear to Sloan ever since the evening when he’d met with Robin Macintyre. He was unhappy already. But seeing Mac, and talking to her, had given him the impetus to do what he’d been putting off. Tonight, Sloan thought to himself. I’ll do it tonight. The prospect filled him with dread.
It was a full day. There were all the usual briefings to attend in the morning, a related press conference to survive at one, and a signing ceremony at three. The Whigs had done everything in their power to oppose the America Rising Reconstruction Bill but hadn’t been able to stop it, and that was something to feel good about.
But Sloan’s spirits were dampened by the knowledge of what was to come. And when he left his office to join Beth in his private quarters, it was with a heavy heart. Buck up, he told himself. Don’t drag it out.
That plan went out the window as he opened the door and entered the dimly lit sitting room. A linen-covered table sat at the center of it. Candles flickered, silverware gleamed, and soothing music filled the air. “Happy birthday,” Beth said, as she came forward to give him a kiss. “And congratulations regarding the reconstruction bill. It’s a historic piece of legislation.”
Sloan felt the usual spark as her lips pressed against his and her perfume embraced him. All sorts of emotions battled each other for supremacy. It felt good to have someone remember his birthday—and praise his achievement. But, sweet though the moment might be, the relationship was doomed. “Thank you, Beth . . . How thoughtful! I really appreciate it.”
“You’ll appreciate it even more when your steak arrives,” Beth replied. “But let’s have a drink first.”
A small bar stood against one wall, and Sloan went over to make drinks. A rum and Coke for her . . . and a gin and tonic for him. Both doubles.
They sat next to each other on the couch, arms touching. Beth was all wound up about some politics at work, and Sloan forced himself to listen as she chattered away. Eventually, when they were on their second drinks, he took the plunge. “Beth, we need to talk.”
Beth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Really? About what?”
“About us.”
Sloan saw her smile tighten. “Uh-oh . . . I don’t like the sound of this. Are you about to dump me? Again?”
Sloan tried to come up with a way to soften it and failed. “I’m sorry, Beth. You’re a wonderful person. But a very different person from me.”
Her eyes were like bottomless black pools. “Does this have something to do with Captain Macintyre?”
Sloan felt flustered. “Yes, I mean no. The captain and I don’t have a relationship if that’s what you mean.”
There was a hard edge to her voice. “But you’d like to have one.”
“Yes, I suppose I would,” Sloan admitted. “But that misses the point. It’s like I said earlier. You and I are very different people. And that would be a problem even if I didn’t know Captain Macintyre.”
Beth placed her glass on the coffee table and stood. There were no tears in her eyes. Just an implacable anger. “I’m not a toy, Sam. Something to be used, reused, and discarded. Everything has a price—and you will pay.”
With that, Beth turned, snatched her coat off the back of a chair, and left. Someone else might have slammed the door. Beth didn’t.
Sloan sighed. He’d known it would be bad but not that bad. There was a discreet knock on the side door. Sloan frowned. “Come in.”
Sloan heard a soft thump as a stainless-steel trolley pushed the door open. It was followed by a waiter dressed in white. “Good evening, Mr. President. Steaks for two . . . May I serve?”
Sloan felt his stomach rumble. “Tell me something, Louie . . . Do you like steak?”
The waiter was sixtysomething, gray, and extremely dignified. “Yes, sir . . . I do.”
“Good. Please serve. Then, if you’d be so kind, please join me for dinner. It’s my birthday.”
Louie was in no way perturbed. “It would be my pleasure, sir. And happy birthday.”
NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE
Three days had passed since the rescue mission—and the battalion had been ordered to move again. It was an arduous process, especially for the XO, who was expected to handle most of the logistics. So Mac was in a meeting with the battalion’s supply officer and her staff when the private came looking for her. He was a gangly kid who had graduated from high school six months earlier. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. But Major Granger wants to see you right away.”
“Right away as in now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mac eyed the faces around her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Remember what I said. Don’t trust anybody. Count everything before you load it.”
Lieutenant Simmons nodded. “Don’t worry, Captain. We’re on it.”
“Good,” Mac said, as she stood. “I’ll check with you later.”
There was activity all around as Mac crossed the compound. Tents were coming down, boxes of gear were being stacked for loading, and a line led into the first-aid station. Vaccinations had to be renewed on a regular basis, and Mac knew her name was on the list. When would she find the time?
As Mac entered the Conex container, she saw that it was nearly empty—and knew the techs
were working out of the battalion’s com truck. Two people were present. Granger and a staff sergeant who looked strange in his class-A blue uniform and mirror-bright street shoes. That was when Mac saw the military police insignia. Shit. One of her people was in trouble. Granger looked grim. “Have a seat Captain,” he said. “This is Sergeant Wilkins.”
Mac sat on a folding chair. “Good morning, Sergeant . . . Did one of our soldiers screw up?”
Wilkins’s eyes were like black buttons, it appeared as if his nose had been broken at some point, and his mouth was little more than a horizontal slash. “None of your soldiers are in trouble, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of anyway. I’m here to arrest you.”
It came as a complete shock. Mac could hardly believe her ears. “Me? What for?”
“You have been charged with disobeying a direct order from a superior officer,” Wilkins replied.
Mac wasn’t in trouble with Granger. She knew that. Who then? Crowley? No, even though she disagreed with the colonel regarding all sorts of things, Mac had obeyed his orders. Besides, Crowley was dead. She looked at Wilkins. “Who is my accuser?”
“Major Jeremy Fitch, United States Air Force,” Wilkins answered.
Fitch, Fitch, Fitch . . . Who the hell was Fitch? Oh, shit . . . Now she remembered. The incident had occurred months earlier as Mac and her soldiers were making the long, arduous journey from Washington State to Arizona. Along the way, they’d stopped outside Mountain Home, Idaho, in hopes of finding weapons, ammo, and supplies in the National Guard armory.
The sheet of plywood propped up in the middle of the road had been visible from half a block away. The words GOV. PROP. DO NOT ENTER had been written on the wood with white paint.
Mac remembered seeing the ruins of a building on the right. It looked like the structure had been leveled by the Chinese missile that had destroyed nearby Mountain Home Air Force Base. “I see movement at two o’clock,” Brown had announced as he brought the .50 around.
Mac looked in time to see a man emerge from the hut located adjacent to the remains of the building. He was dressed in combat gear and carrying a light machine gun. After ordering a sniper to target the man, Mac had gone forward to speak with him.
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