Mac remembered how the ice crystals glittered in the sunlight as she jumped down off the truck—and made her way over to where the man was standing. He was a major, or some guy pretending to be a major. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre, United States Army. And you are?”
“Major Fitch, United States Air Force.”
The way Mac remembered it, Fitch had deep-set eyes and a gaunt appearance. And, when Mac asked Fitch what he was doing, the answer had been clear. “I’m guarding what remains of a building.”
During the following exchange, Fitch had asserted his authority over Mac, and she had refused to accept it. Why? Because she and her troops were cut off from their battalion, the country was in the shitter, and she had no way to accurately assess the man in front of her. Was he a die-hard hero? Or some sort of mental case? Who else would hole up next to a National Guard armory and guard it all by himself?
So she’d refused to obey Fitch’s orders, and now, after what seemed like a lifetime, that decision had come back to haunt her. Would her story get her off? Hell, no. The people Wilkins worked for didn’t care what her perceptions of Fitch were. The only thing they cared about was the answer to a simple question: Did you, or did you not, disobey a direct order? Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “What happens next?”
“Pack your gear,” Wilkins instructed. “All of it. We’re going to Fort Knox. That’s where the court-martial will be held. It’s going to take a while.”
Mac swallowed. “Court-martial?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Granger cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Robin . . . But there’s nothing I can do. You are hereby relieved of duty pending the outcome of the trial.”
Mac stood. She felt light-headed. “Are you going to cuff me?”
Wilkins eyed her. “Do I need to?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
Mac left the Conex with Wilkins in tow. Dark clouds were moving in from the north, and the air felt chilly. Suddenly, in less than half an hour, Mac’s world had been turned upside down. The future was bleak.
CHAPTER 8
Give Peace A Chance
—JOHN LENNON
JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI
The Metrocenter Mall was filled with Saturday-morning shoppers. And why not? The war was a barely felt presence in the city of Jackson. Because of all the military spending, everybody who wanted a job had one—plus the air inside was cleaner than the stuff outside. And because the mall was the closest thing to neutral territory available, Victoria and resistance fighter Nathan Hale had agreed to meet at the mall.
Their first meeting, which had taken place electronically, had been an unmitigated disaster for Victoria. Instead of gathering more information about the anti-Confederate assassin called the Butcher and capturing Hale, she had come away with nothing.
Now, after apologizing to Hale via e-mail and days of groveling, he’d agreed to meet with her again. And in person. Rather than try to grab Hale, Victoria had decided to play it straight. The first priority was to obtain intel regarding the Butcher. Then, once El Carnicero was neutralized, she would find a way to smoke Hale.
Meanwhile, just in case Hale was planning to double-cross her, Sergeant Cora Tarvin and Private Roy Post were providing security. Victoria scanned her surroundings but couldn’t spot the operatives. And that was good. Because if she couldn’t see them, Hale’s people couldn’t either.
The Fountain Restaurant had indoor and outdoor seating. By prior agreement, the meeting was to take place outside, where the noise generated by the small fountain would make it difficult for other diners to listen in.
As Victoria neared the restaurant, she saw that roughly half of the outside tables were taken. Hale was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t surprising since she was five minutes early. Victoria went inside, requested a table near the fountain, and followed a girl out to a linen-covered table. After taking a seat, she began to eye the pretentious menu. It was heavy and loaded with items that would make her heavy, too. “May I join you?”
Victoria looked up to see that the fashionably dressed woman who’d been seated a few feet away was standing next to her table. She was about to say “No,” and realized her mistake. “Mrs. Hale, I presume?”
Hale laughed and took the other chair. Now Victoria could see through the makeup even though it was quite convincing. Hale smiled. “That’s right, honey . . . This isn’t the first time I’ve dressed as a woman. And one girl to another, I love your cropped jacket! It’s just enough to kick the outfit up a notch and hide a shoulder holster.”
Victoria couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.” And it was true. He’d been wearing a mask the last time she’d seen him. Now he was wearing a wig, pink lip gloss, and enough foundation to hide his beard. The disguise, plus some carefully chosen clothing, created a convincing picture. Was Tarvin snapping photos of him with a long lens? She’d better be.
After a waiter arrived, and their orders were placed, the maneuvering began. During the first meeting, Victoria had guessed, correctly as it turned out, that El Carnicero had been a member of the Union Underground before going rogue. Now the resistance fighters wanted him dead. So much so that they were willing to conspire with the Confederacy to get the job done.
But there was a limit on how cooperative Hale could be without revealing the sort of information that would help Victoria attack his organization. That’s what Hale claimed. But by the time lunch had been served, Victoria was beginning to get suspicious. Nothing had been accomplished up to that point—and Hale was too relaxed for someone with a lot at stake. Why?
Victoria was about to bail out when Hale opened his purse and removed a sheet of paper. He pushed it across the table. “There you go,” he said. “Now you have the Butcher’s real name, his last-known address, and a personality profile.”
The paper was folded into thirds. And when Victoria opened it, she saw that the page was blank! What the? Victoria looked up and was reaching for her pistol, when Hale shot her in the stomach. He was holding the Taser low, under the tabletop, where it couldn’t be seen.
Victoria felt the dart-like electrodes penetrate her clothing. That sensation was followed by something similar to a bee sting—and an electronic shock so strong that she lost control of her musculature. She jerked, slumped to one side of the chair, and was hanging there as Hale stood. “Bye, hon,” he said. “Sorry to eat and run.” Then he was gone.
Victoria’s body had been immobilized, and although her brain was foggy, it remained functional. She’d been suckered. Again. What was Hale trying to accomplish? Then it came to her. The resistance fighter knew that Victoria would have backup, and he hoped to draw them out so his operators could kill them. Then, as Victoria struggled to stand, they would nail her as well. And bingo . . . Not only would Hale have eliminated one of the Confederacy’s hunter-killer teams, but General Bo Macintyre’s daughter would be dead! A psychological as well as a physical blow.
All of that and more flashed through Victoria’s mind as she heard a gunshot! Post! Or Tarvin! One of them had seen Victoria slump over and rushed to the rescue. And that was the sniper’s signal to fire.
“No!” What was supposed to be a shout emerged as a croak. Victoria battled to stand, failed, and heard a second report. People were screaming by then—and a good Samaritan appeared at her side. “Can you breathe?” he wanted to know. “I called 911.”
As he leaned in to hear her reply, a bullet hit him in the head. The bang was like an afterthought. Victoria felt something warm splatter her face as the man collapsed on top of her. The chair went over, and both of them hit the floor.
Victoria’s muscles were starting to respond by that time and she struggled to roll free. Once on her knees, she stood. Only then did Victoria realize how stupid the move was. A follow-up shot would p
ut her down for good! None came.
Victoria used a napkin to wipe some of the blood off her face as she staggered out into the mall. People were running every which way as police flooded the area. Someone called for a medic as Victoria knelt next to Tarvin’s body. They hadn’t been friends. Both of them knew better than to let that happen. But they’d been in some tight spots together, and Victoria would miss the noncom. “Don’t worry,” Victoria told the body, as an EMT arrived. “I’ll find the bastard. And he’s going to die.”
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
As Mac made her way across the sprawling base, she felt depressed. The previous night had been spent tossing and turning. Why had she been stupid enough to refuse a direct order?
Because you had every reason to believe that the country was in the shitter, her inner voice replied. And it would be, except for Sloan. The statement was true but brought very little comfort. Mac consulted the slip of paper in her hand, confirmed that she was standing in front of the correct building, and climbed a short flight of stairs. A door opened into a sparsely furnished reception area. Mac made her way over to a fortresslike desk. A bright-eyed corporal looked up from what she was doing. “Good morning, ma’am . . . How can I help you?”
“I’m Captain Macintyre, and I’m here to see Judge Advocate Sanders.”
The corporal consulted a screen. “Yes, ma’am. Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Mac found a place to sit. About a dozen people were seated around her. Did they know about the charges that had been lodged against her? No, that was absurd. What would her father think? Mac could imagine the disappointment in his eyes. The same disappointment she’d seen many times before. A major appeared and made his way over. “Captain Macintyre? I’m Judge Advocate Sanders.”
Mac stood. Sanders had thinning flyaway hair, a slight stoop, and was dressed in a uniform that appeared to be a size too big. They shook hands. “Please follow me,” Sanders said, and led the way.
Mac followed him through a maze of cubicles and corridors to a windowless room. “Please have a seat,” Sanders said, as he circled a cluttered desk. “Or should I say the seat, since there’s only one. They called me back to active duty two months ago and, as you can imagine, the regulars have the good offices.” It was said without rancor. As if such indignities were to be expected.
Mac forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s dispense with the formalities,” Sanders said, as he sat down. “Please call me George, and I’ll call you Robin. Now, allow me to bring you up to speed on the process. You’ve been charged with disobeying a direct order and threatening the life of a superior officer. Those are serious allegations, needless to say, so a general court-martial will be convened.
“The trial will involve a military judge, a prosecutor, and a defense counsel. By the way,” Sanders added, “you have the right to choose a defense counsel other than me should you desire to. And no, I won’t be offended.”
Mac felt a terrible emptiness where the pit of her stomach should have been. “I won’t need a defense attorney. I plan to plead guilty.”
Sanders frowned at her. “What? Are you crazy?”
“No,” Mac said miserably. “I’m guilty. Not only that, there were witnesses, plenty of them. So that’s that.”
“Maybe,” Sanders allowed, as he picked up some papers. “And maybe not. It’s true that Privates Wessel and Dooly gave statements that support the charges. But your driver, Corporal Garcia, said he couldn’t hear the interchange between you and Major Fitch. That in spite of the fact that he was outside the Stryker and standing a few feet away!
“Then there’s Dr. Hoskins. He said that Major Fitch appeared to be suffering from PTSD, and Private Hadley indicated that Fitch was threatening you with a machine gun. All of which can be used to attack Fitch’s credibility. Or lack thereof.”
The fact that Garcia, Hoskins, and Hadley had been there for her was heartening. “I’m glad to hear it,” Mac said. “But be honest with me. What are my chances?”
Sanders frowned. “Of going scot-free?”
“Yes.”
“I’d put the odds at five to one against it.”
Mac swallowed. “Okay, so why fight it?”
“Which would you prefer?” Sanders inquired. “Twenty years? Or two? A short sentence. That’s worth fighting for. I know things look dark . . . But you have an extraordinary record, and believe me, the court will take that into account. But only if we tell them the story. So what do you say? Do we fold? Or fight?”
Two years in prison. If she was lucky. Mac felt sick to her stomach. “Okay, George, we’ll fight.”
The smile made Sanders look younger. “Good. I’ll push for a speedy arraignment. Be sure to follow all of the rules and stay out of trouble during the interim.”
The next two weeks were difficult. Mac had to check in four times a day. But, other than occasional meetings with Sanders, she had no other duties. So rather than sit around and think dark thoughts, Mac put in two hours at the gym every morning. Then it was time to shower, eat breakfast, and do chores.
Once lunch was over, Mac had all afternoon in which to read. The Art of War by Sun Tzu was a favorite, and histories, including the four-volume A History of the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill.
And Mac had time for lighter fare as well . . . including both online and print publications. That’s how she came across a story concerning Sloan’s love life. “The love affair between the President of the United States and World News reporter Beth Morgan is over.” That’s how the article began. And, farther down, there was an equally interesting sentence. “According to people in the know, the president broke off the relationship, and Ms. Morgan is anything but pleased.”
Mac remembered the room, what Sam had said to her, and her reply. What part, if any, had the conversation played in ending his relationship with Morgan? And what would the president think of her now? Nothing good.
The arraignment was a good deal less dramatic than Mac had imagined. The charges were read, her rights were made clear, and a trial date was set. Rather than stall for time, Sanders was pushing for a speedy trial. “I don’t want to be morbid,” he said. “But what if Dr. Hoskins gets killed? As a physician, and someone who is clearly on your side, his testimony is very important to us.”
Mac understood the logic of that, even if it was a bit cold-blooded, and wanted to get the whole process over with. The sooner she was convicted, the sooner she could serve her time, and the sooner she’d be released. To do what? Mac didn’t know. But, she thought to herself, I’ll have plenty of time to think about that.
ABOARD THE VIRGINIA-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE JOHN WARNER
The President of the United States had never been aboard a nuclear attack submarine before. And he didn’t like it. Because, in spite of the fact that the boat was more spacious than its predecessors, the close quarters made Sloan feel claustrophobic. It was a sensation he was determined to conceal.
Sloan was standing in the control room next to Captain Rawlings. Each time the officer gave an order, Sloan could monitor changes on the screens located in front of the pilot and copilot. Only three people were required to steer, rather than the five or six that was standard in the Ohio-class subs. “We’re pausing just below the surface,” Rawlings said, “so we can take a look around.”
The rest went unsaid. Had the Confederates kept their word? If so, there wouldn’t be any vessels in the area other than the Ohio-class submarine Alabama. And it, according to Rawlings, was under the command of an old friend. A classmate from Annapolis who had chosen to fight for the Confederacy instead of the Union. “He’s trustworthy,” Rawlings had said. “But the people he reports to? Not so much.”
And that’s typical of this war, Sloan thought to himself. Friend against friend, brother against brother. God help us.
Like all Virginia-clas
s subs, the John Warner was equipped with photonics masts rather than the hull-penetrating periscopes of yesteryear. As Sloan looked at the screen in front of him, he saw that the Caribbean sun was an orange smear in the dusty sky. At the water level, and directly ahead, a tropical island was visible. And not just any island . . . but an eighty-acre Balinese-style retreat that belonged to a British billionaire.
How the island had been secured for the meeting wasn’t clear because Sloan hadn’t been involved in the negotiations. But the why was obvious. The billionaire, not to mention the UK generally, would benefit in a multitude of ways if peace broke out. “There are no enemy aircraft in the area,” a disembodied voice said.
“We have an AWACS in the air,” Rawlings explained. “And they’ll warn us if rebel aircraft come this way. So far so good.”
After completing a careful 360-degree scan of its surroundings, the sub started to creep forward. “We have company,” a sonar operator announced. “The signature is consistent with that of an Ohio-class sub.”
“We have radio contact,” another voice put in. “They have the recognition code.”
“Okay,” Captain Rawlings said. “Take her up.”
It took the better part of an hour for both subs to send teams ashore, confirm that it was deserted, and radio in. Once the all clear was received, Sloan was instructed to climb up through the submarine’s conning-tower-like “sail” to the bridge, and make his way from there to the deck, where a life jacket awaited him. Then it was time to enter a RIB boat for the trip ashore. Six heavily armed SEALs grinned at him as he sat down. “Welcome aboard, sir,” one of them said. “We’ll have you there in no time.”
The twin engines roared, and the bow slapped the waves, as the low-lying island grew steadily larger. Off to the left, another inflatable was making the same journey, only it was equipped with a whip-style antenna. A Confederate flag fluttered in the breeze, and spray flew as the boat powered ahead.
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