Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  What was Lemaire thinking? Sloan wondered. Could a deal be done? Sloan wanted to believe that it could. But Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison was doubtful, as was Secretary of State George Henderson. They were of the opinion that the Confederate president was simply going through the motions to appease the small clique of “accomodationists” who were members of his board.

  The Confederate inflatable arrived first, and Lemaire’s security team was already gathered on the pier as the Union boat pulled in next to the floating dock. After getting rid of his life jacket, Sloan followed a ramp up to the point where Morton Lemaire stood waiting for him. They’d met before the war, down in Houston, where Lemaire and his cronies offered Sloan a job as puppet president. And when Sloan refused, Lemaire called him “. . . one stupid son of a bitch.”

  But Sloan could detect no signs of animosity as Lemaire came forward to shake hands. The Confederate president had gray hair and a keen mind. So friends and enemies alike referred to him as “the silver fox.” His long, oval-shaped face would have been perfect had it not been for a mouth that was a little too small. “We meet again,” Lemaire said. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “None,” Sloan said while managing to keep a straight face. “I enjoyed my stay in the swamp.”

  Lemaire chuckled. “Shall we take a stroll?” the Southerner inquired. “Or find a place to sit down?”

  “Let’s walk,” Sloan replied. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” The politicians followed a meticulously kept path up through lush greenery toward the buildings beyond. “So,” Lemaire began, “we’re here because we have a common interest in making peace.”

  “True,” Sloan agreed. “But not at any price.”

  “Of course,” Lemaire responded. “That’s understood.”

  So far so good, Sloan thought to himself. “Do you have something specific in mind?” Sloan inquired. “Or do you see this meeting as an opportunity to explore the possibilities?”

  “I have a plan I’d like to put forth,” Lemaire replied. “Or the general outlines of one. If you and I can agree on general principles, our staff people can collaborate on the details.”

  Sloan was surprised by the reasonable tone. Especially in light of their last meeting. “That sounds good,” Sloan said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The first step would be to declare a cease-fire,” Lemaire answered.

  “Okay,” Sloan replied. “That makes sense. The sooner the killing stops, the better.”

  “Exactly,” Lemaire said. “The second step would be to announce peace talks. Our diplomats would work together to determine how the talks would be structured and when they would start.”

  They stopped in the shade provided by the palm trees. Leaves rustled as a bird hopped across the path. “The devil would be in the details,” Sloan observed.

  “I’m glad we agree,” Lemaire said. “I’ve been here before, you know . . . As a guest. It’s an amazing place.” They were standing twenty feet from the pool and the three-story Balinese-style house beyond.

  So that’s why the island was chosen, Sloan thought to himself. Lemaire has a relationship with the owner. “I assume you could see the sun back then,” Sloan put in.

  “Yes,” Lemaire replied. “And feel it. I miss the warmth . . . But enough of that. Where was I? Ah, yes. Peace talks. The moment talks begin, representatives from both sides will want to define how much territory will be held by each entity. I suggest that we adopt the New Mason-Dixon Line as the official border between North and South.”

  Sloan felt a sudden surge of anger and battled to control it. “No way,” he responded. “As things stand now, Union forces control everything north of Spring Hill, Tennessee. If we pull back to the New Mason-Dixon Line, we will cede a large chunk of territory to you . . . And, should talks fail, we would have to spend thousands of lives to take it back.”

  “I get that, Sam,” Lemaire replied. “But we need to set the table. There’s a whole lot of folks down my way who would oppose any sort of deal. But there are moderates, too . . . And if we can show them a genuine act of conciliation by the Union, that’ll go a long way toward securing the support I need. And if you genuinely believe in peace, then I think you’ll be better off betting on success instead of failure.”

  Lemaire was one helluva salesman. So good that Sloan was tempted. But a lot of good men and women had died to take the ground south of the line. And to give it back would be a betrayal of them and their families. Sloan looked into Lemaire’s eyes. “I was with you right up to the territorial giveback. But, as you Southerners like to say, ‘that dog won’t hunt.’”

  Lemaire frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sam. Real sorry. But if we agree to peace talks now, with Union troops in Tennessee, it will look like we’re losing.”

  “You are losing,” Sloan said emphatically. “Not big-time, not so far, but bit by bit. And that’s why the accomodationists on your board want to cut a deal. They can see where this is going. So why not draw the line where it is? And get what you can? It’s bound to be better than the other possibility . . . which is an unconditional surrender.”

  Lemaire’s features seemed to harden. His voice was tight. “I said you were a stupid son of a bitch when we met in Houston, and nothing has changed. Memorize this moment, Sam . . . And play it back to yourself when Confederate forces roll into Fort Knox.”

  Sloan was about to reply when Lemaire turned his back and walked away. Peace would have to wait.

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  Mac felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience as she followed Sanders into the room where her court-martial would be held. It was large, but a good deal more spartan than the courtrooms that she’d seen on TV.

  As Mac walked down the center aisle, she saw that the spectator seats were full and knew why. WAR HERO FACES COURT-MARTIAL. That was the headline over a story penned by Beth Morgan two days earlier. Farther down, in paragraph five, mention had been made of what Morgan described as “the special relationship between Captain Macintyre and President Sloan.”

  There was no relationship other than the fact that Mac had been in command of the column that rescued Sloan’s ill-fated force from Richton, Mississippi. But Morgan’s story seemed to hint at something else—and her peers had been quick to seize on it. As a result, a routine disciplinary process, which would normally be of no interest to anyone outside the army, had become a cause célèbre. And as Mac passed the reporter, Morgan smiled broadly. The meaning was clear: “I can’t have him, but neither will you.”

  A table for use by the defense attorney and the accused was located to the left of the central passageway—while the prosecutor and her assistant were on the right. The judge’s chair was located on a riser directly in front of the other participants, with the witness stand to the left, and the five-member “forum” on the right. Thanks to Sanders’s efforts, two members of the jury were female, three had seen combat, and all of them were officers.

  As Mac sat down, she knew that everyone in the room was staring at her, and she felt an overwhelming sense of shame. Like most military personnel, Mac placed a high value on organizational integrity. So to sit there accused of disobedience, knowing that she was guilty, was the most humiliating moment of her life. All she could do was hide her trembling hands under the table and stare straight ahead.

  Ten seemingly interminable minutes passed before the judge, a colonel named Elmore Apitz, entered the room. Everyone stood as Apitz took his seat, and the court-martial began. Mac experienced a sense of disassociation as the attorneys for both sides made their opening statements. Their words merged into a meaningless drone. Everyone, Mac included, knew what the verdict was going to be. The only question was the nature of the punishment. Would the officers of the forum give her a slap on the wrist? Or would they drop a bomb on her? All Mac could do was wait to find out.

  Once the opening statements we
re over, the prosecutor made her case. And for the first time since meeting him in Idaho, Mac had a chance to see Major Fitch. The uniform fit him like a glove, rows of ribbons decorated his chest, and he was every inch an air force officer.

  But Fitch looked even more gaunt now—and his eyes were like chips of obsidian. When questioned, he spoke like a regretful teacher referencing an errant child. “Captain Macintyre’s intentions may have been good,” he allowed. “But military discipline is the backbone of the armed forces and requires that we obey those placed over us. Captain Macintyre put her desires before the needs of the country. It’s as simple as that.”

  But no, it wasn’t as simple as that. Not according to Sanders, who put Dr. Hoskins on the stand. It was good to see the navy officer again, and his presence gave Mac reason to hope.

  “So, Doctor,” Sanders said, once Hoskins had been sworn in, “you were present when Captain Macintyre and Major Fitch met. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Hoskins replied. “It is.”

  “And you could see both parties? And hear what was said?”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “Please describe Major Fitch’s manner.”

  “The major was suspicious and aggressive,” Hoskins replied.

  “Objection,” the prosecutor interjected. “The doctor had no way to know what was going on inside the major’s head. Appearances can be, and often are, deceiving.”

  “All of us are aware that nonverbal communication can be very effective,” Sanders countered. “The doctor is a trained observer who is reporting on the way Major Fitch presented himself and could reasonably be perceived by Captain Macintyre.”

  “You may proceed,” Judge Apitz said.

  Sanders turned to Hoskins. “What else did you observe, Doctor? Was the major armed? And if so, with what?”

  “He was,” Hoskins confirmed. “The major was carrying a light machine gun. It was pointed at the sky, but could have been dropped into firing position very quickly. That, combined with his caustic manner, caused me to believe that he was hostile.”

  And so it went. The prosecutor put Fitch back on the stand to explain why he had reason to be suspicious of Mac’s unit, and any unit that happened along, given the overall circumstances.

  Sanders introduced evidence that Fitch had been suffering from PTSD at the time. And the prosecutor countered with an expert who maintained that the diagnosis didn’t matter unless the major had been found unfit for duty prior to the encounter in Idaho.

  Mac sat immobile throughout. She’d never been so helpless, and a supreme effort was required just to keep her head up. And even though she’d been in at least a dozen battles, and always found the courage to keep going, a feeling of hopelessness rose to consume her.

  Hours dragged by. Summary statements were made, the case was given to the forum, and they left the room to deliberate. Everyone else was dismissed but given orders to remain on call in case the jurors came back with a verdict. “They won’t reach a decision today,” Sanders predicted. “We gave them a lot to think about.”

  Mac hoped that was true. And, in keeping with the attorney’s prediction, the forum was still deliberating when 1700 rolled around and Mac was allowed to return to the BOQ. A gaggle of reporters and photographers was waiting outside. “Captain Macintyre! When did you last speak with the president? And what did he say?”

  “How ’bout it, Captain . . .” a woman shouted. “Are you having an affair with the president?”

  “Is it true that you’re pregnant?” a man demanded. “And if so, who’s the father?”

  Mac pushed her way through the crowd and hurried away. The press would have been able to follow her if she’d been off base. But not on Fort Knox, where the reporters’ movements were restricted. That meant Mac could turn a corner and escape.

  Mac walked and kept walking. She’d been holding the tears back all day. Now, as they rolled down her cheeks, she wiped them away. A sergeant saluted, and she responded. It was, Mac knew, one of the last such courtesies she would receive. More than that, it was her last night of freedom. How did other people handle that? Did they get drunk with friends? Did they eat their favorite foods? Or did they curl up in the fetal position and sob? Mac hoped to avoid the third option. Be tough, she told herself. Woman up.

  There were a number of places to eat on base, and Mac chose the largest and most crowded chow hall, hoping to go unnoticed. And the strategy was successful as far as she could tell. Because if people were talking about her, they were hiding it well.

  Mac didn’t have much of an appetite, though . . . And at least half of the chicken salad remained on the plate when she turned her tray in.

  It was dark outside, and a heavy sleet was falling as she made her way to the BOQ. Once in her room, Mac found that a message was waiting. For the first time since returning to Fort Knox, she was to report to base’s security center in person.

  Mac smiled grimly. Of course . . . The evening before the verdict. The night when she might decide to run. The next hour was spent trudging over to security, checking in, and walking back. It was about 1930 by the time she put her coat away, turned the TV on, and began to pack. The instructions from Sanders were explicit. “If a verdict comes in tomorrow, and if you’re found guilty, the MPs will take you to the stockade. At that point, they will dispatch someone to get your belongings. So make sure that everything is packed and ready to go.”

  Mac was in the process of removing her underwear from the dresser when she heard the anchorwoman say her name. Mac turned just in time to see footage of herself as she broke through the press and fled. “Captain Robin Macintyre, who some claim is having an affair with the president, refused to take questions this afternoon as her case went to a military jury. The captain is accused of disobeying a direct order. Jury deliberations will resume tomorrow.” The TV snapped to black as Mac pressed the power button.

  Mac slid into bed half an hour later, but sleep wouldn’t come. Would her father see the news reports? Would Victoria gloat? And what about Sloan? Did he know?

  When the dreams arrived, they were tangled things, slippery with night sweat and filled with dread. And when the alarm went off, Mac experienced a sense of relief. More than that, she felt a lightness of spirit. As if something had changed. Did that flow from acceptance? Perhaps. But regardless of the reason, she felt better. Not happy, but better. And that would have to do.

  Mac got up, showered, and dressed with care. What was it that the Green Berets liked to say? “No matter what happens, look cool.” Yeah, that would be her motto for the day. Mac eyed the image in the mirror and threw her shoulders back. You look good, she told herself. Work it.

  Once Mac was ready, she performed an idiot check on the room, said good-bye to her belongings, and left. The sleet had stopped by that time, and there were occasional breaks in the clouds. Mac even caught a glimpse of the sun on the way and chose to interpret that as a positive omen.

  A gaggle of reporters was waiting for her, and Mac could see them from a distance. But rather than attempt to avoid them, she walked up to the group and paused. Then, as they started to barrage her with questions, Mac said, “Quiet!” And the authority with which she said it had the desired effect. “All right,” Mac told them . . . “Here you go. I am not having an affair with the President of the United States. I have not spoken to him regarding my court-martial. And I am not pregnant. That will be all. Thank you.” And with that, she walked up the steps and entered the building. More reporters were stationed inside, but she ignored them.

  As Mac entered the courtroom, it seemed as if all her senses were maxed out. She could see, hear, and feel everything with the same intensity she had experienced while in combat.

  Sanders was waiting for her, and Mac saw what might have been relief in his eyes. Had he been afraid that she’d run? Probably.

  Judge Apitz arrived on time, everyone stood, and
the proceeding got under way. “We have a verdict,” Apitz announced, as he looked at a sheet of paper. “The defendant will rise.”

  Mac felt sick to her stomach but managed to keep her face blank as she stood. No matter what happens, look cool. “It is the forum’s finding that Captain Robin Macintyre is guilty of both charges,” Apitz said, as his eyes came up to meet Mac’s. “A jury of your peers has found you guilty of violating Articles 90 and 92 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You could serve twenty years for those offenses. However, in light of your otherwise spotless record, and your well-documented acts of valor, I’m going to give you a sentence of four years to be served at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. Your attorney can file motions on your behalf and appeal the findings of this court should he find grounds to do so. This court is adjourned.”

  Mac felt her heart sink. Four years! Sanders had been hoping for two. “I’m sorry,” Sanders said. “Hang in there. I’ll be in touch.”

  A female MP stepped forward to take Mac into custody. “I won’t cuff you here,” she said kindly. “Not in front of the cameras.”

  Mac said, “Thank you.” And, as she was led away, Mac saw Morgan standing against the wall. The reporter had a smirk on her face. She winked and turned away.

  CHAPTER 9

  One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is, that things are what they are and will be what they will be.

  —OSCAR WILDE

  NEAR SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI

  Rain tapped on the van’s roof as Victoria and two members of her team sat and waited. What was it? Day three? Yeah, day three. And the man who called himself Nathan Hale had yet to show. But he will show, Victoria assured herself. He’s a busy man. But he’ll come by. It’s just a matter of time.