A full-length mirror had been brought in . . . And when Mac stood in front of it, a major looked back at her. Could she be dreaming? Was Sloan really risking his presidency to free her from prison? Yes. And that was both good and bad. Good because she would be back on active duty and bad because now she owed him. But how awful can that be? her inner voice wanted to know. It isn’t as though you dislike him.
“It’s time to put this on,” the sergeant said, as she gave Mac a black beret. Mac saw that an emblem bearing a silver skull and crossed lightning bolts was pinned to the front of it. The design was unique insofar as Mac knew, and clearly had been created to make her unit stand out. Mac put the beret on her head and tilted it to the right. Own it, she told herself. Don’t let him down.
The press weren’t sure what to expect when they were bused onto the base and herded into position. A platform had been set up with the JRCF in the background. Rumors flew, the most popular of which had to do with a North-South prisoner exchange.
The cynics in the crowd said no and pointed to the fact that none of the Confederate POWs were being held at Fort Leavenworth. So the discussion was still going on when General Teddy Brock stepped up onto the stage. President Sloan arrived next, followed by a female army officer. That was when a correspondent recognized Mac. “Look!” he said. “That’s Captain Macintyre! The officer who was court-martialed!”
“You mean Major Macintyre,” Brock said sternly. “Please hold your questions. I promise that they will be answered after the president makes an important announcement. Mr. President?”
Sloan stepped forward. “Thank you, General, and good morning. As you know, the United States of America was, and will be once again, the land of second chances. A place where a long list of famous names made mistakes and, by dint of hard work, were allowed to climb back up. President Clinton comes to mind. And it’s in that spirit that I announce the new Military Reintegration Program.
“The purpose of this initiative is to remove nonviolent offenders from our military prisons and put them back on the battlefield. A new cavalry battalion has been created for that purpose. It will consist of three companies of soldiers under the command of Major Robin Macintyre who, as one of you correctly pointed out, was court-martialed for disobeying a direct order. There’s no question that she was guilty, but it’s important to remember that when Lieutenant Macintyre disobeyed that order, the chain of command was in tatters—and it was difficult for a junior officer to know from whom to take orders.
“In light of that fact, as well as her well-documented acts of valor, I granted Captain Macintyre a full pardon as of 0800 this morning—and promoted her to major two minutes later. She, along with officers selected by her, will choose the individuals permitted to join the new battalion. All of those appointments will be reviewed and approved by General Brock.
“Furthermore, a zero-tolerance policy will be in effect. That means that a single infraction of the Uniform Code of Military Justice will be sufficient to send a soldier back to prison where they will have to complete their original sentence.
“But,” Sloan added, “those soldiers who serve twenty-four months without disciplinary problems will receive full pardons. Now, I suspect you have some questions.”
The press did have questions. The first of which had to do with the rumored love affair between Sloan and Macintyre. Sloan tackled the subject head-on. “I admire Major Macintyre for her many acts of bravery in service to our country, and more than that, will be eternally grateful for the lives she saved during our retreat from Richton, Mississippi. And that includes my own.
“But that’s the full extent of our relationship, and I challenge you to produce a single photo or credible witness who says otherwise. The major will report through Colonel Lassiter to General Brock without any involvement by me. This story is about redemption, ladies and gentlemen . . . And the opportunity to return trained soldiers to the battlefield.”
“Is the Union Army in such desperate straits that it needs to recruit soldiers from prisons?” a television correspondent demanded. “Are the rebs winning?”
“No,” Brock put in. “The rebs aren’t winning. But the Military Reintegration Program represents an opportunity to put even more trained troops into the field and lighten the load on our prison system.”
There was more, much more. And even though the questions became increasingly repetitive, Sloan addressed each and every one of them until the newspeople became visibly weary of hearing the same answers over and over again.
So one of the reporters turned his attention to Macintyre, and the whole thing started over. Did she have a personal relationship with Sloan? When did she learn about the pardon? How did she feel about it? What was prison life like? And had she been in touch with her father, General Bo Macintyre?
Mac did the best she could to imitate Sloan’s slow, methodical style with the same result. Eventually, having run out of questions, the press became less contentious. That was when Brock stepped forward to bring the conference to a close. “A final note, ladies and gentlemen. The new battalion will be called Mac’s Marauders, and those who join will fight under the motto: Optima pessima. The best of the worst. That will be all.”
Sloan left the moment the press conference was over. There were no waves, no good-bye, and no opportunity to thank him. Mac knew that to be a good thing because a picture of them talking to each other might be used to suggest some sort of clandestine relationship. She regretted the suddenness of the parting, however—and was looking forward to seeing him again someday.
The events that followed took place with neck-snapping speed. Mac and two bags of newly issued gear were loaded aboard a Black Hawk for the short flight to the field where the reserve element of General Brock’s division was quartered. Once on the ground, Brock accompanied Mac to brigade headquarters, where she was introduced to her new CO.
Colonel Marvin Lassiter was a lot of things—including a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, an avid runner, and a well-known hard-ass. He had a hawk-like nose and a mouth that rarely smiled. And when they shook hands, Mac felt as if his laser-blue eyes could see right through her. “Have a seat, Major, and welcome to the 31st.”
Mac sat on the chair next to Brock’s. “Thank you, sir.”
Rather than circle his desk, Lassiter chose to perch on one corner of it. “I’m not one for small talk, or for beating around the bush,” he told her. “So I’ll give it to you straight. When General Brock told me what the president was going to do, and that your so-called Reintegration Battalion was going to be part of the 31st, I gave serious consideration to resigning.”
“Except that he can’t resign,” Brock put in, “not unless I sign off . . . Which I won’t.”
Lassiter made a face. “That means I have to put up with you and your battalion of losers. But understand this . . . I am not Major Fitch. If you refuse one of my orders, I will shoot you in the face, make up a story to explain it, and grab a good night’s sleep.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Brock said.
“Of course you didn’t,” Lassiter agreed. “Because I never said it. So, Major Macintyre . . . do we understand each other?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. Now here’s how this is going to work. Under no circumstances will you or your pet criminals mix with the fine men and women of the 31st except during a battle. Your convicts will be quartered on a civilian airstrip called Peavey Field. It’s located adjacent to the division, but separated from it by an eight-foot-high fence. And to ensure that your jackoffs behave themselves, I’m going to place one of my officers on your staff. The so-what is that I’ll get a report every time you pass gas. Do you read me?”
Mac swallowed. “Five by five, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lassiter said. “Now get your ass out there and go to work! You have thirty days to build a battalion. Not a second more.”
Mac knew a dismissal when she heard one. She stood, came to attention, and popped a salute. Lassiter gave one in return. “And Macintyre . . .”
“Sir?”
“You did a good job up in Wyoming. Dismissed.”
The parting comment left Mac with a sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could win Lassiter over. Not with bullshit . . . But by creating the best battalion in his brigade.
Mac exited the building to discover that a captain was waiting for her . . . A skull-and-lightning pin was affixed to his beret. He came to attention and rendered a salute. “Good morning, Major . . . Captain Roy Quick reporting for duty.”
Quick had dark skin, a round face, and a boyish demeanor. Mac returned the salute. “Reporting for duty as what?”
“I’m your XO, ma’am.”
Mac remembered what Lassiter had said. “Are you the spy?”
Quick grinned. “Yes, ma’am . . . The colonel told me to keep a close eye on you.”
“And you intend to do that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fair enough . . . Tell him the truth, and we’ll get along just fine. So, Roy . . . The colonel mentioned a base. Have you been there?”
“I have,” Quick replied. “It isn’t fancy, but it’ll do. Here’s the problem, though . . . Someone in the chain of command has been sending supplies there. And we don’t have anyone to receive, inventory, and track them.”
“So we need some supply people.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay . . . I’ll go shopping for people in the morning. In the meantime, I’d like to see what the battalion is entitled to. Do you have a table of organization?”
Quick did. And a Humvee as well. They chatted as he drove them out through the main gate, and along a fence, to Peavey Field. It seemed that Quick had seen action in the Middle East, as well as the opening battles of the Second Civil War. That was good news from Mac’s point of view, and a sure sign that, while Lassiter didn’t approve of the reintegration concept, he wasn’t trying to sabotage it by assigning a second-rate XO to her battalion.
A pair of MPs were guarding the gate to Peavey Field. They knew Quick and hurried to let the officers in. The situation inside the wire was what Mac expected it to be. With the exception of a wingless Cessna, the rest of the civilian planes had been removed, leaving two rows of hangars behind. “I figure we can park two Strykers under each roof,” Quick said. “That will make it more difficult for the rebs to count them from above—and the wrench turners will be able to get in out of the weather.”
Mac was impressed by her XO’s interest in strategic matters and the well-being of the battalion’s troops. “That’s a good idea, Roy. What about barracks? Are there any buildings that could serve?”
Quick shook his head as the Humvee came to a stop in front of a small building. The sun-faded sign read: TERMINAL. “No, ma’am,” Quick replied. “But I took the liberty of requisitioning two modular tent systems from the division. I figured we could set them up on the east side of the runway with porta potties along the fence.”
“You the man,” Mac said approvingly. She gestured toward the terminal building. “And what about that?”
“Battalion HQ,” Quick replied. “Assuming you approve. Plus the three Conex loads of the supplies that I mentioned earlier.”
Mac got out to take a look around. Quick was correct. The empty terminal would function as her headquarters, and the supplies were a pressing problem. What if someone came in and stole them? She’d be in deep shit, that’s what. She had to “recruit” some troops and do it fast.
Mac spent the night in the division’s BOQ, and hoped that doing so wouldn’t violate Lassiter’s prohibition against mixing with “the fine men and women of the 31st.” There was so much to think about that she had difficulty getting to sleep at first. But once fatigue overcame her, it was like falling off the edge of a cliff. Mac awoke rested and eager to get going.
A hurried breakfast was followed by a short helo ride to Fort Leavenworth. Something she wouldn’t have been able to arrange without assistance from Quick. Mac wished she could bring him along. But with thirty, no, twenty-nine days left to work with—someone had to stay behind and manage the paperwork that went with commissioning a new battalion.
The flight went smoothly, and it felt strange to land near the building where she’d been imprisoned the day before. She recognized some of the soldiers on the gate and could tell that they recognized her. A corporal grinned as Mac flashed her new ID card. “Welcome back, ma’am . . . And congratulations.”
Once inside, Mac went straight to the multi, where she was given access to all of the prisoner records. There were about five hundred in all, which represented about a third of the military’s prisoner population. Not that many, really . . . A fact that critics could use against Sloan if they chose to, and maybe they would.
It would have been nice to visit all of the army’s detention facilities, but there wasn’t enough time, so Mac would have to settle for what she could source locally. Later, once the outfit was up and running, she could look farther afield.
After reviewing the records, Mac saw that only twelve 03-level officers were being held in the prison, and of those, two had been convicted of violent crimes, making them ineligible for the program. Mac was camped in a spartan conference room, where she spent the next hour studying the ten remaining candidates. Her goal was to identify people who had combat experience and been convicted of crimes that weren’t representative of their past performance.
Once that process was over, the “candidates” were brought in one at a time and invited to sit across from Mac, while an MP stood guard. Having been a prisoner herself, Mac wasn’t surprised to learn that they knew all about the Military Reintegration Program and her role in it. News like that was bound to travel quickly in the JRCF’s closed universe. And some, like Captain Patrick Rowley, were eager to join. “I’m your man,” he assured her. “You were a mercenary before the war, right? What a great gig.”
Mac frowned. “As I understand it, you and two of your soldiers put on Confederate uniforms and robbed a bank.”
“Yeah,” Rowley admitted. “No one was hurt, and we got away clean . . . But Solby got drunk and spilled his guts.”
“You know my battalion will be part of the regular army, right? And not a criminal gang.”
“Sure,” Rowley said with a wink. “I know that.”
Mac turned to look at the guard. “Take this man back to his cell and show the next candidate in.”
“Wait!” Rowley said, as he was led away. “That was a joke! I’m your man!”
The next prisoner was a supply officer, Amy Wu. She had short black hair and severe bangs. Mac could see a wariness in Wu’s almond-shaped eyes. “So,” Mac began, “you’re doing time for stealing government property.”
“No,” Wu said flatly. “I’m in prison for stealing rebel property.”
“What had been rebel property,” Mac countered. “Until it was captured and became Union property.”
Wu’s prison-issue clothes were too large for her tiny frame. Her shirt barely moved when she shrugged. “Technically, yes.”
“And you did it because?”
“I did it for the money,” Wu said defiantly.
Mac frowned. “I’m looking for a supply officer . . . More than that, a person who can run my headquarters company. You’re qualified, on paper at least, but what about the fuck-you attitude? Is that who you are? Or is that prison bravado?”
Mac saw something change in the other woman’s eyes. She looked down at her lap. “I made a mistake, Major. I regret it. I’d like a second chance.”
“If I choose you, and you steal so much as a pencil, you’ll be back here the next day. You understand that?”
Wu looked up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay . . . I’ll think about it. Ne
xt.”
The next officer was a drug trafficker who had been selling speed to his troops and using it himself. He was sober now and swore that he would stay that way. But Mac had doubts. It was difficult for the man to make eye contact, and he had a tendency to mumble. She wasn’t impressed.
The pusher was followed by an officer who, after discovering that his CO was having an affair with a subordinate’s husband, took the opportunity to blackmail her. He was handsome, smooth, and subtly flirtatious. None of which would be useful on a battlefield. He had led a platoon of Strykers however, and that was relevant. Mac placed him on the maybe list.
The next candidate was Captain Avery Howell who, according to his file, was a decorated company commander and inveterate gambler. A habit that was his undoing when he borrowed money from a mob boss, lost it playing poker, and was ordered to make good on his debt by stealing a tank. He’d been caught in the act and sentenced to eight years. He had an honest straightforward manner, however—and Mac liked him from the start. But could he part with his addiction? She asked him that.
“I think I can,” Howell answered. “I want to . . . And the busier I am, the better it will be.”
“No problem there,” Mac assured him. “If I choose you, you’ll work your ass off.”
Mac took a lunch break at that point and discovered that the food served in the staff cafeteria was just as bad as what they fed her in the prison! Then it was time to return to the conference room.
The next four candidates were unacceptable. The first was thirty pounds overweight, the second wanted to know if she could go on leave prior to joining the battalion, the third wanted to wait until the results of his appeal came in. As for the fourth . . . she claimed to be the Virgin Mary . . . and was clearly looking for some sort of medical discharge.
That left Captain Irwin Overman. He had a buzz cut and a pair of fierce eyes that stared out from bony caves. According to Overman’s file, he was serving a six-year sentence for desertion. Not in the face of the enemy, but after 60 percent of his company had been killed in a single battle, leaving him untouched. After three days on the run, Overman turned himself in.
Seek and Destroy Page 19