Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Soldiers waved as the vics passed through the perimeter and onto the access road beyond. Kona turned left onto a paved road minutes later and followed that south toward the on-ramp to I-20 east. Once on the freeway, Mac saw that the land around them was mostly flat, and the road was mostly straight, both of which made it easy for the Strykers to hit their top speed of 60 mph.

  There were other vehicles on the road, but not many, and none of the civilian drivers had reason to question the presence of military vehicles on I-20. Not with a war raging up north. It wasn’t long before the Strykers passed the towns of Thortonville and Monahans. Things were going well so far, or so it seemed to Mac, until she heard Overman’s voice on the radio. “Boomer Four to Six. Over.”

  “This is Six. Go. Over.”

  “According to Big Bird, two Confederate aircraft left Lackland Air Force Base and are headed this way. Over.”

  Mac felt a sinking sensation. Big Bird was the airborne early-warning and control aircraft flying lazy eights to the north. Thanks to the kind of gear the plane carried, the crew could monitor activity taking place within a 120,000-square-mile radius. “Why? We came in low . . . Too low to detect. Or that’s what they told us. Any theories? Over.”

  “They think the rebs spotted us from orbit. Over.”

  Mac knew that Confederate sympathizers had taken control of NASA’s Mission Control Center in Houston, and the 20th Space Control Squadron at Elgin Air Force Base, just prior to secession. So maybe they had the capacity to monitor air traffic from space. Or had developed it during the last few months. Shit, shit, shit. The worst part was that Mac couldn’t do anything about it except hurry and worry. “What’s their ETA? Over.”

  “That depends . . . Transports would take an hour to get here, but fighters would arrive a lot faster. Over.”

  Mac considered that. Should she request air support? No, it was too early. What if the rebs didn’t know about the landing? What if the airplanes in question were going somewhere else? The sudden arrival of some F-15s would tip them and draw an immediate response. “Okay, thanks. Dig in . . . And I mean deep! And tell the Zoomies that we may need them soon.”

  “I’m on it,” Overman replied, which was a nice way of saying: “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

  Mac laughed. “Sorry, Four . . . That was stupid. Keep me informed. Over.”

  Mac heard two clicks by way of a reply. They were passing through Penwell by then, which meant Odessa was coming up. Even though a partial blackout was in effect, a scattering of lights could be seen on both sides of the freeway. And, as the CALIFORNIA GIRL slowed, Kona took an off-ramp. Mac glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the LUCKY LOU was still there. It was.

  Kona drove through Odessa’s streets at a sedate 35 mph in order to avoid attracting attention. Mac left the hatch for the cargo bay below. She could tell that the green beanies were amped and ready to go. Mac looked at Lyle. “I assume you heard what Overman told me.”

  Lyle nodded. “Yeah . . . The rebs might be coming our way.”

  “Exactly. So don’t linger in the hotel’s bar.”

  It wasn’t the funniest joke the operators had ever heard but garnered a laugh nonetheless. Lyle grinned. “No worries, Major. We’ll be on our best behavior.”

  Mac felt the Stryker make a turn and heard Kona’s voice. “We’re pulling in . . . Stand by.”

  The CALIFORNIA GIRL came to a halt, and cold air flooded into the compartment as the ramp fell. And there, a couple of hundred feet away, was the dimly lit Tarlo Hotel. Lyle waited for his team to exit before tossing Mac a salute. Then he was gone.

  Mac left the Stryker in time to see the operators who’d been aboard the LUCKY LOU fall in behind the others as all of them ran toward the hotel. It was six stories tall, and Mac had an unobstructed view of the walkways that fronted the rooms. She wished she could accompany the team . . . But that wasn’t possible. All she could do was wait. Mac keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Four . . . We’re in position. Over.”

  “This is Four,” Overman replied. “Roger that. Six planes are coming our way now . . . And, according to Big Bird, two are transports. The rest are fighters. ETA thirty minutes. Over.”

  Overman’s tone was calm and clinical. Like a doctor delivering a potentially fatal diagnosis. And there he was . . . Preparing to fight overwhelming odds all over again, wondering how many of his people, her people—would die this time. Could Overman keep it together? Mac prayed that he would. “Roger that, Four. Are the zoomies on the way? Over.”

  “That’s affirmative. Over.”

  “Good. I saw a flagpole there . . . Run an American flag up it, and hang on. This isn’t over until it’s over.”

  Mac heard two clicks followed by silence. She could see figures moving along the fourth-floor walkway. There was a flash, a bang, and some incomprehensible yelling. The snatch was in progress.

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  The situation room was almost full by the time Sloan arrived. Secretary of Defense Garrison was there, as was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Jones, Director of National Intelligence Kip, National Security Advisor Hall, Chief of Staff Chow, and Press Secretary Besom. They came to their feet as the president entered, and he waved them back into their chairs. “Sorry I’m late . . . How’s it going?”

  All eyes turned to General Jones. “The Marauders arrived safely, sir . . . And the snatch is under way. But the rebs are responding.”

  Sloan frowned. “Responding to what? The landing? The raid on the hotel? Or both?”

  “The landing,” Jones replied. “The C-130s went in low, but we believe the enemy spotted them from orbit and ran a check. Once all of their planes were accounted for, they knew the transports belonged to us. Four Confederate fighters are inbound to Pyote Airfield, plus two larger planes, which are probably loaded with troops. ETA twenty-five minutes.”

  “So there’s no way our people can get out of there without a fight.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do we have fighters on the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sloan sat down. His eyes flitted from screen to screen but his thoughts were elsewhere. Mac was there . . . Where the shit was going to hit the fan. Why? Because of him, that’s why. Because of orders he’d given. And why did you give those orders? Sloan demanded of himself. Because you’re a cold-blooded, calculating bastard. That’s why.

  And it was true. Or mostly true. The decision to send Mac’s Marauders rather than another outfit had been based on a number of factors, first and foremost of which was the fact that Mac had a proven ability to pull off missions that other people couldn’t, regardless of how difficult the circumstances might be. That made her a logical choice.

  Ah, the voice said, but there was more to it than that . . . You hoped to prove that the Military Reintegration Program was more than a strategy to get Mac out of prison. And you wanted to prove that you weren’t playing favorites even though you were playing favorites because you’d been led to believe that the mission would go off without a hitch.

  “Here’s the latest,” Jones said. “Our fighters are in contact with their fighters south of Odessa. Both sides are sending more planes.” The Battle of Pyote Field had been joined.

  ODESSA, TEXAS

  “Here comes trouble.” The voice belonged to the LUCKY LOU’s gunner, Private Nathan Bostick. Mac was crouched next to an enormous tire, with her M4 at the ready. It was the moment she’d been dreading. Someone was sure to call the cops after the special ops team blew the door open . . . And here they were. The police car entered the parking lot with lights flashing and screeched to a halt. When the driver’s side door opened, a lone cop got out. Her pistol was drawn and tilted upward.

  “Talk to her,” Mac ordered. “But be ready to fire.”

  “This is a military secu
rity operation,” Bostic announced over the LUCKY LOU’s loudspeaker. “Please holster your weapon and stand by. We’ll let you know if we need assistance.”

  That was the approach the team had agreed on while planning the mission. None of the soldiers wanted to kill members of Odessa’s police force. But would the policewoman buy Bostic’s story? Mac allowed herself a sigh of relief as the pistol went into its holster. She went forward to stall. “Good morning, Officer . . . It looks like somebody screwed up! We have a deserter corralled in the hotel. Our people were supposed to notify your people.”

  The twentysomething cop was clearly angry. “Well, they didn’t, not that I know of, and the chief is going to raise hell.”

  Mac nodded sympathetically. “Of course . . . I get that.”

  The conversation was interrupted as two members of the special ops team showed up holding their prisoner between them. The man had a hood over his head—and was nude except for a pair of wet boxers. Had he peed himself? That’s the way it looked. Lyle nodded to Mac, and she turned to the police officer. “We have our man. Thanks for the assist.”

  “Wait!” the cop said, as Mac followed Lyle into CALIFORNIA GIRL’s bay. “I need to see your ID! I need to—”

  The policewoman’s words were cut off as the hatch closed. And once the soldiers were inside the Stryker, there was nothing the cop could do but call dispatch and complain as the vics left the parking lot. Mac didn’t have to tell Kona to step on it. The TC was well aware of the need for speed. Tires screeched as the vic turned a corner and sped up the ramp onto I-20 west.

  As Mac returned to her perch in the air-guard hatch, she heard a sonic boom and knew that planes were fighting overhead. She keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Four . . . We have the package, and we’re leaving Odessa . . . What’s the situation there? Over.”

  “This is Four,” Overman replied. “The zoomies are all over the sky . . . They’ve been able to keep the reb fighters off us so far. Over.”

  “What about the transports? Don’t let the bastards land.”

  “Hold one,” Overman replied, and Mac could hear the sound of firing in the background before he spoke again. “Sorry, it’s kind of hectic here. The transports made no attempt to land. But it’s raining Rangers right now . . . And some of the bastards landed inside the perimeter. Over.”

  Someone in the Confederate chain of command had been smart enough to send airborne troops! Mac cursed her own stupidity. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Maybe it was because Lassiter thought the mission would come off without a hitch . . . Whatever the reason, she should have anticipated the possibility and taken steps to deal with it. But what could she have done differently? That wasn’t immediately apparent to Mac but would bear consideration later on. Assuming there was a later on. “Roger that,” Mac said. “What about the C-21? Over.”

  The original plan had been for an Air Force C-21 Learjet to land and collect Secretary Sanders for a quick trip north. But now, with dogfights taking place in the sky above Pyote Field, an unarmed plane would be extremely vulnerable. So Overman’s response didn’t surprise her. “The C-21 was told to turn back,” he told her. “We have orders to bring the package out on one of the Hercs. Over.”

  Mac could imagine the three C-130s sitting there, ready to take hits. One thing was glaringly obvious. Because it would take at least half an hour to load the Strykers, she’d have to leave them behind. “Got it,” Mac said. “Get ready to load WIAs and KIAs, and pull our people back to defend the transports. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Overman replied. “Over.”

  Mac clicked the mike key twice by way of a reply. She saw a flash of light in the western sky and heard what sounded like thunder. A fighter had been destroyed. But whose? All to capture the piece of shit in the blue boxer shorts. I hope the bastard is worth it, Mac thought to herself. But such considerations were above her pay grade.

  The Strykers rolled past Penwell, Monahans, and Thortonville. And it wasn’t long before the Pyote exit came up. Mac could hear the persistent rattle of automatic weapons by then, the occasional thump as a grenade detonated, and the roar of jet engines overhead. “Get ready,” she told the team. “We’ll have to fight our way in.”

  Then Mac put in a call to Overman. “This is Six . . . We’re coming in. Warn the troops. Over.” If Overman said something in reply, it was lost as a flash of light strobed the countryside, and a thunderous boom was heard. A C-130? Yes! At least one of the planes had been destroyed.

  Mac was still in the process of absorbing that as the CALIFORNIA GIRL rolled up on an army Humvee. A Confederate Humvee. It was parked just outside Pyote Field and bristling with aerials. A command vehicle, then, which had arrived under a parachute, just like the rebel soldiers had. “Kill it,” Mac ordered, and the vic’s gunner opened fire.

  The CALIFORNIA GIRL was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher, and the rebs didn’t know that Union forces had armor on the ground. So instead of firing on the lead Stryker, the soldiers grouped next to the Humvee were staring at it, when the first round exploded. Bodies were torn asunder as successive grenades hit the vehicle itself and triggered a secondary explosion.

  A pillar of orange-red flame shot up through the roof and sent sparks into the sky as the Strykers rolled past. Had the Confederate CO been killed? Mac hoped so. A disruption in the chain of command could slow the rebs down.

  A vicious firefight was under way as the Strykers entered the field. Both sides of the engagement were firing machine guns, and since all of them had been members of the same army months earlier, they were using similar tactics. Every fifth round was a so-called “dim” tracer . . . Meaning tracer rounds that could be seen using night-vision gear but were less likely to reveal where they were coming from.

  Streams of such tracers were crisscrossing the airfield as the rebels sought to overrun the C-130s, and the Union soldiers battled to keep them at bay. Mac heard the persistent ping, ping, ping sound of bullets striking CALIFORNIA GIRL’s armor and realized that the vic’s lights were on! She ordered Kona to turn them off and keyed her mike. “Boomer Six to Boomer Four . . . It looks like the enemy is dug in along the west side of the field. Please confirm. Over.”

  “That’s correct,” Overman answered. “Over.”

  “How many Hercs do we have at this point?”

  “Two,” Overman replied.

  “Roger that . . . Start loading now, and get both planes positioned for takeoff. We will suppress enemy fire until you call for us to come in. Over.”

  “Got it,” Overman said. “Over.”

  “Boomer Six to Boomer Two-One and Two-Two . . . We’re going to take a run down the west side of the field. Fire at will. Lieutenant Lyle . . . we need gunners in the rear hatches of both vics. Please order some volunteers to man those LMGs.”

  That got a chuckle, and Mac saw a Green Beret surface behind her as Kona began the run. The Stryker was armed with a 40mm grenade launcher, and it began to chug. Explosions marched down the edge of the airfield. The LUCKY LOU was equipped with a .50 caliber machine gun, and that was firing, too. Meanwhile, Mac and a couple of Green Berets used the pintle-mounted M-249s to keep the enemy pinned down.

  But as Kona turned, and the CALIFORNIA GIRL began a run back to the south, a rocket fired from an AT4 hit the lead plane just forward of the starboard wing. There was a flash, followed by a dull thud, and a ball of flame. It floated up to pop like a balloon. Lives had been lost, the wreckage was blocking the runway, and only one plane remained.

  FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

  The situation room was so quiet that Sloan could hear the blood pounding in his head. Slowly, but surely, the mission was coming apart. And for all he knew, Mac was dead. Meanwhile, he had to pretend he wasn’t thinking about her and keep his cool for the benefit of those around him. “God damn it,” Sloan said after Yankee One was hit. “Can they use Yankee Three?”

 
“Yes,” Jones confirmed. “After it taxis out and around the wreckage.”

  “What about the package? Where is he?”

  “He was inside one of the Strykers,” Jones answered. “And both Strykers are intact so far as we know.”

  Sloan thought about that. Mac was with Secretary Sanders. So if he was okay, she might be okay. It was something to hope for. Then he realized how selfish that was and felt guilty. People were dead, and all of them were his responsibility, even those fighting for the South. The torture continued.

  PYOTE FIELD, TEXAS

  “We’re ready,” Overman told her, “and circling the wreckage. Come to Papa. Over.”

  Mac was proud of Overman and the way he’d been able to keep his company together in the face of unexpected resistance. “We’re on the way,” Mac assured him, as the Strykers sped across the airfield. Kona braked as the plane loomed ahead and the CALIFORNIA GIRL came to a stop. Mac ducked down into the cargo bay. “Everyone out! We’re next to Yankee Three. Take the prisoner and get aboard.”

  Once the ramp was down, two Green Berets took hold of Sanders’s arms and carried the official away. He was shorter than they were, which meant his feet never touched the ground. Mac waited for Kona and her gunner to get clear before throwing a thermite grenade into the bay. It was stupid to feel sentimental about a machine, but she did, and would feel better knowing the enemy wouldn’t be able to use it.

  Together with Lyle, Mac ran to the LUCKY LOU. Everyone was out of the vehicle by then, and Mac saw a flash as a second thermite grenade went off. She knew the resulting fire would find some of the Stryker’s backup ammo. And when that happened, a secondary explosion would destroy the Stryker. “Follow me!” Mac shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

  The C-130’s rear ramp was bouncing just inches off the ground as the plane continued to pick up speed. Mac jogged next to it as she urged people forward. “Get the lead out, damn it . . . Is everyone here?”