Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

  Farther on, the convoy passed through Walls, Mississippi, and a place called Tunica Resorts. The small town was home to some large casinos that, strangely enough, were open for business! Mac decided that the war was a strange affair indeed.

  Her thoughts were jerked back into the present when a bullet smacked into the ROLLER SKATE’s hull, and the distant crack of a rifle shot was heard. Mac spoke as she brought the M249 machine gun around to point forward. “This is Rocker-Six . . . We’re taking fire. Over.”

  “You got that right,” a male voice said. “I see a head up on the overpass!”

  “This is Rocker-Seven,” Sergeant Major Price said. “You will use the correct radio procedure, or I will rip your head off and piss down your throat. Over.”

  Mac couldn’t help but grin as ROLLER SKATE’s gunner fired her .50. But as the heavy weapon blew chunks of concrete out of the overpass, a question niggled at her mind. One shot . . . Only one shot. Where was the automatic-weapons fire? Where were the shoulder-launched rockets? She fired the M249 until the Stryker rolled under the overpass, and Price spoke. “This is Seven. Cease firing. The target is down. Over.”

  Mac released her grip on the LMG. “The target is down.” What target? A reb sniper? On his own for some reason? Or a patriotic sixteen-year-old with a hunting rifle? She feared the latter. Damn . . . It seemed like the bad things would never end.

  But it wasn’t until the column made the turn onto 49 west that things got really bad. Because there, crouched a quarter of a mile away, was a Confederate LAV-AT missile carrier! The eight-wheeled vehicle was very similar in size and shape to the ROLLER SKATE, except that it was armed with two roof-mounted missile launchers. Either one of them could destroy a tank, never mind a Stryker.

  For one brief moment, Mac thought the enemy vehicle commander might assume that he or she was looking at some friendlies, but no such luck. In the blink of an eye, the Confederate gunner sent a wire-guided missile down the highway. Mac waited to die.

  CHAPTER 14

  Maxim I. The frontiers of states are either large rivers, or chains of mountains, or deserts. Of all these obstacles to the march of an army, the most difficult to overcome is the desert; mountains come next, and broad rivers occupy the third place.

  —NAPOLÉON BONAPARTE

  NEAR HELENA, MISSISSIPPI

  Mac saw the blur out of the corner of her eye, heard the explosion, and felt a sharp pain as something sliced through the flesh on her left arm. The missile hadn’t struck the SKATE . . . So which vic did it hit? Focus, the voice told her. Get in close.

  Mac knew what the voice was referring to, and yelled into the mike. “Step on it!” And then, like a cavalry officer from the first civil war: “Charge!”

  Hassan put his boot to the floor, and Mac was forced to brace herself as the Stryker took off. Two hundred and fourteen feet. That was the minimum range for a TOW missile, and once the SKATE got in close, the LAV-AT would be forced to rely on a single 7.62mm machine gun for defense.

  The SKATE’s .50 was pounding away by then, and Mac was firing her LMG even though she knew the slugs couldn’t penetrate the tank killer’s forward armor. But she had to do something, and operating the weapon helped.

  Meanwhile, the LAV-AT’s commander was faced with a difficult choice. He or she could order the driver to throw the engine into reverse or launch missile two. Because the vehicle couldn’t do both at the same time.

  Mac saw a puff of smoke as the second weapon came her way. But it was high . . . And passed over her head. Why? TOW missiles were controlled by a joystick. Maybe the gunner’s hand was shaking . . . Or maybe anything. The important thing was that the missile missed.

  And as the SKATE rolled past the LAV-AT, the Stryker’s remotely operated weapons system swiveled around to stay on target. It was only a matter of seconds before the .50 caliber slugs found thinner armor. Then came a single bang, followed by a BOOM, as the tank killer exploded.

  There was no time in which to celebrate. Mac could see troops up ahead. They were running every which way in response to the unexpected attack. But, because of the gap in the middle of the bridge, they had no way to escape.

  Beyond them . . . on the other side of the span, Mac could see more Confederate troops. But they were facing the other way as Captain Overman and his Strykers attacked the other end of the bridge. Mac hoped that the rebs directly in front of her would surrender . . . And would accept if they offered to do so.

  The Confederate soldiers weren’t ready to quit. An M40 recoilless rifle was mounted on the back of a pickup truck. It had been aimed at the river. But the reb behind the wheel was turning the vehicle in order to aim the gun at the Marauders. It was too late. The POPEYE fired its 40mm grenade launcher, and the truck was consumed by a series of overlapping explosions.

  Hassan braked as Mac made use of the PA system. Her voice boomed across the litter-strewn surface of the bridge. “Cease firing! Lay your weapons down! Place your hands on your heads!”

  Roughly twenty rebs were still standing, with nowhere to go. Slowly, reluctantly, they did as they were told. Mac was thankful. There had been enough killing.

  Mac felt a stab of pain as she pushed herself up out of the hatch. Her left sleeve was soaked with blood and, as she slid down onto the road, she felt light-headed. Dozens of troops were deassing the Strykers by then, and one of them spotted the blood. “We need a medic over here! The major was hit!”

  Mac sat with her back to an enormous tire as a medic cut her sleeve away, assured her that the wound was relatively minor, and wrapped a dressing around it. “Painkiller, yes or no?” the woman inquired.

  “No,” Mac replied. “Not yet . . . Not until we lock the area down. Help me stand.”

  With help from the medic, Mac made it to her feet. And that was when she heard the now-familiar moan of the Mississippi’s horn. “There she is!” someone said, and as Mac looked upriver, she saw the flotilla round a bend in the river.

  Two smaller boats were dashing about. Their hulls were covered with camouflage paint, and they bristled with weapons. The Riverines that Russell had mentioned? Yes . . . The first battle was over. But how many still lay ahead?

  Once Mac was confident that Overman had control of the west end of the bridge, and Quick’s platoon leaders had secured the prisoners, she made her way east. Atkins followed a few steps back.

  The LAV-AT was still burning, and machine-gun ammo continued to cook off as a daring soldier scooted in to hook a cable onto one of the vehicle’s hard points. Were the reserve missiles inert? Or could they blow? Mac didn’t know for sure but felt a sense of relief as the enemy vehicle was hauled away.

  Mac continued on to the point where the first missile had detonated. What remained of MAMA’S BOY was still smoking. For some reason, the vic’s TC had veered out of line. That made his Stryker visible to the enemy gunner, who had chosen to target MAMA’S BOY instead of the SKATE. That’s how war was. Split-second decisions were made, and people died. Or lived . . .

  A voice broke into Mac’s thoughts. “The colonel is on the horn,” Atkins said, as she offered the handset.

  Mac took it. “This is Rocker-Six. Over.”

  Russell was all business. “Give me a sitrep.”

  Mac forced her eyes off the MAMA’S BOY. “We’re in control of the bridge. An LAV-AT and a force of about thirty rebs were waiting for the flotilla on this side of the break. An equal number were on the west side of the span. We lost eleven people and have approximately twenty prisoners. Over.”

  “They might try to retake it,” Russell replied. “Don’t let that happen. Over.”

  “No,” Mac said. “We won’t. Over.”

  Mac let her eyes swing back to the wreck. “There are bodies in that Stryker, Atkins. Tell Captain Quick that we need a squad, cutting tools, and eleven body bags.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mac t
urned and began the long walk back. She was crying . . . But no one could see the tears.

  ABOARD THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER GEORGE WASHINGTON,

  IN THE GULF OF MEXICO

  Tropical Storm Ernesto was sending fifteen-foot-high rollers toward what had once been the United States of America as if determined to attack it. Sheets of spray flew away from the carrier’s bow as it broke through a wave, and the hull shuddered. Sloan’s stomach felt queasy, and he wanted to hurl, but that wouldn’t look right to the people on the George Washington’s bridge.

  The carrier, and her sixty-five warplanes, were at the center of a group that included seventy-five hundred navy personnel, plus transports loaded with three thousand Marines, a flotilla of eight destroyers, and a screen of five hunter-killer submarines. This was it . . . Or Sloan hoped so, as the contents of his stomach threatened to surge up and into his throat.

  Month after month had passed while armies fought each other to a slow-motion standstill south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. The standoff was what Secretary of Defense Garrison referred to “as a nonstop meat grinder,” which had already transformed a broad swath of the country into what looked like a postapocalyptic wasteland.

  In an effort to open a new front and cut the Confederacy in two, Sloan’s advisors recommend that he authorize an amphibious attack on the port of New Orleans. And after months of planning, Operation Swordfall was under way. The bow plunged, and Sloan had to grab a plotting table for support. “How long before we make contact?”

  Admiral Carrie Moss was tall, slim, and had a smile on her face. The kind of smile that suggested that she, as an admiral, knew things a mere civilian couldn’t understand. And Sloan figured that was true. “We made contact ten minutes ago, sir . . . They shot down one of our P-3 Orion antisubmarine aircraft, and we destroyed one of their attack submarines.”

  People were beginning to die as spray hit the glass, and wipers cleared it away. All because of orders that he had given. It was going to be a long day.

  NEAR HELENA, MISSISSIPPI

  More than twenty-four hours had passed since the fight on the bridge, and about half of the battalion was still up there, guarding against the possibility of a Confederate attack. Meanwhile, Mac was standing on the Mississippi’s top deck, just forward of the wheelhouse. Her arm ached but was going to be fine. Or so Dr. Halley claimed.

  As she looked out over the ship’s bow, Colonel Russell explained the process. “The spud barge, which is to say the one directly in front of us, has so-called spuds, or metal columns located at all four corners. They’re down now, resting on the bottom of the river. That’s what makes the spud barge stable.

  “My divers have been working in shifts to clear the tangle of metal down there. Think about it, Major . . . Think about trying to work in almost zero visibility, with a two-mile-an-hour current trying to push you downriver and jagged metal all around! It takes skill, and it takes courage.

  “Here we go,” Russell added, as the crane’s engine began to roar—and black smoke jetted out of its exhaust stack. A cable led down into the murky depths, and Mac watched it tighten. A cheer went up from the people assembled on the spud barge as the first chunk of dripping metal was hauled up to be deposited on the deck.

  Russell smiled. “We’re starting phase two now . . . By late afternoon tomorrow, I hope we’ll be able to move on. How are we doing where security is concerned?”

  “I think we’re in pretty good shape,” Mac replied. “I’m not so sure about the situation downstream, though . . . Lieutenant Hicks is coordinating airborne reconnaissance via the air force—and they sent a drone down toward Ferguson early this morning. The rebs shot it down. And they did so with considerable speed.”

  “They were waiting for it.”

  “Exactly. So Lieutenant Lasser is going to take me down for a look-see.”

  “I’ve seen her people,” Russell said. “They look like a pig’s breakfast.”

  “They’re navy, sir.”

  Russell laughed. “Good point . . . Give me a report when you get back.”

  Mac made her way aft to the point where a set of metal stairs led down to the landing platform that had been rigged for the convenience of small workboats. That’s where Lieutenant Lasser and her four-person crew were waiting. The special operations boat was thirty-three feet long, powered by two 440hp engines, and armed with a deadly array of weapons.

  “Good morning,” Lasser said as she rendered a salute so casual that it resembled a wave. The navy officer was wearing a faded baseball cap, a gray sweatshirt with a silver bar pinned to the collar, and a pair of army-style camouflage pants. Her footgear consisted of retro high-topped sneakers decorated with pink laces.

  Lasser’s crew wasn’t any better . . . And that raised a question: Was Mac looking at a bunch of screwups? Or some hard-core special ops types with special privileges? Time would tell. “Good morning,” Mac replied as she stepped into the boat. “Are we ready to go?”

  Lasser had beady eyes and an angular face. “Yes, ma’am. Please hang on. Percy has a need for speed.”

  The sailor who was stationed at the controls was wearing a helmet, goggles, and a tac vest up top. The rest of his outfit consisted of board shorts and flip-flops. He grinned and threw Mac a Boy Scout salute. She nodded in return. Then they were off . . . And even though Mac was already hanging on, she had to reposition her feet in order to remain upright. The crew of the second SOC-R boat had orders to remain with the Mississippi, and they waved as the first boat roared past.

  Because the special ops boat required only two feet of water, Percy was able to drive it under the bridge without hitting the wreckage hidden below. The SOC-R boat was fast, but the engines were noisy, which meant people would hear it coming. “How far do you want to go?” Lasser shouted.

  “Assuming the rebs don’t drop any more bridges, the next clearing operation will take place in Vicksburg.”

  “That’s more than two hundred miles downstream,” Lasser replied. “Fuel would be a problem, and we’d be sitting ducks for an Apache.”

  “Understood,” Mac shouted. “We’ll go as far as Ferguson and turn around.”

  The next fifteen minutes passed uneventfully, and Mac was eyeing the scenery, when Lasser shouted a command, and Percy pulled the throttles back. A wave surged away from the boat’s bow as it slowed, and Lasser brought a pair of binoculars up to her eyes. Mac could tell that the navy officer was examining a grungy-looking barge. It was made out of wood and at least a thousand yards away. “Here,” Lasser said, as she offered the glasses to Mac. “Take a look . . . Tell me what you see.”

  Mac could hear the challenge in Lasser’s voice and knew she’d have to pay close attention. During the first pass, all Mac saw was the stack of old lumber on the barge’s deck, lots of white bird shit, and the old rowboat that lay bottom up on the stern.

  But Mac knew there had to be something more. Something she’d missed. So she looked again. And that’s when she spotted the camera. It was attached to the short mast at the stern, and so small that it was barely visible at that distance. “The bastards are watching us!”

  “Yes, they are,” Lasser agreed. “And any other boats that happen past. But if my guess is correct, there’s something more to worry about. Hey, Luther, light that sucker up!”

  Luther had dreadlocks, was wearing a sleeveless Levi’s jacket, and standing behind an automatic grenade launcher. As it began to chug, a series of explosions marched across the barge. Then BOOM! The whole thing went up in a massive explosion. Thousands of ball bearings churned the surface of the river and, had the boat been closer, would have destroyed it.

  Did the Confederates have the capacity to detonate the charge remotely? Of course they did. And that meant the rebs could have triggered the floating bomb as the Mississippi motored past it. Mac looked at Lasser with a new sense of respect. “You have a sharp eye, Lieutenant . . . Well done
.”

  Lasser shrugged. “I don’t deserve any credit. Most of what we know was learned the hard way . . . Which is to say after someone died.” And with that, Lasser signaled Percy, who pushed both throttles forward.

  During the next hour, Lasser and her crew spotted a subsurface cable that was intended to rip the guts out of a ship like the Mississippi, two tethered mines of the sort normally used to defend harbors, and an explosive charge concealed underneath a railroad bridge. Was it supposed to bring the bridge down or damage any vessel passing below? Both perhaps.

  Lasser’s crew took care of the mines by blowing them up, but had to leave the cable and the railroad charge for Russell’s engineers to deal with. After returning to the Mississippi, Mac reported to Colonel Russell, who made a face when she told him about the underwater cable and the bomb. “Please convey my thanks to Lieutenant Lasser. Her people may look like hell, but they certainly know what they’re doing. I’ll send a work party down to clear the obstacles.”

  “I’ll ask Lasser to provide an escort,” Mac told him.

  “Excellent,” Russell replied. “We’re about finished here, so I hope to depart early tomorrow morning.”

  The boats left shortly after that, and Mac went up to visit the troops on the bridge. Quick was there, along with Overman, which meant Mac could brief them in person. “We’re pulling out in the morning. So get everyone off the bridge by 0230 and load Bravo Company onto the second barge, using the crane. Then I’ll have Foley move the barges to the east side of the river so that Alpha Company can board Barge 1 via the ramp. And please pass the word . . . Based on what I saw downstream, the enemy will be waiting for us. I expect everyone to be ready.”