“That’s nice,” National Security Advisor Toby Hall said. “But are we in control of the city’s population?”
As with all officers of her rank, Moss was part politician and had a ready response. “No, not entirely,” she admitted. “The Confederates blew some floodgates and pumps as they left town. So some of the streets are under a foot or two of water. Criminal gangs and resistance fighters have taken advantage of that to slow our forces down. But the Army Corps of Engineers and navy Seabees are making repairs. And, once their work is complete, we’ll have full control of the city.”
“I believe that Admiral Moss is correct,” Doyle Besom put in. “But in spite of winning the physical fight, we’re losing the battle for the hearts and minds of Southern voters. According to the lies the Confederate propaganda machine is putting out, we were the ones who blew the floodgates as part of a plan to punish the citizens of New Orleans for supporting Lemaire. And that notion continues to get traction in Georgia, Florida, and Texas, where support for the Confederacy is growing stronger.”
Sloan cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Doyle is correct. And, as many of you know, there’s another problem as well. Time continues to pass . . . And, based on the most recent intel, it looks like General Macintyre is making use of it to redeploy his troops, funnel supplies to them, and bring more mercenaries in from Mexico. That means we will have an even bigger fight on our hands once we break out of New Orleans.”
General Hern broke the ensuing silence. “I know Bo Macintyre, and he’s one tough son of a bitch. But, ready or not, he’s going down.”
Sloan heard the expressions of agreement, but his thoughts were with another Macintyre. Was Robin okay? He would find a way to check on her during the next couple of days . . .
And a way to get his ass off the fucking aircraft carrier.
CHAPTER 15
Sometimes we see the Civil War in movies and imagine these neatly aligned rows of men with muskets, walking in line to shoot each other. In reality the things that fascinated me were how absolutely ruthless and violent so many engagements were, how much suffering and how men were not prepared.
—SETH GRAHAME-SMITH
SOUTH OF BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA
It was early morning, and the traffic was light. And that makes sense, Mac thought, as the POPEYE rolled past a shot-up tanker truck. We control everything between here and Georgia. But the situation is in flux, and it doesn’t make sense to hit the highway unless you have to.
Mac was tired, but so was the rest of the battalion. After the river battle ended, the badly damaged Mississippi had been able to creep into the bombed-out city of Vicksburg and tie up at a dock. But the ship and the spud barge were going to require extensive repairs before they’d be operational again.
Initially, Mac thought that would provide the Marauders with a much-needed opportunity to get some rest and perform maintenance on their Strykers. But that hope evaporated when new orders arrived. The rebs had been able to flood sections of New Orleans, Operation Swordfall was stalled, and there was a need for reinforcements. Especially Strykers, which were well equipped to operate in an urban environment.
So Mac’s Marauders were put ashore. And, after a brief burial ceremony south of town, the unit left Vicksburg on Highway 61. It took the battalion south through Port Gibson, Fayette, and Natchez to the city of Baton Rouge. The 146-mile trip should have taken about three hours, especially in light traffic, but took twice that long because of the backups at checkpoints and a skirmish with Confederate resistance fighters.
Once the outfit arrived in Baton Rouge, Mac decided to laager up for the night rather than enter New Orleans while it was dark. The night passed uneventfully. And now, with fifty miles to go, Mac was scanning the terrain ahead. It was rural. Exits led to towns she’d never heard of, cell towers gave the hawks something to sit on, and woodlots separated farmers’ fields. The sky was mostly gray, but she could see hints of blue here and there and knew that fighter jets were battling to control the air over New Orleans. And that’s what worried her most . . . What if an enemy plane spotted the column? The battle would be brief and very one-sided.
The convoy ran into a backup about twenty minutes short of the city. Mac didn’t like that because her vehicles were especially vulnerable while standing still and hemmed in. Fortunately, there were marshes on both sides of the freeway. That made it impossible for infantry or armor to attack the battalion’s flanks.
Meanwhile, over on the northbound side of the freeway, a solid stream of refugees was fleeing New Orleans. Some rode in heavily loaded pickups, and others were packed into buses. There were people on bicycles, too . . . And motorcycles. One woman passed them on a Segway. All of which suggested that the city was in rough shape.
Finally, after fifteen frustrating minutes, a pair of MPs arrived from the south. They were riding motorcycles. Their job was to force civilian vehicles over into the right lane so that the military would have exclusive use of the left lane. As soon as she could, Mac ordered the POPEYE’s TC to pull out and lead the column forward. Progress was slow, but it beat the heck out of standing still.
By the time the battalion entered the city, Mac could hear the dull thud of artillery rounds going off and the distant rattle of gunfire. There was a crater where part of the freeway had been, but one lane was open, and some MPs were there to keep it from clogging up.
Consistent with the instructions she’d been given, Mac kept her vehicles on I-610 as I-10 veered to the right. Minutes later, she ordered the driver to exit onto Canal Boulevard. That took them to Navarre Avenue, which led into City Park. Union forces had taken control of Tad Gormley Stadium, and a wild assortment of troops were camped all around it.
An MP directed the Marauders to the area where teams of navy Seabees were using bulldozers to carve revetments out of what had been a well-manicured lawn. Mac ordered her vehicles to park out of the way so that the swabbies could complete their work, told Quick to let the battalion eat in shifts, and went looking for the man or woman in charge.
That person turned out to be a cheerful Marine colonel named Natasha Walters. When Mac found Walters, she was sitting on a crate of ammo spooning peaches into her mouth. “Don’t salute,” Walters said, as Mac started to do so. “This park is huge, it’s lousy with snipers, and they like to shoot officers. In fact, everything west of Wisner Boulevard is hotly contested. ‘Hotly contested’ being code for rebel-held territory.”
Mac laughed. “Roger that.”
Walters aimed her spoon at an adjacent crate. “Take a load off, Major Macintyre . . . And yes, I know who you are. Your Strykers will be a valuable addition to the menagerie we call Landing Force Sword. Based on what I’ve heard, your people eat bullets and shit fire . . . That’s exactly what we need around here. Once you’re organized, I want you to go out and sweep the streets. We’ve got plenty of trash to clean up, including criminal gangs and resistance fighters. Your job is to disrupt their operations, force them to keep moving, and kill as many as you can. Have you got any questions?”
Outside of “Roger that,” Mac had yet to get a word in edgewise. But there was no need. With very few words, Walters had been able to provide a cogent sitrep and a clear set of orders. “Yes, ma’am,” Mac replied. “One question. Where’s the ladies’ room?”
It was the Marine’s turn to laugh. “I like your style, Major . . . Step out of the tent, turn left at the water buffalo, third and fourth sanikans on the right.”
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
As Victoria looked into the telescopic sight, she was aware of many things. Included among them was the way the light breeze might affect the flight of her bullet, the fact that her heart was beating faster than was ideal, and how the Union soldier was standing. His back was to the buildings on the west side of Bayou St. John, his assault weapon was slung, and he was looking down. Why? Because he was taking a pee, that’s why.
Vi
ctoria smiled, and the trigger seemed to pull itself. She felt the stock kick her shoulder, heard the sound of the report, and backed away from the edge of the roof. Clay had been watching through a spotting scope. “Target down,” Clay said via Victoria’s earbuds. “Nice shot.”
Victoria knew that without looking. It would have been impossible to miss. “We’re pulling out,” she said into the wire-thin boom mike in front of her lips. There were two sets of double clicks by way of a response. Both men knew that Union soldiers would arrive soon, barge into the church, and search it. The key was to be elsewhere when they arrived. Something the three-person team was good at.
The fact that Victoria was there, and still alive, was something of a miracle. As Victoria followed Radic down a set of metal stairs, she remembered the shock of landing in the cold water, the way her clothing pulled her down. And Victoria’s lungs had felt as if they were going to burst by the time the second boot fell away, and her body began to rise.
But the helicopter was still there, hovering over the spot where the motorcycle had gone into the lake, firing its nose gun. Slugs churned the water as Victoria surfaced, took a deep breath, and dived. When she surfaced again, it was well outside the circle of agitated water. After filling her lungs with air, she went deep.
Victoria had a plan by then. The marina was nearby. If she could get in among the boats, she’d be hard to spot. But Victoria was tired. Very tired. And cold. Hypothermia was her worst enemy, and it was winning. She wasn’t going to give up, though . . . So Victoria was still swimming, and still kicking, when a hand grabbed her collar. Strong arms pulled her up over the side of a small RIB boat. “There,” a male voice said. “The catch of the day.”
As Victoria lay in the bottom of the boat next to a couple of recently caught trout, she heard a motor start and knew the boat was moving. “Don’t worry,” the man said. “The Dee-Dee is only two minutes away. You’ll be warm soon.”
It turned out that the Dee-Dee was a large pontoon boat. And, although she had a couple of outboards to push her around, she was more houseboat than runabout. The interior was not only furnished like a home but equipped with what Victoria needed most, and that was an electric heater. The old man cranked it up to full blast and ordered her to strip. “I have a daughter about your size,” he said. “I’ll get a towel and something for you to wear.” And with that, he disappeared.
The clothes consisted of frayed jeans that were a size too large, a tee shirt, and a Levi’s jacket. A pair of slip-on tennis shoes completed the outfit. Once Victoria was dressed and holding a mug of hot chocolate, she realized how lucky she’d been. Without the old man’s help, she’d be dead. He was seated a few feet away. “I saw the whole thing . . . The Yanks were trying to kill you. Why?”
Victoria saw no reason to lie. “Because I blew up some pumps and floodgates. We need to slow them down.”
“So you’re in the military?”
“The Confederate Army . . . Yes.”
The old man nodded. “Good girl. Becky is, too . . . You can stay here as long you like.”
But Victoria hadn’t stayed. She couldn’t stay. There was work to do, and she was doing it. Radic raised a hand as he opened the door to the parking lot. Then, after a careful look around, he waved them forward. The day was young, and there were people to kill.
• • •
It would have been nice to settle in for a couple of days and get organized, but that wasn’t possible. According to Colonel Walters, Mac’s Marauders were required on the streets “yesterday.”
So Mac and her people worked through the night to get ready—and sent the first patrol out at 0600. Now it was midafternoon, the first Strykers were back, and six more had gone out to replace them.
Mac was riding with a platoon leader named Gomez and two vics loaded with infantry. She planned to spend time with every platoon in order to assess how they were doing. No one had deserted yet . . . And that was amazing since so many of her soldiers had been in jail a few months earlier. There had been some fistfights, however, a case of thievery, and a sexual assault. None of which could be tolerated.
The patrol went easily at first. There were areas of flooding, including places where the water was a couple of feet deep, but the Strykers had nearly two feet of ground clearance and could plow through even deeper spots when necessary. Not many people were out and about. But of those Mac saw, most were openly hostile. And no wonder . . . The Northerners had not only penetrated the heart of Dixie, the locals believed that they were responsible for the flooding, not to mention the bombing raids. And who could blame them? That’s what they’d been told.
Gomez’s vics were on Gravier Street, not far from the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, as two squads of ground pounders deassed their trucks. The mission was to search for a sniper team that had been working the area all morning. And there were lots of empty buildings and parking garages for such a team to take advantage of.
Gomez was clearly nervous about Mac’s presence but did a good job of positioning his vehicles to protect each other and dispersing his troops. He led squad one through a shattered door and into a five-story insurance building, while the second squad remained outside to provide security. Mac followed squad one inside. Two of Gomez’s soldiers were armed with M24 sniper rifles, and she had chosen to carry one as well since it was possible they might have to engage the enemy at a distance.
Each floor had to be cleared, and that took time. There was evidence of looting but no sign of snipers. And a careful examination of the roof didn’t turn up anything either. No spent shell casings, no empty food containers, and no piles of poop. Half an hour had been wasted.
Once they were back on the street, Mac told Gomez’s RTO to report the building as clear. Then they were sent to a structure located three blocks away. This one was “hot.” Or so the operations people claimed, meaning that they had a drone circling above and had eyes on some bad guys. But Mac had heard that story before only to discover that the “bad guys” were vagrants camped on a roof. But orders were orders, and off they went.
The target building was an old factory that had been converted into chic office space. And as the soldiers began to leave their Strykers, a shot rang out. One of the soldiers went down clutching her leg. A medic ran to help and took a bullet in the head. It went through his helmet and entered his brain. Soldiers returned fire and risked their lives to pull both of their comrades in behind a vic. “It came from up there,” a corporal said as she pointed to a structure located across the street from the target building.
“Are you sure?” Mac inquired.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I saw a head and a puff of smoke.”
Mac was angry. Very angry. And confused. Had the operations people been wrong? It could happen. Were two sniper teams working the area? Or were noncombatants on the roof of the old factory building? She turned to Gomez. “Clear that building, Lieutenant. And get some people up to the roof. In the meantime, I’m going to take a fire team up to the top of the factory building. We’ll nail ’em one way or the other.”
Gomez nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Once a fire team had been assigned to her, Mac led the mad dash across the street to the factory building. A shot rang out as they rushed through the open door, but none of them fell. That seemed to suggest a sniper on the roof of building two. Although a person could be on top of the first structure, firing straight down.
Mac ordered the four-person team to gather around. A sergeant named Cochrane was in charge. “Here’s the deal,” Mac told them. “If we had a full platoon, we’d do this by the book. But we don’t. And there’s no way in hell that five people can clear a five-story building. So we’re going straight up the fire escape to the roof. I will lead the way, and Sergeant Dean will take care of our six. That’s important because we could pass some bad guys on the way up, and they could fill in behind us. So pay attention . . . This shit
is for real. Do you have any questions?”
“I have a question,” one of the privates volunteered. “What is the warm liquid that’s trickling down my leg?”
That got a laugh, and Mac grinned. “Come on . . . Let’s get going before Kowalski fills his boots.”
A series of signs led Mac to the fire escape. She opened the steel fire door with care, peered up between sets of switchback stairs, and gave thanks for the slit-style windows. The power was off, and without the openings, it would have been impossible to see without night-vision gear.
Mac took her time as she climbed upwards. The stairway would be the perfect place for a booby trap, and sure enough, a very thin wire was stretched across the stairs just past landing two. Not being an EOD specialist, Mac didn’t bother to look for the explosives the wire was connected to. Instead, she stopped and pointed before continuing upwards.
Mac was having second thoughts about climbing up to the roof by that time. Maybe she should have called for an airstrike, maybe she should have waited for reinforcements, and maybe she was going to die. The single-shot rifle was nearly worthless for the situation she found herself in. Mac pulled her pistol and held it ready. I’ll take someone with me, she decided. I hope it’s quick.
• • •
Victoria was in a jam. The plan was to take a couple of shots from the roof of the factory building and haul ass. But moments after they had arrived, a sniper shot Clay from across the street.
Victoria assumed that the sharpshooter was part of a Union Army countersniper team. But why would such a team fire on people in civilian clothes? Since Clay had been killed before they could set up. Maybe the shooter was a guy who enjoyed shooting people. That was the problem with urban warfare . . . All sorts of creeps began to wiggle out of the woodwork. Not that it mattered. Someone had a rifle and knew how to use it.
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