Into the Guns

CHAPTER 10

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Most of the night had been spent moving the unit’s vehicles into place, erecting tents, and establishing a perimeter to keep thieves out. That meant Mac only logged two hours of sleep before the noise generated by passing vehicles, the persistent rattle of a power tool, and occasional shouts woke her up.

It would have been nice to stay in the sleeping bag. But at least a hundred things required Mac’s attention, including the need to check in. Because then, and only then, would the Marauders begin to collect full pay.

So Mac kicked the bag off and swung her feet over onto the floor. The four-person tent was one of the few perks she permitted herself. It was furnished with a cot, a flimsy lawn chair, a folding card table, a much-abused footlocker, a bulging duffel bag, and a five-gallon jug of water supported by an upended ammo crate.

As Mac crossed the tiny room to the plastic bowl that served as a sink, she could feel the mud under the tent’s floor give with each step. None of the external moisture had been able to penetrate the fabric, however, for which she was thankful.

After completing her morning ablutions, and donning her cleanest uniform, Mac made her way to the door, where a pair of mud-caked boots was waiting. She sat on the lawn chair to pull them on. Then Mac threw the tent fly to one side and stepped out into the cold air. That’s when she discovered that a sentry was posted outside. Ralston’s work? Yes, of course. The private came to attention—and Mac smiled at him. “As you were, Wang… You can rejoin your squad now.”

Mud sucked at the soles of Mac’s boots as she made her way over to the female latrine. That was the moment when she realized that the sun was out! It was visible through breaks in the clouds. The slight increase in temperature was enough to create a layer of mist. It hugged the ground the way a shroud hugs a corpse. Mac shivered and shoved her hands in her pockets.

After visiting the latrine, she made her way over to the cook tent, which, in spite of the name, was little more than an A-shaped awning supported by three poles and some guylines. There was a table, though… And a gas-powered stove. Three Marauders were seated on lawn chairs. They stood as Mac appeared, and she waved them back into their seats. “As you were. Where’s the buffet?”

Corporal Prevo grinned. “Over there, ma’am,” he said, and pointed to a stack of MREs. “There ain’t nothing better than turkey chili for breakfast.”

Mac laughed, poured some hot water over instant coffee, and ate the Hershey bar that Private Sanchez gave her. After five minutes of shooting the shit with the troops, she could feel the combination of caffeine and sugar enter her bloodstream. With cup in hand, Mac went looking for Ralston.

Thanks to the first sergeant, and the rest of the NCOs, significant progress had been made during the night. And Mac took pride in the fact that their bivouac was well organized even if the surrounding encampment was a gigantic shit show.

The company’s scroungers had been able to steal two dozen pallets somewhere. They’d been used to create an elevated sidewalk that ran between the first-aid station and the HQ tent. “Nice job,” Mac said. “Now I can wear my high heels to work.”

Her voice was intentionally loud so that all of the soldiers working on the project could hear. The line got a laugh, just as it was intended to, and would make the rounds soon. It was easy and made Mac feel guilty.

Ralston was exhausted, and she could see it on his face when he forced a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. We have to show these other outfits how it’s done. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith is an accomplished thief.”

Smith was standing a few feet away. He smiled. “Thanks, Top… I love you, too.”

Mac chuckled. “It’s time for you to grab some shut-eye, Sergeant Ralston, and that’s an order. Sergeant Smith can take charge here. Once I find Sparks, I’m headed for HQ.”

“I’m here,” Munroe announced, and Mac turned to find that the radio operator was standing behind her. Together, they made their way out to the point where their chunk of real estate fronted George S. Patton Avenue. If the stretch of churned-up mud could be dignified as such.

The duty driver was a private named Isley. He was slouched behind the wheel of a Humvee—listening to music through a pair of earbuds. When Isley saw Mac, he made the buds disappear. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning,” Mac replied as she settled into the passenger seat. “Do you know where HQ is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Take me there.”

As Isley navigated his way through the untidy maze of bivouacs, Mac had a chance to eyeball some of the other units that had been assembled for whatever it was that Sloan had in mind. At one time or another, she saw tanks, a field hospital, com wagons, a wrecker, half a dozen fuel tankers, a clutch of infantry carriers, a pair of medevac vehicles, and a smoke-generator-equipped recon vehicle that was sitting all by its lonely self. The whole thing was FUBAR. Or so it seemed to Mac.

Once they arrived, Mac saw a sign that read: 2ND EXPEDITIONARY FORCE. She got out, told Isley to wait, and followed a lieutenant inside. Then Mac had to trudge from desk to desk, and from corporal to corporal, showing the company’s contract to each one—and answering the same questions over and over. Each stop meant that at least one form had to be filled out, and Munroe offered to pitch in. That was a big help—and cut the process down to an hour and a half.

Finally, after clearing the last desk, Mac was sent into an office with plywood walls. A haggard-looking lieutenant colonel was seated behind a table strewn with paperwork. The hand-printed tent card in front of her read: LT. COL. COLBY.

Colby wore her mostly gray hair in a bun. Her close-set eyes were like chips of obsidian. And she had a cold, judging from how red her long, thin nose was. Mac came to attention, stated her rank followed by the name of her unit. She finished with, “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”

Colby blew her nose with a handkerchief and made a face. “It’s impossible to find Kleenex anymore,” she complained. “And that’s a sure sign that the country is going to hell in a handcart. Macintyre, huh? I used to know a general named Macintyre… Any relation?”

Mac swallowed. “My father, ma’am.”

Colby had overplucked eyebrows. They rose incrementally. “Are you aware that he’s fighting for the Confederacy? In fact, from what I’ve heard, he’s one of their most important generals.”

Mac wasn’t aware. Ever since the visit to the house near Kuna, Idaho, she’d wondered where he was and what he was doing. But the possibility that he might side with the Confederacy hadn’t occurred to her. It should have, though… The New Order’s brand of Darwinian politics would appeal to him. Survival of the fittest. That was the essence of Bo Macintyre’s personal and political perspective. Mac remembered how he had stood, hands on hips, after she took a spill. “Never wait for a helping hand,” he told her. “Take care of yourself.”

“No, ma’am,” Mac said as she stared into coal-black eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, this war is going to divide a lot of families,” Colby predicted. “But enough of that… Let’s get you checked in.”

After skimming Mac’s contract and reviewing the paperwork the multitude of corporals had prepared, Colby signed two identical documents and handed one to Mac. “There you go… Your unit is on the payroll… The next step is to visit Major Renky. He’ll set up a draw for your company.”

“A what?”

“A draw… Meaning an account you can use to draw supplies. Payment is due on the last day of each month. Please remember that if you’re more than thirty days in arrears, the government has the right to seize all of your equipment, including your vehicles. And, since you have a cavalry unit, you won’t be able to fulfill the terms of your contract without them. That would trigger standard clause 32b.”

The air around Mac was chilly, but she was starting to sweat. She’d read the contract and knew that Marauders would have to buy supplies, but clause 32b? No, nothing came to mind. “I’m sorry, ma’am… Please remind me of what’s in clause 32b.”

Colby blew her nose. Her thin lips looked even thinner when she smiled. “Clause 32b states that if a unit loses the means to fulfill the terms of its contract, all members of said unit who were on active duty as of May 1 this year will automatically revert to active status in the branch of the military to which they previously belonged. So if you want to be a mercenary, be sure to pay your bills. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”

Mac took notice of the way in which Colby had mentioned her real rank. An indication that the 2nd Expeditionary Force had at least some predisaster personnel records. “Yes, ma’am. Very clear, ma’am.”

“Good. Go see Major Renky… Oh, and one more thing.”

“Ma’am?”

“If you run into your father, shoot him in the face.”

The Marauders spent the next two days performing deferred maintenance on the unit’s vehicles, their bodies, and their uniforms—all of which were filthy. Fortunately, some local entrepreneurs were running an off-base laundry service that offered pickup and delivery.

Mac also held meetings about the need for cost control—and made Smith responsible for staying on budget. Would the supply sergeant send scroungers out to “requisition” “free” parts in the middle of the night? Of course he would. And Mac planned to ignore it.

On the morning of the third day, Mac was sitting in the HQ tent reading the sick-call report when a rain-drenched private entered. “I’m from battalion HQ,” he announced. “I have a message for Captain Macintyre.”

“That would be me,” Mac replied. “Battalion HQ? What battalion?”

“The one you’re part of,” the private answered, as he proffered an envelope. After reading the contents, Mac discovered that not only was she a member of the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion, she was in command of Charlie Company and expected to attend a command briefing that was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes! And she was supposed to bring her XO.

After hurrying to don a clean uniform and telling Private Isley to “Step on it,” Mac and Ralston were still ten minutes late when they entered the large tent. A dozen people were seated on folding chairs, and the major who was standing at the far end of the conference table paused in midsentence. His carefully combed hair was graying, his nose was slightly bent, and his blue eyes were clear. “Well, well… Captain Macintyre, I presume.”

Mac swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“I know you’re a mercenary,” the major said, “but I won’t tolerate slackness. If a meeting is scheduled for 0900, you will arrive on time or be penalized. My name is Granger. Have a seat. Now, where was I? Ah, yes… Our mission.

“The Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion consists of three companies at the moment. That includes a headquarters company under Captain Pearce, a scout company under Captain Olson’s leadership, and a Stryker company commanded by Captain Macintyre. Our job is to find the enemy, identify targets, and assess battle damage. The latter is more important than you might think because of the hazardous flying conditions.

“In addition, we’ll be called upon to participate in search-and-rescue missions, to support special-operations teams, and to assist the military police if that’s necessary.” Granger’s eyes roamed the room. “Do you have any questions?”

Captain Pearce wanted to know if she would get some additional staff, and Mac took the opportunity to sit down. The chair was next to Olson’s. He winked as if to say, “What a load of bullshit.” Olson had slicked-back hair, boyish good looks, and hazel eyes.

“What we need is a combination of speed and muscle,” Granger continued as he went over to an easel. “So let’s review the vehicles we have—and how they can support the overall mission.”

The presentation lasted for more than an hour. The plan was for Olson’s motorcycles, armed rat rods, and M1161 Growler Strike Vehicles to conduct lightning raids into enemy territory. As they pulled back, the Strykers would be there to support them.

That was fine with Mac, who had nothing to prove and no desire for glory. Her goal was to keep her people alive, make some money, and go home.

Over the next week, Mac learned that although Granger was a stickler for detail, he was fair and determined to succeed. To that end, he asked for and was granted permission to take the battalion out of Fort Knox and into the countryside for a series of exercises. Mac knew that the Marauders were in for some long, difficult days. But if the shit hit the fan, the training would pay off. Work began.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Sloan was sitting in the spacious green room backstage at the Arie Crown Theater. The 4,249-seat venue was part of the McCormick Place convention center located adjacent to Lake Michigan. Sloan knew that the room was packed with newly elected congressmen and -women, all of whom had been sworn in earlier in the day. Most were members of the Patriot Party, thank God. But Whigs were present, too… Lots of them. And because Speaker of the House Duncan was working with a thin majority, there would be trouble in the days ahead.

But this is now, Sloan reminded himself. First things first. Did Lemaire and his so-called “board of directors” agree to our offer? If not, the dying is about to begin. The door swung open, and Besom stuck his head in. “Interim Secretary of State Henderson is here, Mr. President.”

Sloan searched the press secretary’s face for any hint of what Henderson was going to tell him. There wasn’t any. So Henderson had chosen to keep the information to himself. “Please show him in.”

Henderson was balding, jowly, and short. Sloan had chosen him as Secretary of State because he was from the South, understood the culture, and had been the Assistant Secretary of State for Western Hemisphere Affairs prior to May 1. Sloan stood as the other man entered and went forward to shake hands with him. “Don’t keep me waiting, George… What did they say?”

The pain in Henderson’s eyes was obvious. “They said, ‘no,’ Mr. President. They claim to control a nation called the Confederacy of American States. And, according to them, the countries of Mexico, Cuba, and Haiti have formally recognized their government. I’m sorry, Mr. President. I know this is the last thing you wanted.”

Sloan looked away, swallowed, and forced his eyes back again. “Thank you, George. They’re waiting for me. I guess I’ll have to give them the news.”

Henderson nodded. “Tell them we tried… Tell them we’ll win.”

“I will,” Sloan promised, and made his way over to the door. Besom was waiting outside. Their eyes met. “Which script do you need, Mr. President? Number one? Or number two?”

“Two,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry, Doyle.”

Besom shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Don’t worry, Mr. President… Congress will back you.”

“They will tonight,” Sloan agreed. “But what about later? When the casualty reports come in? We’ll see.”

Sloan didn’t plan to use the script unless the teleprompter went down but accepted it anyway and followed a stagehand to the point where he could see Congressman Duncan. The Speaker of the House was stalling and thrilled to see Sloan from the corner of his eye. “And here,” Duncan said, “is the man you’ve been waiting for… Samuel T. Sloan, the President of the United States!”

A small band played “Hail to the Chief” as Sloan made his way out onto the stage, shook hands with Duncan, and went over to greet the newly named minority leader as well. That wasn’t necessary, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

The applause was thunderous, and understandably so, because in addition to members of the House, the Senate, and the reconstituted Supreme Court, more than three thousand citizens were present—all selected through a lottery. That was another one of Besom’s ideas—and it was sure to generate coverage in their hometowns. Sloan raised both hands. “Thank you… Thank you, very much… Please be seated.

“First,” Sloan said, as people took their seats, “I would like to congratulate all of our newly elected representatives and senators. Thank you for running… We are going to need your strength and wisdom during the days ahead.

“Second, please join me in a minute of silence as we remember the government workers both elected and unelected who lost their lives during the tragic events of May 1.”

A hush fell over the crowd as Sloan closed his eyes and counted to sixty. Everything seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare. But when he opened his eyes, the audience was still there. “Thank you.” His eyes sought and found the first line on the teleprompter. “I had hoped to bring you good news tonight. Sadly, that isn’t the case. Just before I came onstage, I received word that the so-called Confederacy of American States has chosen to secede from the Union.”

That produced a loud gasp of horror from the audience, a gabble of conversation, and a shout of, “God damn those bastards! We’ll take those states back!” The statement was met with a smattering of applause.

Sloan nodded. “I agree with the gentleman in the second row. To paraphrase the provisions of the Insurrection Act of 1807, as amended in 2006, the President of the United States has the power to suppress, in a state, any insurrection, domestic violence, unlawful combination, or conspiracy. And, ladies and gentlemen, that is precisely what I’m going to do!”

Members of the Patriot Party stood first… Soon followed by the Whigs, who, though less than enthusiastic about the prospect of a civil war, didn’t want to be seen as pro-Confederate. Even though many of them were. The applause lasted for the better part of a minute before Sloan raised his hands, and the politicians took their seats.

“This is not the end of our country’s story,” Sloan told them. “It’s the start of a new chapter… And one that will eventually lead to a happy ending. Tonight, I will instruct all branches of the federal government, including the military, to take all actions necessary to regain control of those states that signed the articles of secession. And I will direct them to do so with an eye to minimizing casualties on both sides.

“My staff will work with leaders from both parties to initiate, review, and pass the legislation required to support the unification effort. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting all the new members of Congress at the reception later this evening. Thank you for your support—and may God bless America.”

The audience stood, and the walls of the theater shook in response to the applause. Sloan waved as he left the stage, hurried past Besom, and entered the men’s room. That was where he threw up. He believed that America would rise again… But he knew that a lot of people would have to die first.

NEAR MILLERSTOWN, KENTUCKY

The unincorporated town of Millerstown, Kentucky, consisted of cleared farmland, mixed with sizeable patches of timber, all separated by a crisscrossing maze of country roads. There were hills, too, along with lots of streams and rivers. That made the area ideal for war games even if the local inhabitants didn’t like to have vehicles churning up their fields and spooking their animals. However, given the extent to which the consistently bad weather had ruined their crops, a timely visit from the battalion’s paymaster went a long way toward easing the pain.

A smear of sunlight was visible through a thin layer of bruised-looking clouds—and a cold breeze caused the pennant flying from one-two’s aerial to snap every now and then. The Stryker was parked on a logging road that ran parallel to the paved road below and was partially screened by trees.

“War games” was a misnomer, of course. That’s what Major Granger said. He preferred the term “military simulation.” And in this case a simulation of what military theorists referred to as “maneuver warfare.” The goal was to defeat the enemy by limiting its ability to make good decisions.

Theoretically, that could be achieved by attacking command and control centers, supply depots, and fire-support assets. Under normal circumstances, airpower would play an important role in accomplishing those objectives. But since foul weather was keeping a lot of fixed-wing aircraft on the ground, the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion would have to fill the gap. Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as Munroe spoke. “Here they come,” the RTO said. “And, according to Bravo-Six, the enemy is catching up.”

Mac was standing near Charlie One-Four’s engine and enjoying the heat it produced. She swiveled her glasses to the south. The highway was empty at first. Then she heard the roar of engines, and three off-road motorcycles appeared. The lead bike, the one that Olson normally rode, performed a wheelie as it went by. That was the sort of thing Mac had come to expect of Bravo Company’s CO. But somehow, in spite of the fact that Mac didn’t like show-offs, the combination of bravado and boyish charm was starting to grow on her. Focus, Mac told herself. Pay attention.

The next vehicles to pass Charlie Company’s position were so-called rat rods which, unlike hot rods, were anything but pretty. Function ruled form, and the function was war. Olson’s crudely modified vehicles were armed with machine guns, grenade launchers, and, in one case, an M252 mortar bolted into the bed of a pickup. They were followed by a squad of army Growlers reminiscent of WWII jeeps.

“This is Six,” Mac said into her mike. “The enemy is coming on fast… Check to ensure that your weapons are clear—and that the safeties are on. Your cameras should be rolling. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of affirmative clicks as she watched the road. The first “enemy” vehicle to appear was a Humvee. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Let the Humvee pass… Bravo Company will be lying in wait for it up the road. Over.”

The next vehicle was a Bradley. It arrived a full minute after the Humvee was gone. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Hold, hold, hold. Let’s get as many units into the kill zone as we can. All right… Fire!”

None of the Strykers fired. But later, when Granger and the rest of the brass reviewed the video, Charlie Company’s victory would be obvious. Positioned where they were, the cannon-equipped Stryker MGS M128s would have obliterated the Bradleys. Mac turned to Munroe. “Contact the enemy and tell them this: ‘Bang, you’re dead.’”

It was cold in the barn, but the walls offered some respite from the wind, a place for two-two’s mechanics to work on the Stryker’s faulty fuel pump. Mac didn’t know how to make the repair but had decided to learn, much to the amusement of her wrench turners. There was more to it than that, of course. Her presence meant a lot to them.

The repair was nearly complete when Olson entered the barn carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He knew all of the mechanics by name, could tell what they were doing at a glance, and immediately offered to hire them. They ate it up.

That annoyed Mac for two reasons. First, good mechanics were hard to find, and she couldn’t afford to lose any. Second, how did Olson manage to make everything look so effortless? She felt awkward by comparison.

Mac was wiping oil off her hands as Olson ambled over. “Hey, Robin… I brought you some coffee.”

“Robin.” When was the last time she’d heard someone call her that? Back at JBLM, most likely. And why was Olson using her first name? Given that last names were the standard way to address someone in the army? Lighten up, the voice said. It’s no big deal.

“Thanks,” Mac said as she accepted the mug. “Come on… We can sit in my office.” She led Olson to the bench seat that was all that remained of a long-gone truck. It was positioned against a stall.

“Nice,” Olson said as he sat down. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Mac sat next to him. “Thanks. So what’s on your mind?”

“I was up at the house when Granger got the word. This shit is for real.”

Mac heard herself say, “I’m sorry to hear that.” But was that entirely true? She’d been expecting it. Everyone had. And the sense of foreboding was real. But what about the slight tinge of excitement? Because wrong though it might be—there was part of her that enjoyed combat. A biochemical gift from her father perhaps.

Whatever the reason, Mac didn’t feel as sorry as she should have. She sipped some coffee. It was laced with rum. “How do you feel about that, Ross? Do you want to fight?”

The other officer shrugged. “It’s what the army trained me to do… And it’s what I get paid for.”

“That’s it? You don’t care which side you fight for?”

“I do care,” Olson responded. “I think what the Confederates are doing is wrong. But I’m a mercenary now, and it doesn’t make sense to get emotionally involved.”

That was similar to how Mac felt. She hoped the North would win but had doubts about its capacity to do so and was trying to remain objective. “Yeah,” Mac agreed. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“So,” Olson said, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a barn like this?”

“Is that a come-on?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“No.”

Olson grinned. “Okay… It isn’t.” And with that, he got up and walked away. Mac felt as if an opportunity had been lost. But an opportunity for what? To be Olson’s plaything? Because she was the only eligible woman in the battalion? That was the sort of opportunity she could live without. Mac got up. There was work to do—and lots of it. Mac’s Marauders were going to war.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Now that war had been declared, Sloan was no longer permitted to live in the big white tent because the Secret Service couldn’t protect him there. So he was living underground, two stories below the Fort Knox army base, and just down the hall from the War Room.

There was one advantage, though… He could sit in the War Room and stare at the maps, charts, and plans projected on three of the four walls while he ate dinner. It consisted of meat loaf with mashed potatoes, which had been his favorite as a boy. Sloan wished he could go back in time and be a boy again, but that was impossible. This was now… And he had a job to do.

According to Article II, Section 2, Clause 1 of the Constitution he was the commander in chief of the United States armed services. Except that the states weren’t “united.” Not anymore. And he wasn’t qualified to be commander in chief.

This was nothing new, since only twelve past presidents had been generals prior to taking office. Yes, others had served. But Ronald Reagan’s stint in the army air force’s public-relations department during World War II didn’t qualify him to run a war.

Of course by that measure, Sloan was even less qualified since he hadn’t worn a uniform until recently. Yet there he was, eating meat loaf and preparing to attack the South. So which strategy should he choose? The methodical approach that General Whitaker Hern favored? Or the daring “balls to the wall,” “deep leap” plan that General “Mad” Mary Abbott was so enthusiastic about?

Hern recommended that the Union Army drive south, make contact with the enemy, and engage them. Then the two sides would slug it out for however long it took.

Abbott’s plan was very different. She favored an airborne assault by Army Rangers. They would land in Richton, Mississippi, and seize control of the largely undefended oil reserve located there. And, because the element of surprise would be on their side, the Rangers would have a two-day period of time in which to dig in before Confederate forces attacked them.

Meanwhile, as the Rangers dug in, a task force led by Abrams tanks would lead the invasion force south through Nashville on Highway 65 even as surface-to-surface missiles neutralized the defense towers straddling the highway.

Once a path was cleared, the Northern army would surge across the New Mason-Dixon Line and drive south, killing anyone who got in the way. Then, at the conclusion of a five-hundred-mile journey, the regiment would link up with the Rangers in Richton.

But, according to General Hern, Abbott’s plan had a number of weaknesses. First, Hern believed it was going to be more difficult to destroy the Confederate defense towers than Abbott claimed. Second, Hern feared that it might take the defense force a full three or four days to fight its way to Richton. That would seem like forever to the Rangers.

Finally, even if Abbott was successful, she’d have a five-hundred-mile-long supply line to defend. Mad Mary was known for her foul mouth, and called “bullshit” on Hern’s criticisms. She planned to resupply the Rangers by air.

Hern scoffed at that and pointed out that the weather would keep Abbott’s Chinooks grounded most of the time. And, when the skies cleared, the Confederate Air Force would have an opportunity to blow the lumbering helicopters out of the air. Never mind the fact that the Richton-Perry County Airport was too small for the volume of traffic that Abbott proposed. Point and counterpoint.

Hern had graduated near the top of his class at West Point. Mad Mary had worked her way up through the ranks from private. Both had led troops into combat, both had been decorated for bravery, and both were respected by their peers. So which plan should Sloan choose?

As Sloan prepared to take another bite, he realized his plate was empty. He put the fork down next to the single surviving pea. He was going to go with Mad Mary. Why? Because her strategy could cut months if not years off the war and save thousands of lives on both sides.

Sloan felt a sense of relief. The decision had been made, and he would share it with his staff in the morning. He stood, removed his plate, and took it away. No one else knew it yet, but the first battle of the Second Civil War was already under way.

NORTH OF BOWLING GREEN, KENTUCKY

Granger’s Scout and Reconnaisance Battalion had been given the “honor” of heading south first. Everyone knew that while the New Mason-Dixon Line lay just south of Bowling Green, the Confederates had attacked and occupied the town a month earlier to give themselves some pad.

Olson’s people were on point and likely to make first contact. Mac’s Marauders were in the two slot—and ready to provide support. But for what? The answer was classified. There were plenty of theories, however—one of which was that General Hern was going to lead the invasion. If so, most observers figured he’d do it by the numbers.

Not that it mattered. Mac was reminded of the famous quote from Lord Tennyson: “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.” Strategy had never been the province of mere captains and never would be.

Prior to the Confederate attack, the city of Bowling Green had a population of more than sixty thousand people. Since then, many had gone north, and some told stories about Confederate atrocities. Most of those accounts weren’t true but had come to be accepted as fact thanks to the Union’s twenty-four/seven propaganda machine. And that helped to turn southern Kentucky against the rebs.

That meant the Scout and Reconnaisance Battalion was traveling through mostly friendly country as it rolled south past communities like Rocky Hill, Smiths Grove, and Oakland. Proof of that could be seen in the fact that people poured out of the tent cities that lined both sides of the freeway to wave American flags as the Strykers passed by.

Mac was riding on one-one, which was in the two slot, just behind the lead Humvee. She was standing in the forward air-guard hatch, and when people waved, she waved back.

But as the column neared the outskirts of Bowling Green, the crowds disappeared. And no wonder. Confederate patrols had been probing the city’s northern suburbs, making it a dangerous place to be. That’s what Mac was thinking about when the radio came to life.

“This is Bravo-Six actual,” Olson said. “We have contact. The freeway is blocked at the Barren River. We’re in the trees on the north side. It looks like the enemy has two, repeat two, Abrams tanks parked on the south end of the bridge. And they’re firing on us now. Over.”

Mac could hear the distant sound of big 105mm guns firing—and could imagine the bright flashes as shells exploded in the trees—and sent splinters flying in every direction. But none of that was apparent from the tone of Olson’s dry, matter-of-fact report. The scout was brave… No doubt about that.

“This is Thunder-Six actual,” Granger replied. “Pull back from the river, follow old Porter Pike west to Highway 68, and eyeball the Louisville Road bridge. Over.”

“Roger that,” Olson replied. “Over.”

Then Mac’s orders came in. “Charlie-Six, this is Thunder-Six actual… Follow 446 to 31 west to 68. Take the old, repeat old Louisville Road south and tell me if the two-lane bridge is intact. Over.”

Mac acknowledged the order, eyed her map, and saw that the interchange with 446 was coming up fast. A quick check was sufficient to ensure that the truck commander was watching for the turnoff. Then she gave orders for the lead Humvee to fall back. It was thin-skinned compared to the Strykers.

Mac turned to look back. The column was traveling at about fifty miles per hour, and the intervals between the trucks were perfect. That was good. And she was going to say as much when two Apache gunships popped up from behind a hotel and opened fire. Hellfire antitank missiles struck two-two. There was a flash of light, followed by a loud boom, and the Stryker vanished in a ball of flame.

“Take evasive action!” Mac ordered. “And put some fire on those helicopters!”

Mac radioed for help as every machine gun in the column opened fire. “This is Charlie-Six actual… We’re under attack from two Apache gunships. Over.”

“This is Bigfoot Five and Six rolling in hot,” a male voice said. “We will engage. Over.”

The Warthog pilot was as good as his word. Less than thirty seconds had passed when two A-10s swooped out of the clouds and fired rockets at the helicopters. All of them missed. But that was enough to send the Apaches running for cover as Charlie Company continued to speed down the freeway.

Mac was painfully aware that two-two had been carrying an eight-person squad of soldiers in addition to the vic’s crew. Eleven people in all. The reality of that hit hard. She couldn’t take time to grieve however… Not yet.

Mac’s eyes scanned her surroundings, looking for directional signs. There weren’t any! The Confederates had taken them down. Shit! Shit! Shit! It was too late to count side streets. All she could do was take a guess.

She ordered Lamm to turn off the freeway and found herself on Frontage Road. Damn! That wasn’t what she wanted. Wait… What was that? A sign that said OLD LOUISVILLE ROAD! It seemed that Frontage Road had morphed into Old Louisville Road. And there, visible in the distance, a bridge could be seen.

A Confederate Humvee was parked at her end of the span. It was armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, and it opened fire. Meanwhile, Mac saw two soldiers climb up over the railing on the east side of the bridge and run for the vehicle. Where had they been? Under the bridge? Setting a charge?

Mac had to duck for cover as .50 caliber shells hammered the front of the Stryker. One-one was equipped with a 105mm cannon. Mac felt the Stryker lurch as the gunner fired.

Eager to see the result, Mac stuck her head up through the hatch just in time to hear a loud clang as the empty shell casing hit the pavement behind the Stryker. She had surfaced too late to witness the hit… But, judging from appearances, the shell had struck the Humvee head-on. That caused the seven-thousand-pound vehicle to do a backflip. Now it was belly-up and on fire. That was when the .50 caliber ammo began to cook off.

So far so good. But that still left the question as to what the soldiers had been doing under the bridge. Planting charges? Probably, because a series of dull thuds was followed by an alert from one of Olson’s scouts. “This is Bravo-One-Two… They blew the I-65 bridge. An entire section went down. Over.”

More explosions were heard, followed by the sound of Olson’s voice. “Roger that, One-Two. This is Bravo-Six actual. They dropped the new Louisville Road bridge as well. Over.”

Mac’s thoughts were racing. Originally, there had been three bridges not counting a footbridge. Now there was only one. If that was severed, it would take days, if not weeks, for the Union Army to construct a temporary span across the river or circle around.

The decision seemed to make itself. “This is Charlie-Six actual. Truck one-one and one-two will take control of the bridge. Charlie-Seven will command the rest of the company—and check the underside of the bridge for explosives. Over.”

Then, over the intercom, “Hey, Lamm! Put your foot on it… Let’s cross this sucker fast!”

The truck commander had been listening and understood the risk they were taking. Was a reb watching? And waiting to blow the span with them on it?

Mac felt her head snap back as Lamm stomped on the accelerator. The engine whined, and one-one took off, with one-two right behind it. They had to swerve in order to avoid the burning Humvee. Ammo continued to cook off, and Mac heard a clang as something struck the hull. Her eyes were on the other end of the bridge at that point… Where a Bradley was starting to fire on them.

As one-one passed the halfway mark, the 105mm cannon spoke again. Mac saw a bright flash as the antitank round struck the Bradley and heard a burst of 25mm shells scream past her head as the tracked vehicle fired back. It had a chain gun that could fire two hundred rounds a minute—and there was no place for either vehicle to go. Nor could the forces behind them participate in the battle without running the risk of hitting their own people. All the respective commanders could do was fire and keep firing until one of them died.

Mac felt helpless, so she swung the 7.62mm machine gun around and fired short bursts downrange. There was a loud bang as Private Martinez fired the 105 again, followed by a flash at the other end of the bridge, and commentary from Lamm. “You hit his left track! Pound the bastard!”

That was good—but not good enough. Mac ducked as shells smashed into the vic. The Stryker’s armor was thick—but not thick enough. It would only be a matter of seconds before the Bradley’s 25mm armor-piercing rounds managed to pound their way in.

But by some miracle, the metal held long enough for Martinez to fire one last round. The shell hit the Bradley higher up this time, blew a hole in the hull, and triggered a secondary explosion. Mac didn’t see it, but she heard it, and stuck her head up in time to see pieces of fiery debris cartwheeling out of the sky. Then she was thrown forward as Lamm stood on the brake pedal. One-one was able to pull around the Bradley (which was hit moments earlier) and chase the fleeing rebs with bursts from its remotely controlled fifty. As that occurred, a squad of infantry deassed the vic and rushed to secure the bridgehead.

Mac heard the machine gun stop firing as she dropped to the ground and went up to inspect the damage. The front right tire and wheel were a mangled mess. But, because the Stryker had eight wheels, it had been able to advance in spite of the damage.

The armor plate on the front of the vic was bent, buckled, and torn. One additional burst from the chain gun would have left all of them dead. Mac made a note to pay Martinez a bonus and promote her to corporal. “Well, Captain,” a male voice said. “You have some explaining to do.”

Mac turned to find that Major Granger had approached her from behind. “Sir?”

“I ordered you to examine the bridge and report what you saw… I didn’t order you to capture it. Your top kick tells me that the rebs left a satchel full of C-4 strapped to one of the support beams. An EOD specialist is removing it now.”

So the rebs were preparing to blow the span. Mac had been lucky. Very lucky. “So charging across the bridge was a stupid thing to do,” Granger concluded.

Mac swallowed. “Sir, yes, sir.”

The look on Granger’s face softened slightly. “It was also a brave thing to do… And one that’s going to save us a lot of time. I’m going to see what I can do about making you a real captain… And that might come in handy when this mercenary crap is over.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Now, have your people move this wreck out of the way. A platoon of tanks will arrive soon.” And with that, Granger walked the rest of the way across the bridge. He was armed with a pistol and an umbrella. The reason for that became apparent when it started to rain. The battle for Bowling Green had begun.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

General “Mad” Mary Abbott stood a little more than five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than 110. But the tiny blonde had a personality large enough to fill the War Room from the moment she entered.

Sloan was there, as were General Hern and two dozen other officers, including Major McKinney. All of them paid close attention as Abbott gave her presentation. “Our forces are pushing into the town of Bowling Green,” she informed them. “The fighting is heavy, but elements of the 2nd Illinois Volunteers and the Oregon Scouts are about to flank the rebs. Once that happens, the bastards will be forced to pull back.”

As Abbott spoke, a red dot hopped from point to point on a huge map. She paused to look around. “But that isn’t all,” she added. “As the rebs retreat from Bowling Green, we will attack Piggott, Arkansas. We’ll stay just long enough to suck a lot of Confederate resources in that direction. Then we’ll pull out.

“Meanwhile,” Abbott continued, “Operation Pegasus will get under way.” A detailed description of how helicopter companies were being assembled at small airports was followed by a discussion of how the Army Rangers would get to the strips, and which units would be in the first wave.

There was a lot of information to take in, and Sloan did his best to memorize it. When Abbott finished, she invited him to speak. Sloan made his way up to the front of the room, where he turned to scan the faces in front of him. “The Confederates not only seceded from the Union, their leaders are stealing oil from the American people and using it to line their own pockets. By taking control of the Richton Storage Facility, we can recover a large quantity of oil and send their so-called CEO a strong message. Maybe he’ll listen, maybe he won’t.

“But even if he doesn’t, we’ll have a forward operating base in the heart of the Confederacy. And I’ll be aboard the third helo to land there.”

Sloan hadn’t run that idea by his staff because he knew they’d object. But now, as the officers stood to applaud, he was committed. Sloan smiled. “Thank you… Don’t worry, I won’t try to micromanage General Abbott. This is her show, and she’ll have the freedom to run it as she sees fit. Besides… based on what I’ve heard, she wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” Abbott smiled, and the audience laughed.

“Should I fall,” Sloan continued, “Speaker of the House Duncan will assume my duties. Those of you who’ve had the good fortune to spend some time with the Speaker know that he’s dedicated to our cause and will provide you with strong leadership.

“Finally, thanks to intensive training received from Major McKinney, I’d put the chance of shooting any one of you in the ass at no more than 5 percent.” That produced a roar of laughter as well as the perfect moment for Sloan to leave the podium.

After the meeting, Sloan went back to his spartan office, where all sorts of issues were awaiting his attention. There were judges to nominate, briefing papers to read, and a stack of executive orders to sign. All of which was enough to make him look forward to leaving for Richton. The wheels of war continued to turn.