Seek and Destroy E-Book

William C. Dietz

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: America Rising
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 483

Beschreibung

As people fight to survive the aftereffects of more than a dozen meteor strikes, a group of wealthy individuals conspires to rebuild the United States as a corporate entity called the New Confederacy, where the bottom line is law. As a second civil war rages, with families fighting against families on opposite sides, Union president Samuel T. Sloan battles to keep the country whole. To help in the fight for unity, Union Army captain Robin "Mac" Macintyre and her crew of Stryker vehicles are sent after the ruthless "warlord of warlords," an ex-Green Beret who rules a large swath of the West. But defeating him will be even more difficult than she thought. The warlord is receiving military assistance from Mac's sister - and rival - Confederate major Victoria Macintyre. And when the siblings come together in the war-torn streets of New Orleans, only one of them will walk away.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from William C. Dietz and Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

About the Author

SEEK AND DESTROY

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM WILLIAM C. DIETZ AND TITAN BOOKS

ANDROMEDA PREQUEL SERIES

Andromeda’s Fall

Andromeda’s Choice

Andromeda’s War

LEGION OF THE DAMNED

Legion of the Damned

The Final Battle

By Blood Alone

By Force of Arms

For More Than Glory

For Those Who Fell

When All Seems Lost

When Duty Calls

THE MUTANT FILES

Deadeye

Redzone

Graveyard

AMERICA RISING

Into the Guns

Seek and Destroy

Battle Hymn (July 2018)

TITAN BOOKS

Seek and DestroyPrint edition ISBN: 9781785650888E-book edition ISBN: 9781785650895

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: August 20172 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2017 by William C. Dietz. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

This one is for my son-in-law, Major Dane Franta, USAF.You the man.

1

No nation ever had an army large enough to guarantee it against attack in time of peace, or ensure it of victory in time of war.

–CALVIN COOLIDGE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A thick layer of dark clouds hung low over Washington, D.C., as the Black Hawk helicopter circled the severed stub of what had been the Washington Monument—and passed over the remains of what had been the Museum of Natural History, the National Gallery of Art, and the Capitol Building. President Samuel T. Sloan had seen pictures of the destruction—but still wasn’t prepared for the terrible reality of it.

Sixty meteors had entered Earth’s atmosphere on May Day 2018. Some splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, where they exploded and sent tidal waves racing east and west. Others swept in over North America at 1:11 P.M. PST. One of them exploded over the San Juan Islands in Washington State. The blast was twenty to thirty times more powerful than the atomic bomb that fell on Hiroshima, and the secondary effects included a powerful shock wave, earthquakes, and enough particulate matter to block the sun. Millions died.

But the horror wasn’t over. More meteorites rained down. Denver and Washington, D.C., were destroyed. Sloan had been the Secretary of Energy on that horrible day—and in Mexico on official business.

It wasn’t until after the arduous trip home that Sloan learned the truth: All those senior to him had been killed and, by virtue of being alive, he was president. But the country was so broken by then that most of the Southern states had seceded from the Union, triggering the Second Civil War.

And that was why Sloan had returned to the capital . . . To not only announce his intention to rebuild Washington, D.C., but to reconstruct the country itself, no matter the cost.

Army One circled the Capitol Building’s shattered dome and flew west. Moments later, it passed over the courthouse, the theater where Lincoln had been shot, and the ruins of the White House. That’s where the former president and the first family had been when the incoming meteor killed them and half a million other people.

The Black Hawk began to lose altitude as it swung around the State Department and swooped in for a landing adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial. Thanks to Sloan’s press secretary, an ex–PR man named Doyle Besom, a large crowd was present to greet Sloan. Many of them had been hired to rebuild the capital. So Sloan heard enthusiastic applause as he exited the helicopter and paused to wave.

Like the rest of the federal government, the ranks of the Secret Service had been decimated during the disaster. But recently confirmed director Raul Jenkins was doing the best he could to reconstitute the organization—and his agents were there to protect the president from any would-be assassins in the crowd.

Cameras whirred and clicked as Sloan ran up a short flight of stairs to the top of the temporary platform. “Always run up stairs . . . It makes you look young and energetic.” That was just one of the many pieces of advice Sloan had received from Besom. And most of them were correct.

Attorney General Reggie Allston was on the platform waiting for Sloan. He had closely cropped hair, dark skin, and was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit. The handshake was followed by a man hug. “You look good, Mr. President.”

“But not as good as you do, Reggie . . . Where do you get those suits?”

“That’s a secret, Mr. President . . . I want to look better than you do.”

Sloan laughed as Allston turned to the bulletproof podium and microphone. “Good morning . . . My name is Reginald Allston, and I’m here to introduce the man many people call the Fighting President. When a renegade general seized control of Fort Knox, President Sloan fought side by side with our troops to take it back. And when our Rangers attempted to capture the oil reserve in Richton, Mississippi, President Sloan fought with them. That’s how we know we’ve got the right man for the job.”

Besom’s people were salted throughout the crowd. And when they began to clap, the people around them followed suit. Allston smiled, nodded, and let the applause continue for a moment. Then he raised his hands. “But we’re here to fight a different kind of battle today . . . a battle to restore the nation’s capital. The task will take years. Some say ten, others say twenty, but it makes little difference. We will get the job done!”

The applause was entirely spontaneous this time, and quite loud. Allston waited for it to die down before making his introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . On this, the first day of this city’s reconstruction, it is my honor to introduce President Samuel T. Sloan!”

Sloan stepped up to the mike as Allston moved to one side, and the crowd applauded. There were what? At least three thousand of them . . . filling the space between the platform and the long, narrow Reflecting Pool. A government-authorized camera drone swooped in to capture a tight shot of Sloan’s face. Electronic communications continued to be somewhat iffy north of the New Mason-Dixon Line, but improved with each passing day. “Good morning,” Sloan said. “It is a distinct pleasure to meet some of the many people who are going to—”

There were three suicide bombers. Each killed at least a dozen people when their vests exploded. And that included 60 percent of Sloan’s Secret Service detail. The blasts were too far away to harm him. But they were close enough to open a bloody gap through which more attackers could charge.

The crowd had been screened. But the weapons were there all along, concealed by a thin layer of soil and marked by dots of orange spray paint. All the second wave of assassins had to do was scoop up a weapon and charge the platform. The podium saved Sloan’s life during the first few seconds of the attack. Then he ducked, stuck his hand inside his jacket, and pulled out the Glock he had started to carry.

As far as Sloan knew, he was the only president who routinely carried a gun . . . And a good thing, too, since he’d been forced to use it once before. The surviving Secret Service agents had opened fire by then, and some of the attackers were down. But as Sloan leaned out to look, he saw that five assassins were still vertical and coming his way!

Sloan fired. But it seemed as though the wild-eyed man in the lead was wearing body armor, because he took two bullets in the chest and kept coming. Fortunately, the third round punched a hole in his forehead and knocked him over.

As that attacker fell, the woman coming up behind him tripped on the body, giving Sloan the opportunity to kill her, too. Then Secret Service agents flooded the stage and hauled him away. The camera drones captured the whole thing—and the footage of Sloan defending himself cycled over and over on TV. Press Secretary Besom was a happy man.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

The old warehouse complex consisted of three one-story concrete buildings, one of which was dedicated to housing a makeshift cafeteria and an exercise area—all powered by an army generator. After donning three layers of clothing, Captain Robin “Mac” Macintyre made her way down a grubby corridor to a steel fire door. Then, pulling a knit hat down over a mop of dark brown hair, Mac stepped out into the driving sleet. The temperature should have been around eighty, but because of the globe-spanning layer of airborne particulates that blocked the sun, it was thirty-seven instead.

A trail of scuff marks led Mac to what was popularly known as “the command shack.” She pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth provided by a “liberated” stove. Staff Sergeant Woods was seated behind one of the beat-up desks that had been captured with the rest of the complex. “Good morning, ma’am,” the noncom said cheerfully. “The major is in his office.”

Mac said, “Thanks,” and turned to her right. She was about to knock when Granger motioned her in. He had carefully combed hair, a slightly bent nose, and gray eyes. Mac saluted, and Granger threw one of his own. “Close the door and take a load off. I’ve got a job for you.”

Mac wasn’t surprised. In addition to the responsibilities associated with being in command of Bravo Company, Mac served as the battalion’s executive officer, too. “Yes, sir. What’s up?”

“The brass want us to snatch a rebel general,” Granger replied.

“Okay, no problem. Before lunch? Or after?”

Granger chuckled. “After. His name is Revell. General Scott Revell. He’s in command of the Bloody Bill Anderson 205th Infantry Regiment. That means he could provide us with valuable information.”

Mac knew the rebs liked to name regiments after Confederate generals from the first civil war and, by all accounts, Anderson had been famous for his brutality. “Okay, and what makes them believe that we can grab a regimental commander? That sounds like a special ops mission to me.”

“It is a special ops mission,” Granger told her. “Your job will be to deliver the operators, provide security, and bring everyone out in one piece.”

Mac frowned. “Really? We’re supposed to fight our way through a regiment of troops, find their CO, and take him home? Why not use helicopters instead?”

“Because,” Granger said, “you won’t have to fight your way through Revell’s regiment. According to one of our spies, he’s having an affair with the wife of a local politician. The pol has to attend a county-council meeting each Wednesday at 7:00 P.M. And that’s when Revell drops by.

“The politician’s house is located about twenty miles inside reb-held territory. And, whereas the weather might keep the rotor heads from lifting off Wednesday night, your Strykers will be able to get through.”

Mac knew that the Union had spies down South, just as the Confederates had agents in the North. And she knew Granger was correct . . . The weather could keep the helos on the ground. But driving twenty miles into enemy-held territory wasn’t her idea of a good time. Of course, Granger didn’t care—and neither did the brass. “Yes, sir. So we’re talking this Wednesday? As in tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night,” Granger replied. “If that’s convenient.”

Mac grinned. “I was going to paint my nails . . . But if you insist.”

“I do. An eight-man special ops team under the command of a butter bar named Thomas Lyle will arrive here in a couple of hours. Be nice to him.”

Mac looked innocent. “I like second lieutenants. They’re cute, like puppies. Is there anything else?”

“One thing,” Granger replied. “And that’s security. If word of this operation were to leak, you could walk into a trap.”

It was a sobering thought. Mac stood. “Roger that, sir.”

“Good hunting.”

As Mac left the command shack, she headed straight for the motor pool, which was housed in another one-story concrete building. The structure had been bombed during the fighting, but the roof had been repaired, thanks to the efforts of Company Sergeant Mary Dodge. That meant the interior was ten degrees warmer than the outside temperature.

But Mac could still see her breath as she made her way over to the spot where Second Lieutenant Marvin Haskell was kneeling next to a Stryker’s exposed brake drum. It was a Stryker RC. The “RC” stood for “recon,” and the crew consisted of a commander/gunner and a driver, both of whom were present. The gunner yelled, “Atten-hut!” and Mac waved the courtesy off. “As you were . . . Which is to say, damned cold.”

The joke produced an appreciative chuckle from everyone except Haskell. He had sandy-brown hair, a farm-boy face, and a serious expression. “Morning, ma’am,” Haskell said, as he stood. “The brakes on one-one are good to go.”

“Excellent,” Mac replied. “Come on . . . Let’s grab a cup of coffee.”

The big pot was on twenty-four/seven and contained a liquid that had the appearance and consistency of motor oil. But it was located on a table where they could talk without being overheard. Mac took the opportunity to brief Haskell on the mission. She finished by saying, “We’ll take one-one, one-two, and one-three. Each truck will carry four green hats plus the crew. I’ll ride in one, and you’ll ride in three. Any questions?”

“Yes, ma’am. What about my soldiers?”

Each platoon included four squads of infantry, one per truck. “Tell ’em to grab some extra sleep,” Mac replied.

“They won’t like being left out.”

Mac shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s how it is. And Marvin . . .”

“Ma’am?”

“Smile once in a while.”

Haskell frowned. “Yes, ma’am.”

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

In spite of the damage done to Washington, D.C., the presidential retreat known as Camp David was unscathed. Sloan and his advisors on national security were seated around the long wooden table in the Laurel Lodge conference room. It was a sobering moment because the last time Sloan had been there, it had been for a cabinet meeting. And, except for him, all the other people who’d been present were dead. Including the previous president. He pushed the thought away. “Okay, people . . . Let’s get to it. You’re up first, George . . . What’s happening in Europe?”

Secretary of State George Henderson had brown skin, a jowly face, and was built like a fireplug. “Nothing good,” Henderson replied gloomily. “Most of them suffered a significant amount of damage. And, like us, are going through social turmoil as a result. Sweden broke away from the EU, Muslim extremists took over a large section of France, and the government of Germany imposed martial law.”

“That works for me,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. Four-star General Herman Jones was a Marine from the top of his closely cropped head down to the toes of his extremely shiny shoes. “I’m in favor of anything that keeps the Europeans busy. Otherwise, one or more of them might form an alliance with the Confederacy.”

Henderson nodded. “Fortunately, that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Russia took some serious hits, and they’re busy gobbling up all of the ex-Soviet states, plus anything else that isn’t nailed down. That’s going to be a big issue postreconstruction, but there isn’t anything we can do about it now.”

“The secretary is correct,” Martha Kip agreed. She was a fiftysomething blonde who had spent fifteen years in the CIA and five at the NSA before Sloan chose her as National Intelligence Director. “As for Iran,” she added, “we might see something good develop there. Indications are that the Grand Ayatollah is dying of cancer—and there’s a real possibility that a more progressive leader will succeed him.”

Sloan was just getting to know Kip but liked her style. He turned to Henderson. “I know you’re thin on the ground, but let’s get ready to take advantage of the change if the Ayatollah dies, and a more amenable person takes his place.” Henderson nodded as he scribbled something on a pad.

Sloan made eye contact with Jones. “How about the war, General? Do you have anything new to report?”

“General Hern has been able to hold on to every square foot of territory we’ve taken,” Jones answered proudly. “That said, we’re stalled just north of the Mississippi state line.”

It was the very thing that Sloan feared. A long, grinding war that would take a terrible toll on both sides and leave the country vulnerable to external threats. In an effort to end the war quickly, Sloan had approved an airborne assault deep into enemy-held territory, where he hoped to seize an oil-storage facility and establish a foothold. Unfortunately, that effort had been a colossal failure. Sloan still had nightmares about it.

So what to do? Grind away? Or press the Joint Chiefs for a new strategy? Sloan made a mental note to speak with Jones privately. “My compliments to General Hern,” Sloan said. “Please tell him how much I appreciate his efforts. We will, needless to say, continue to monitor the situation. What else have we got?”

Attorney General Allston cleared his throat. “The preliminary report regarding the assassination attempt is in, Mr. President, and the findings are significantly different from what we expected.”

Sloan’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”

“Based on what the FBI has been able to piece together, the assassins weren’t rebels,” Allston replied. “They were members of an obscure religious cult associated with a man who calls himself the warlord of warlords.”

Sloan was well aware of the fact that while his government had succeeded in restoring law and order to many areas of the country, that wasn’t true everywhere. Criminal gangs, led by self-styled “warlords,” had taken advantage of the chaos to carve out personal kingdoms. It was a problem that hadn’t been fully addressed because of the war. “Okay, who is this guy? And why does he want to kill me?”

“His name is Robert Howard,” Allston answered. “He’s an ex–army noncom who, according to various sources, is very charismatic. So much so that he runs his own religious cult. Based on his military experience and personality, he controls most of north-central Wyoming.

“As for why he wants you dead, the answer is simple . . . Howard can see the handwriting on the wall. Once the federal government is fully restored, it will turn its attention to him. And he wants to maintain the status quo.”

Sloan turned to Jones. “Are we working this?”

The general shook his head. “Not really, Mr. President. Most of our assets are pointed south.”

“I get that,” Sloan replied, “but we need to squash this bug. Not because of the attack on me—but for the citizens of Wyoming.”

Jones nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Sloan turned his attention to Besom. “What about optics, Doyle? What’s the flavor of the day?”

Besom stirred. “With very few exceptions, the press corps assumed that the assassins were rebels, Mr. President. So their stories are slanted in that direction. The general effect has been to demonize the Confederacy.”

“So how will we correct that?”

Besom’s eyes bulged. “Correct it? I don’t understand.”

Sloan frowned. “Shouldn’t we set the record straight?”

“Hell no,” Wendy Chow responded. “Not yet anyway.” The White House Chief of Staff had been on the job for less than a month. But her tough “I don’t suffer fools gladly” persona had already made itself felt.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Reggie,” Chow continued. “But we never pointed the finger at the Confederacy . . . We said that an investigation was under way. I think we should leave it at that for a few weeks. Then we can issue a report.”

Sloan knew that he should force his staff to tell the truth. He also knew that there was a need to cement public support for the war. And, if the public believed that the Confederates were behind the assassination attempt, that would help. He let the matter ride. The meeting droned on.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

Second Lieutenant Thomas Lyle was something of a surprise. Rather than the fuzz-faced kid Mac had expected, Lyle was a hard-edged veteran who’d spent six years in the army prior to graduating from OCS. Mac, Lyle, and Haskell were geared up and standing next to Stryker one-two as the light continued to fade. “Okay,” Mac said. “Any last-minute questions?”

“Yes,” Lyle said with a straight face. “Can I have my mommy?”

Mac laughed, and Haskell stared. “Too late for that,” Mac replied. “Let’s haul ass.” With Mac in one-one, Lyle in one-two, and Haskell in one-three—every vehicle would have a leader even if the others were lost.

Once the officers were inside their respective vehicles, the ramps came up, and the mission began. Mac didn’t like being cooped up in a steel box, especially one that stank of sweat and hydraulic fluid. So she made her way forward to the point where she could stand on a filthy seat and stick her head up through an air-guard hatch. The Stryker was in motion by then—and the ride was smooth when compared to other military vehicles.

After rolling through the inner perimeter, the Strykers had to pass through a buffer zone prior to exiting the base via a heavily guarded gate. It wasn’t dark yet, and Mac waved at a sentry. He waved back.

The truck’s commander was a noncom named Lamm . . . And Mac heard the usual high-pitched whine as he put his foot on the accelerator. The house where General Revell’s lover lived was out in the country. The plan was to swing wide, go off road, and use the cover of darkness to reach the objective without engaging the enemy.

Would someone notice the vehicles? Yes, of course they would. But given all the military activity in the area, Mac didn’t think the locals would report the Strykers. Even if they did, what could the caller say? “Something drove through my pasture.” Maybe the rebs would respond, but it didn’t seem likely.

Lamm could see the manually loaded route on his nav system and didn’t require directions from Mac. That left her free to eyeball the surrounding countryside. It had a greenish glow thanks to her night-vision gear, and there wasn’t much to see other than the widely separated lights belonging to people who were ignoring the blackout. And that was fine with Mac.

The next twenty minutes were spent pursuing a zigzag course that took the Strykers to within a mile of the constantly shifting front line. Then, confident that friendly forces could see their identification friend or foe (IFF) signals, Lamm sent BULLY BOY through a fence and into a field.

Mac was forced to hang on with both hands as the truck bucked over a rock and headed downslope to what was supposed to be a shallow stream. And if it wasn’t? They’d be screwed. But the rebs wouldn’t expect Union vehicles to use the streambed as a road.

The stream was shallow but thick with water-smoothed rocks, and Mac was thrown every which way as all eight wheels fought for a purchase. When Mac looked back over her shoulder, she took comfort from the fact that two sets of taped headlights were following along behind. So far, so good.

As Mac turned forward, she saw a head-high obstruction coming straight at her, and heard Lamm yell, “Duck!” Mac realized that the vic (vehicle) was going to pass under a bridge as she dropped into the cargo compartment. That was when she felt the Stryker jerk, heard a muffled bang, and realized how lucky she’d been. Fortunately, the soldier who’d been standing in the rear hatch had heard the warning as well. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

Mac returned the gesture before going topside again. The light machine gun mounted forward of the air-guard hatch was still there, but the .50 cal and the remote weapons station had been sheared off, along with one of two whip-style antennas.

The vic rocked from side to side as it powered its way through a rock garden. The transmission dropped into a lower gear as Lamm drove up a sloping bank and into the adjoining field. Mac had seen drone footage of their route and didn’t remember seeing a bridge. Shit! They were lost. “Lamm . . . That bridge shouldn’t have been there. We took a wrong turn somewhere. Tell the others that we’re going to pull up and kill the lights.”

Mac ducked down into the cargo bay, where four amped-up Green Berets stared at her. “No problem,” she assured them. “I’m checking our twenty . . . We’ll be off and running in a minute or two.”

The rebs had taken control of the country’s nav sats early on and were encrypting all of the signals. That meant Mac couldn’t rely on GPS to find her location. But she had a fistful of maps collected from the battalion’s Intel officer the day before, and one of them was titled HISTORICALLANDMARKS, RUTHERFORDCOUNTY, TENNESSEE. It was the sort of cartoony map often found in motels but might help her to get oriented. And sure enough . . . As Mac scanned the map, she spotted the bridge that, according to the caption, had been the site of a skirmish during the first civil war.

By comparing the historical map to a road map, Mac managed to figure things out. After going off road, Lamm had turned south into the first streambed he’d come to rather than waiting for the second one and entering that. But if they turned east, and crossed the streambed they’d left, the task force could get back on track.

Mac took the maps forward to share with Lamm. His face fell once he realized the mistake. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I screwed up.”

Mac knew Lamm, and knew there was no need to chew him out. He would take care of that himself. “No prob,” she lied. “Shit happens. Warn the others. Let’s roll.”

Mac directed a reassuring smile to the green beanies before returning to her perch topside. She was acutely aware of the fact that one-one had been stripped of its most potent weapon, leaving it with two pintle-mounted M249 light machine guns for self-defense. And that was one more reason to avoid a shoot-out if she could.

BULLY BOY waddled over broken ground, dived into the streambed, and threw gravel as it powered up the opposite bank. Wires snapped as the Stryker broke through a fence and kept going. The terrain was fairly level until they entered the next stream, and Lamm took a right.

Mac was forced to hang on as the vic wobbled over another streambed filled with water-smoothed rocks. The other Strykers were close behind. After a quarter mile or so, Lamm turned and angled upwards before arriving on a flat spot next to a country road. That led to a stand of trees about half a mile from their objective. “Get off the highway and position the truck for a quick getaway,” Mac instructed.

Then, using her tactical radio, she gave the other truck commanders similar orders. The ramps went down the moment the vics were parked. That was Lieutenant Lyle’s opportunity to run a last-minute check on his troops. Then he came to see Mac. She was standing next to one-one’s hatch. A bar of light leaked sideways to illuminate the left side of her face. “I don’t expect a lot of resistance,” Lyle told her. “Revell won’t have much of an escort, assuming he’s there. How could he? Without everyone finding out what he’s been up to? So things should go smoothly.

“But,” Lyle continued, “if the poop hits the fan, and I tell you to haul ass, then do it. I’m aware of your reputation, Captain. And that includes the Silver Star. But if I say ‘go,’ it’s your duty to save as many people as you can. Do you read me?”

Mac was a captain, and Lyle was a lieutenant. So he couldn’t give her orders. But Mac understood. “I read you, Thomas.”

“It’s Tom. Only my mother calls me Thomas.”

Mac grinned. “Roger that, Thomas.”

Lyle chuckled, whispered something into his mike, and disappeared. At that point, all Mac had was six crew people to defend the vics. But what was, was. The waiting began.

Now that the engines were off, Mac could hear the distant rumble of artillery as North and South fought a war not that much different from World War II. Was her sister Victoria out there somewhere? Killing Union soldiers? And what about their father, General Bo Macintyre? The man who, both wittingly and unwittingly, had done so much to shape his daughters. Was he doing battle with his peers? The men and women with whom he had gone to West Point.

And then there was President Sloan. After fighting their way north from Mississippi together, they’d been forced to go their separate ways. He was an interesting man . . . A leader who would put his life on the line—even if he was something of a Boy Scout. But what’s wrong with Boy Scouts? Mac asked herself. The question went unanswered, as an engine was heard and a pair of headlights appeared. Mac held her breath as the pickup rolled past and vanished around a curve. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes since Lyle’s team vanished into the night?

Mac glanced at her watch. Only five minutes had passed, and it would be at least half an hour before the operators reached the house. Time seemed to slow.

Mac made the rounds, issued unnecessary orders, and generally made a pest of herself. It was either that or go stark raving mad.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Mac heard Lyle’s voice on the radio. She could hear him pant in between bursts of words. “Charlie-Six. We’re two out—no casualties—don’t shoot us. Over.”

Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief as she acknowledged the transmission. The team was safe! Nothing else mattered. Mac ordered the truck commanders to start their engines and drop their ramps. Lyle appeared out of the darkness seconds later. He was followed by two operators, with the general sandwiched between them.

The scene had a greenish hue, but Mac could see the duct tape that covered Revell’s mouth and how big his eyes were. “We caught him with his pants down,” Lyle announced.

“Load him onto one-two,” Mac ordered. “What about his bodyguards?”

“Dead,” Lyle replied flatly. “We had to smoke his mistress, too. She tried to shoot Corporal Fredrick with a pearl-handled .38.”

Mac wondered what the woman’s husband would think, put the thought aside, and was there to welcome the rest of the operators as they appeared out of the darkness. A noncom finished the count. “All present and accounted for, sir!”

Lyle nodded. “Load ’em. Let’s haul ass.”

The three-vehicle column was under way three minutes later. Given the possibility that the Strykers had been spotted earlier, and a trap set for them, Mac had ordered Lamm to use a different route for the return trip.

The route was calculated to take the vics through a suburb where very little combat had taken place on the theory that there wouldn’t be a lot of patrols in that area. Mac was standing in the air-guard hatch, and by tracking the unit’s progress on a map, she could ensure that Lamm was making the correct turns.

Everything went well at first. Thanks to her night-vision device, Mac could tell that they had left farm country for the burbs. Minimansions were visible on both sides of the two-lane road—most of which sat on at least an acre of land.

Lamm had to steer around shell craters as they passed through a small town. Some of the downtown area had been destroyed by a fire. Once they were clear of the business district, the Strykers entered the more densely populated area that lay beyond. Tract houses stood shoulder to shoulder, and the gated neighborhoods had fanciful names.

Mac figured they were about five miles out at the point where she spotted the roadblock. It was a casual affair that consisted of two Humvees and a squad of soldiers. A regular thing, then . . . Not the sort of heavily armed force the rebs would send to intercept the Union Strykers. She keyed her mike. “This is Bravo-Six . . . Blow through the roadblock and keep going. Two and three will engage the Humvees. Over.”

BULLY BOY came up on the roadblock seconds later. Mac fired the light machine gun mounted in front of her and saw sparks fly as her bullets glanced off a Humvee. That was when the one-one clipped the front of a Humvee and pushed it to the left.

The Confederates were quick to respond. A fusillade of bullets chased one-three, even as the Stryker’s gunner turned the remote-weapons station to the rear and fired the vic’s 40mm automatic grenade launcher. Explosions marched down the street.

The enemy soldiers weren’t easily deterred, however. The first Humvee was drivable and took off in hot pursuit. The driver veered right and left in an effort to avoid the exploding grenades even as his gunner fired the .50 that was mounted up top. The second Humvee was close behind but couldn’t fire without hitting the lead vehicle.

Mac swore and keyed her mike. The most important thing was to get Revell into Union-held territory, where the spooks could interrogate him. “This is Bravo-Six . . . One-two will pass one-one, and proceed to base. One-one and one-three will turn and engage. Execute. Over.”

Mac heard Lyle object, told him to shut up, and felt a sense of relief as one-two passed BULLY BOY and accelerated away. Lyle might be a second louie—but the truck commander reported to Mac.

Once two was clear, Mac ordered Lamm and one-three’s TC to part company at the next intersection, turn, and confront the oncoming Humvees. Both drivers managed to execute the maneuver perfectly. BULLY BOY was largely toothless without the .50 . . . But the vic had two LMGs. And the angle was such that both could fire.

One-one was beginning to take rounds from a Confederate .50, when Second Lieutenant Marvin Haskell stood on top of one-three. He was holding an AT4 launcher on his right shoulder, and the range was short. The rocket flew straight and true. A flash of light marked the hit. The Humvee bucked and blew up. Mac felt the shock wave.

Maybe Haskell saw that . . . And maybe he didn’t, as a stream of bullets swept across the top of one-three and dumped him into the street.

Every weapon that one-one and one-three could bring to bear was focused on the remaining Humvee at that point, and it shook as a hail of grenades and bullets struck it. Something gave, a gout of flame shot straight up, and the vehicle came to a sudden stop. Two rebs jumped out, but one of them was on fire.

“Let them go,” Mac ordered. She could see that one-three’s ramp was down and knew why. Mac watched as dimly seen figures carried something up and into the cargo compartment. The first platoon wasn’t about to leave their CO behind even if he was the most serious son of a bitch in the army.

It was wrong in a way, since even the slightest delay could prove costly. But there was a rule: “Leave no man behind.” And Mac believed in it. So she waited for one-three’s ramp to come up before giving the order. “This is Six. One-one will take point. Let’s haul ass. Over.”

The final leg of the trip went smoothly, thanks to the platoon of Union tanks that surged into enemy territory at the last minute, thereby opening a hole through which the first Stryker could pass. But things were beginning to heat up by the time Mac and the rest of her command passed through fifteen minutes later. And the tanks were happy to pull back the moment they could.

One-two’s return to base was somewhat anticlimactic to hear Lyle tell about it. A delegation of spooks was waiting to hustle General Revell onto a helo, which took off a few minutes later. All without so much as a “thank-you.” Neither one of them was surprised. Both had been in the army too long for that.

After chatting with Lyle for a few minutes, Mac excused herself and made her way across the tarmac to the motor pool. The first platoon was gathered around a burn barrel. Lamm shouted, “Ten-hut!”

Mac said, “As you were,” and could feel the sadness in the air. A sergeant offered her a stool—and a private gave her a cup of coffee. It was laced with rum. Drinking on duty was forbidden, but the troops knew that Mac would understand. They had gathered to say good-bye to Haskell . . . And a drink was in order.

Stories were told about the lieutenant, about the fact that he never laughed at jokes and could quote lengthy passages from army maintenance manuals. And there were other anecdotes, too. Like how he helped Private Kai cram for a test, the day his pet rat got loose in one-four, and his fear of hypodermic needles.

And as Mac listened, she realized how little she’d known about the young man who, when push came to shove, was a badass hero. Could she capture that? For the letter she would write to his parents? She’d try.

It was noon by the time Mac made it back to her quarters, only to find that a note was taped to the door. “Major Granger wants to see you.”

Mac sighed, turned around, and went outside. Shafts of sunlight angled down through broken clouds to turn the slush into water. Mac stomped her boots on the porch outside the command shack prior to going in. Woods was on duty and nodded. “It’s good to have you back, Captain . . . Dr. Havers is with the major now. It won’t be long.”

The prediction was borne out when the medical officer stormed out of the shack three minutes later. Why? Because Havers liked to put in requests for impossible things, that’s why . . . Like a full-on MRI unit for his dispensary. Mac knew because the doctor had to submit the requests to her first. She got up and went in.

After returning Mac’s salute, Granger made a face. “That son of a bitch is crazy. Have a seat.”

Mac sat down. “Sir, yes, sir. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. First, congratulations on a job well done. The Intel people are thrilled! I’m sorry about Haskell.”

“I am, too,” Mac said simply. “You heard what he did?”

“Yes,” Granger answered. “That was very brave. If you want to write a rec, I’ll sign it. Maybe we can get him a Bronze Star.”

“I’d be happy to,” Mac said.

“Good. That brings us to item two. Some bastard at HQ cut a set of orders for you.”

“Orders? What kind of orders?”

“It’s a temporary assignment to a counterinsurgency battalion in Wyoming. It seems they have a warlord problem out there, and this outfit is supposed to cap him.”

“But why me?”

Granger shrugged. “Because you were a mercenary? And a mercenary isn’t all that different from a warlord? Or because your last name starts with M? How the hell would I know?”

Granger was pissed, and Mac knew why. The army was borrowing his XO but had no intention of giving him a replacement. A platoon leader would be named to run Bravo Company while she was gone. But neither one of them was ready to play XO. And that meant more work for Granger. “Who’s the CO?” Mac inquired.

“His name is Wes Crowley,” Granger replied. “We were in the same class at West Point. He graduated 998 out of 1,011 cadets.”

Mac’s eyebrows rose. “And he’s in command of a battalion?”

Granger made a face. “Yes, he is . . . With the temporary rank of lieutenant colonel. He’d been sidelined prior to the meteor strike. But now, what with the war, they’re giving him another chance.

“That said,” Granger continued, “don’t get the wrong idea. In spite of the fact that Wes wasn’t the best student at West Point—he’s got a talent for war. Something he demonstrated more than once in Afghanistan.”

“Sir,” Mac said, “I’m going to resign my commission and open a café. I will put that in writing and submit it later today.”

Granger laughed. “Don’t waste your time, Captain. You’re going to Wyoming. Give Crazy Crowley my best.”

ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

The train was Doyle Besom’s idea—and Sloan had been resistant at first. Why ride a train if you could fly? Even if Air Force One was grounded frequently due to poor weather.

But Besom was a clever son of a bitch, and knew Sloan was an amateur historian. So once the press secretary reminded him of the way in which President Lincoln used train trips to build public support, Sloan became more interested. And now, after dozens of well-publicized stops, he had a new appreciation for an old method of politicking.

Sloan felt the train slow as it pulled into Union Depot Station. As Sloan looked out the window, he saw a large crowd waiting for him. That was in stark contrast to the thinly attended events held on his behalf months before.

Sloan was scanning his stump speech, looking for places where he could make mention of Minneapolis–St. Paul, when his Chief of Staff entered the compartment. She was dressed in a blue business suit, and her black hair was cut pageboy style, with bangs that hung down to her eyebrows. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but Secretary Henderson is here . . . He’d like to speak with you.”

Sloan frowned. “George is here? That’s a surprise. Of course. Send him in.”

Chow opened the door, waited for Henderson to enter, and withdrew. Sloan stood and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, George . . . What’s up?”

“Nothing good,” Henderson replied, as they shook hands.

Sloan sighed. “Okay, have a seat. Lay it on me.”

Henderson sank into a well-padded chair. “It’s about Canada, Mr. President.”

“Canada? What about it?”

“Canada invaded the United States just before dawn this morning. Or, more specifically, Canadian troops invaded the state of Maine.”

Sloan laughed. “Get serious.”

“I am serious,” Henderson replied. “General Jones will brief you soon. He’s on his way . . . But I wanted to make sure you received news of the incursion before you gave your speech. So the American people can hear it from you.”

“Thank you, but Maine? Just Maine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But why?” Sloan demanded. “Don’t the Canadians have enough maple syrup?”

Henderson offered a weak smile. “I don’t know for sure, Mr. President. They haven’t said. But two possibilities come to mind. First, it could be a land grab, pure and simple. The current government is both conservative and nationalistic.”

“Okay,” Sloan said. “And the second possibility is?”

“The second possibility stems from the first,” Henderson replied. “According to a report from the CIA, Confederate diplomats were spotted in Ottawa recently. And the libertarian principles espoused by CEO Lemaire’s government are quite similar to those put forward by Canada’s newly elected prime minister.”

Sloan knew the “libertarian principles” that Henderson referred to would transform landed citizens into “shareowners” who would “own” a portion of the country. Corporations, which were people according to Lemaire, could buy shares and vote them. All in the name of “free markets.”

“So you’re saying that the two governments are in cahoots?” Sloan demanded. “Anything’s possible, I guess . . . But why attack Maine?”

“General Jones has a theory about that,” Henderson replied. “He thinks it’s a way to suck resources away from General Hern—making it easier for the Confederates to hold the line south of Murfreesboro.”

Sloan considered that. The second theory made sense. If he ignored the attack on Maine, it would seem as if he’d written the state off, thereby alienating the entire country. Yet by sending troops to Maine, he’d weaken General Hern’s forces, and that’s what the Confederates wanted him to do. If true, it was a brilliant stroke on their part . . . And one he was completely unprepared for.

What about the rest of the almost four-thousand-mile-long border with Canada? All of it was undefended. The Canucks could launch a dozen mini-invasions if they wanted to . . . And Sloan would have to respond to each one.

The crowd on the platform was waving signs and chanting his name. What would he tell them? How would they react? Why was he so stupid? Someone should have been thinking about Canada . . . And that someone was him.

2

Of all those in the army close to the commander none is more intimate than the secret agent; of all rewards none more liberal than those given to secret agents; of all matters none is more confidential than those relating to secret operations.

–SUN TZU

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

The air should have been eighty-five degrees instead of sixty-five. But that’s how things were now that less sunlight reached the surface of the planet. Still, the cooler air would make for a comfortable run. Not a long one, just 3.15 miles around an oval-shaped course located just off Sadowski Road.

The run was a daily ritual . . . something Victoria Macintyre did each morning before taking a shower and reporting to work at Fort Hood’s Special Forces Command.

As Victoria ran, she heard the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of feet coming up from behind her and pulled over to let the fast mover by. Except that he didn’t pass, and when she turned to look, Victoria saw that General Bo Macintyre was running next to her. Her father had a high forehead, arched eyebrows, and intense eyes. His typical “I don’t give a shit” grin was firmly in place. “I knew I could find you here . . . You’re way too predictable. That could get you killed.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Of course it would,” he answered. “Good officers are hard to find.”

And that, Victoria knew, was as mushy as any conversation with her father was going to get. That was fine with her. They knew what they knew, and there was no need to discuss it constantly. Would Robin agree? No, she liked the gushy stuff.

Bo began to pull ahead, just as he always did, trying to finish first. Victoria knew that her sister Robin would allow him to beat her, and Bo would resent it. He wanted to win fair and square or not at all. So Victoria increased her pace, blew past him, and left her father in the dust. She was sitting on a bench when he finished the run. He plopped down beside her. “I’m getting old.”

Victoria nodded. “And cantankerous.”

“I’ve always been cantankerous.”

“True . . . I can’t argue with that.”

Bo smiled. “I have orders for you.” Victoria reported to a colonel, who reported to Bo and was careful to stay out of the way.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“There’s a warlord in Wyoming. His name is Robert Howard. He was a Green Beret before the meteor strikes. Then he went over the hill—and took two of his buddies with him. Now he calls himself the warlord of warlords, and he controls a large chunk of north-central Wyoming. More than that,” Bo added, “Howard claims to be the reincarnated spirit of Subutai.”

Victoria frowned. “Genghis Khan’s chief strategist.”

“Exactly,” Bo said approvingly. “As Subutai, Howard claims to be the spiritual nexus around whom other members of Khan’s horde are supposed to organize prior to fighting a war for world dominance. That’s when the Khan will return to rule them. It’s total bullshit, needless to say, but an idiot is born every minute.”

Victoria eyed him. “Okay, and we care because?”

“We care because Howard is, and could continue to be, a destabilizing force. For example, Howard sent suicide bombers to kill Sloan a week ago and damned near succeeded.”

Victoria nodded. “According to the Intel summary, Sloan killed two people himself.”

“The man has balls,” Bo admitted. “And he’s a bigger problem than Lemaire thought he’d be.”

“Okay, I get it,” Victoria replied. “Howard is a good thing. For the moment at least.”

“Correct,” her father confirmed. “So the general staff wants you to go up there, give Howard a present, and make nice. The more resources he sucks away from General Hern’s army, the better. Hern is a grinder . . . Once he takes a yard of ground, he tends to hold it . . . And we need a way to weaken him.”

“Kind of like the Canadian attack on Maine.”

“Exactly like the Canadian attack on Maine.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Written orders are waiting in your office.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s one other thing, Victoria . . . Something you need to know. The Union wasn’t paying much attention to Howard, but they are now, and that includes assembling a battalion to go after him.”

Victoria shrugged. “That’s predictable.”

“Yes, it is,” her father replied. “But there’s something more. We have an agent in that battalion . . . And, according to him, your sister has orders to join the unit.”

Victoria knew that Robin was fighting for the Union and that they had been within miles of each other in Murfreesboro. She frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because even though Robin was too lazy to attend the academy, and went to OCS, she’s had more than her share of success as a cavalry officer. Robin was the one they sent to rescue Sloan from the fuck-up in Richton . . . And she pulled it off. She’s dangerous, Victoria . . . Don’t underestimate her.”

Victoria felt a swirl of conflicting emotions. This was the first time she’d heard her father express approval of her sister since the day Robin graduated from high school, and it didn’t sit well. She was Bo’s favorite and wanted it to stay that way. “Don’t worry, sir,” Victoria said, as she switched to being a major again. “If I run into Robin, I will take her very seriously indeed.”

CASPER, WYOMING

The Osprey V-22 banked as it passed over Casper, Wyoming. The aircraft didn’t have windows, but the rear hatch was open, which allowed Mac to catch glimpses of the ground. What had been a small city to begin with was even smaller after the cholera epidemic had decimated the population two months earlier.

The pain and misery associated with that wasn’t visible from the air, however . . . And as the VTOL continued to make a wide, sweeping turn—Mac had the impression of orderly streets, bare-limbed trees, and occasional patches of dirty snow. Then she got a glimpse of what must be Fort Carney. The makeshift military base was adjacent to a fire-ravaged housing development south of town. An array of antennas marked the center of the fort and were located next to what looked like a mound of dirt but probably marked the location of an underground command center.

That was surrounded by a ring of prefab buildings, some of which were vehicle shelters. A spiderweb-like network of roads and trenches led out to the vehicle-mounted surface-to-air missile launchers that would protect the base from unmanned drones, low-flying fixed-wing aircraft, and helicopters. And all of it was protected by a forty-foot-long wall of shipping containers.

They were made of steel, and the tops of the rectangular boxes had been removed so that they could be filled with tons of dirt. Mac knew that such containers were approximately eight feet wide. That meant the wall could withstand just about anything fired directly at it. And with machine-gun emplacements on top of the barrier and mortar pits behind it, Fort Carney would be a tough nut to crack. “Check your seat belts,” a voice said over the intercom, “we’re thirty from dirt.”

The engines tilted up, and what had been a plane became a helicopter. The Osprey landed hard, and the rotors were responsible for a momentary dust storm. Mac was content to let the engines spool down before releasing the harness and getting to her feet. “Don’t worry about your bags, ma’am,” the crew chief told her. “We’ll send them over to the BOQ.”

Mac thanked him, took her M4 carbine, and made her way down the ramp. A lieutenant was waiting to greet her. He was wearing a black Stetson like those worn by cavalrymen in the 1800s. It was covered with a fine patina of dust and decorated with crossed sabers and a gold cord. Being a cavalry officer, Mac knew that such hats weren’t authorized. But some unit commanders would tolerate them for the sake of morale, and it appeared that Lieutenant Colonel Crowley was one of them.

The lieutenant came to attention and saluted. “Good morning, ma’am. Lieutenant Bobby Perkins at your service . . . I’m one of your platoon leaders and the acting company commander. Welcome to Fort Carney.”

Mac returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant . . . My name is Robin Macintyre. But I suppose you knew that. Where do I report?”

“The colonel would like to meet with you, ma’am . . . Please follow me.”

The officers fell into step as they left the landing pad and made their way toward the mound located in the middle of the compound. Had Perkins been hoping for a bump to captain? And the slot as Bravo Company’s CO? If so, Mac couldn’t see any sign of it on his face. “I see our personnel are wearing Stetsons,” Mac observed, as a private crossed their path. “Is this a special day?”

“No, ma’am,” Perkins replied. “We wear them every day.”

That was strange but in keeping with what Granger had told her about Lieutenant Colonel Crowley. And there was something else as well. “Tell me about your shoulder patch,” Mac said. “The one with Uncle Sam on it.”

Perkins glanced at her. “The battalion consists of people like me. All of us are from the South, but we oppose the New Order and came north to fight for our country. That’s why we were authorized to wear the patch. The government doesn’t trust us, though. So they dropped us into a single battalion and sent it here.”

Perkins’s voice had been flat up until then. But some bitterness was starting to come through. “Wyoming is a long way from the New Mason-Dixon Line,” he added. “So if we run, they’ll have plenty of time in which to track us down.”

When Mac stopped, Perkins had to do likewise. Their eyes met. “Is that why they sent for me? Because they don’t trust you?”

Perkins looked away. “I’m sorry, ma’am . . . I was out of line. Please accept my apologies.”

“Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

Perkins looked at her. His eyes were green. “Yes, ma’am. As things stand now, none of the Southern volunteers are allowed to command a company. Even if they had that level of responsibility prior to the meteor strikes.”

“I see,” Mac replied. “Thanks for the briefing.”

“Bravo Company, which is to say your company, is ready for anything, Captain. You can depend on us.”

“I will,” Mac promised him. “What kind of vehicles do we have?”

“Strykers, ma’am. Three for each platoon. Plus a couple of Humvees, a fueler, and a wrecker.”

Mac nodded. “Good. After I meet with the colonel, I’d like to make the rounds. Nothing formal . . . Just a ‘Hi, there.’”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be ready.”

A sergeant saluted the officers as they neared the mound, and they responded in kind. As they got closer, Mac was surprised to see that two soldiers were guarding the entrance. “You’ll need to show ID,” Perkins said as he produced a card.

“Why? We’re inside the wall.”

“Suicide bombers,” Perkins replied. “Crazy people who believe that Robert Howard is the reincarnated spirit of Genghis Khan’s XO. And, since they believe in reincarnation, they aren’t afraid to die. One of them managed to roll under a six-by-six, cling to the frame, and infiltrate the base a couple of weeks ago. She was two hundred feet from the command post when her vest exploded prematurely.”

“Okay, then,” Mac said as she proffered her card. “Suicide bombers, check.”

Once inside, Perkins led Mac down a ramp into the spacious room below. The lighting was dim, live drone feeds could be seen on flat-panel displays, and the atmosphere conveyed a sense of hushed efficiency.

Perkins led Mac around the circular “war pit” to a side room. It was separated from the pit by a curtain that consisted of long leather strips. A wooden block was attached to the wall under a plaque that read, LIEUTENANTCOLONELWESLEYCROWLEY.

Perkins rapped his knuckles on the block, and Mac heard a voice say, “Enter.”

Perkins stepped inside first, came to attention, and announced himself. Then it was Mac’s turn. “Captain Robin Macintyre, reporting for duty, sir.”

Crowley was seated behind a wood table. His neck-length blond hair was way out of compliance with regs and parted in the middle. And, while the army didn’t allow mustaches or goatees, Crowley had one of each.