Уильям Дитц: Battle Hymn

Sloan winced as he slip-slid past the point where the charge had gone off. A body lay in a patch of blackened snow—and a badly mangled arm pointed the way. Sloan felt something cold clutch his stomach. Would he be next? Why not me? Sloan asked himself. Maybe it’s my turn.

As soon as the platoon arrived on level ground, it began to move more quickly. Speed was of the essence. Especially if the enemy knew they were coming. A hill rose to the right and forced them to circle around it. There were still no signs of an enemy response, which gave Sloan reason to hope that the explosion had gone unnoticed.

His knees were on fire by then, and Sloan wanted to rest. Five minutes would be enough. But no, that wouldn’t be possible until they arrived at Kirtland. And there was no way in hell that he would request something the other soldiers couldn’t have.

After crossing a large open area, the platoon arrived at an unplowed road. Sloan had studied a map of the area and knew it was Pennsylvania Street NE, a street that would lead them to Kirtland AFB. And that was good. The fully loaded pack and TAC vest were starting to make themselves known, and Sloan’s shoulders had begun to ache, a sure sign that he should work out more often.

Not Lieutenant Orson, though… he fell out of line occasionally and let the rest of them pass before shuffling up to the head of the column again. Why? To check on his soldiers, that’s why. Because they were his responsibility. And Sloan admired him for it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the vague outlines of buildings began to appear through the veil of steadily falling snow. There were what might have been fuel tanks off to one side. And even though the very top of the com tower was lost in the grayness up above, Sloan could make out the bottom third of the structure, along with the equipment shed nearby.

The only tracks were those left by the people in front of Sloan, and that was promising. If the enemy knew the force was there, surely they would have come out to fight by now?

Orson led the platoon through a shattered door into what had been a fitness facility. After posting sentries, the platoon leader told the rest of his soldiers to take a bio break. It felt good to remove the snowshoes. A couple of Green Beanies followed Sloan as he went out to take a pee. It was annoying, not to mention intimidating, but there was nothing he could do about it.

By the time Sloan reentered the gym, the rest of the battalion was preparing for the final push. He wanted to pester Colonel Barkley but knew it would be counterproductive and managed to restrain himself.

Sloan took the opportunity to mingle instead. All of the troops knew who he was, and most were willing to talk. And that was part of the mission Press Secretary Besom had given him. “Shoot the shit with the troops,” Besom said. “They’ll write home about it, some of their anecdotes will appear in the hometown paper, and you’ll score some points.”

Sloan knew that “points” were important with an election coming up in a few months. But he wanted to talk to the soldiers and took pleasure in doing so. He was busy chatting with a tech from Iowa when Colonel Barkley appeared at his side. “Sorry to interrupt, Private… Can I borrow the president for a moment?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the soldier replied, and drifted away.

Barkley was a little under six feet tall. Sloan figured the officer was in her forties. But she looked older because of her prematurely gray hair and the damage that years spent in the field had done to her face. Barkley’s eyes were gray and fearless. “So far, so good, Mr. President. Thanks for making the rounds. The troops like you, and no wonder. Lots of politicians claim to love the military but wouldn’t dream of risking their own lives.”

“It’s an honor to be here,” Sloan replied. “Are we running on schedule?”

Barkley nodded. “The other battalions are in position and ready to move out. After we depart, we’ll double-time our way up to the main terminal. Chief Natonaba and his people will launch a feint on my command. Then, if everything goes as planned, the attack will pull most of the rebs over to the north side of the building. That’s when we’ll force our way in.” Barkley shrugged. “Who knows how things will go after that.”

“Yeah,” Sloan said. “Who knows?”

Barkley smiled. “So, you’re ready?”

“As ready as a desk jockey can be.”

“Good. Please do me a favor, Mr. President.”

“Sure, name it.”

“Don’t get killed. It would be bad for my career.” With that, Barkley turned and walked away.

Sloan laughed, and was still grinning, as Orson led the platoon out into the snow. They began to jog. The local guide led the way through a maze of buildings and over onto what Sloan knew to be the airport’s north runway. A single set of tire tracks was visible. A perimeter patrol? Yes, that would make sense. But, thanks to the poor visibility, the rebs hadn’t been able to spot the white-clad invaders.

There were no indications that planes had been arriving or departing, however. And that was to be expected. The airport was shut down except for the rare C-17 loaded with critical supplies. The platoon passed a wrecked plane, though… A passenger jet perhaps? Caught on the ground when the city fell? Most likely. A white shroud covered its remains.

Sloan was tired by then. He was a runner… But most runners don’t carry fifty-pound packs. His breath came in short gasps, and it was hard to keep up with the 120-pound private in front of him. She was carrying fifty pounds, too… And showed no signs of flagging.

The runway lights were off, consistent with the citywide blackout imposed by the Confederates. But cracks of light could be seen around the edges of the terminal’s windows and hinted at life within. Sloan was trying to imagine the scene inside the building when muffled explosions were heard. He knew that was the diversion… The one intended to pull rebs over to the north side of the terminal building.

Night turned to day as the airport’s lights came on. Suddenly, the column of soldiers was fully lit and exposed to machine-gun fire that originated from the top of the terminal building and some ground-level pillboxes. Soldiers fell as streams of tracer converged ahead of Sloan. He went to one knee and returned fire. A rooftop machine gun fell silent as a rocket struck it.

“Follow me!” Lieutenant Orson shouted as he led the platoon to a door. A noncom ran forward. He was armed with a shotgun and fired two breaching rounds into the lock. The door sagged, and the sergeant pushed it out of the way.

Orson was the first person through the doorway, and the first to fall, as a reb fired half a magazine into the officer’s lower extremities. The next soldier killed the Confederate, only to be cut down himself.

That was when Sloan found himself standing in the entryway. He’d fought before and been to the range since. The M4 carbine seemed to fire itself. Someone was screaming epithets at the Confederates as they fell. And it wasn’t until all of them were down that Sloan realized the truth. The steady stream of obscenities had originated from him .

Now, with no one in front of him, Sloan yelled, “Follow me!” A flight of stairs led to the first floor. And Sloan was halfway there when two Green Berets passed him. A body came tumbling down as one of them fired upwards.

Then the Union soldiers hurried up to the main floor, where a metal door barred further progress. “I have the code,” the sergeant with the shotgun said. Three blasts from the twelve-gauge were required to get the job done, and Sloan was the fourth person to enter the terminal through the door marked GATE 11. He expected to encounter resistance, but the waiting area was empty. The persistent rattle of gunfire could be heard in the distance, however, and Sloan’s thoughts were with the hostages.