Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Mrs. LeMay’s eyes grew larger. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Mac insisted. “For all I know, that casket is filled with rocks, and your husband is at home sipping bourbon.”

Everson looked at Mac with a newfound sense of respect. “I never thought of that.”

Mrs. LeMay made no attempt to conceal her disgust. “Daddy was right… Yankees are pigs. Go ahead. Do what you will. I have no choice, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” Mac agreed. “And it will be necessary to search your home as well.”

Mrs. LeMay turned away. “Take my arm, Natalie. You’ve been standing for too long. I have a nice chair waiting for you. Would you like a glass of water?”

Mac looked at Sergeant Preston. “Open the casket.”

The noncom obeyed. And, as the lid was lifted, a body was revealed. It was that of a middle-aged man dressed in a blue suit. A blue-edged hole marked the exact center of his pale forehead. Mac turned to Everson. “Well? Is that Colonel LeMay?”

Everson nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s him all right.”

Mac turned to Preston. “Take photos and cut his left ear off.”

Preston was aghast. “You’re kidding?”

Mac frowned. “Why don’t people believe the things I say? No, I’m not kidding. Stand with your back to the crowd so people can’t see what you’re doing.”

To Preston’s credit, he was fast. Once the photos had been taken, he cut LeMay’s left ear off and wrapped a battle dressing around it. The package formed a bulge in a cargo pocket. “Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s return to the vehicles.”

It seemed as if Mrs. LeMay’s anger was contagious, because the soldiers were on the receiving end of some nasty looks as they exited the cemetery. “What about Mrs. LeMay?” Everson inquired. “Aren’t you going to arrest her?”

“The colonel got what he deserved,” Mac said, without looking at him. “We’ll let the sheriff handle it.”

The STEEL BITCHpreceded the other vehicles to the turnaround at the end of the road. Three vehicles were parked there, including a Stryker that bore Confederate markings. The one LeMay used to escape the battle? Of course.

And the fact that LeMay had chosen to leave it at the turnaround suggested that it was too heavy for the wooden drawbridge. Or LeMay thought so, and Mac saw no reason to question his judgment.

With that in mind, Mac left half of her tiny command at the parking area, with Lieutenant Collins in command, and led the rest of them across the bridge. The house was a stately two-story affair, complete with white columns and a sweeping porch.

The front door was unlocked, and when Sergeant Preston pushed it open, a bell jangled. That brought a woman in a maid’s uniform out from somewhere deep within the house. She frowned. “This is Colonel LeMay’s home! You have no business here. Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac told her. “We won’t be here long. Lyons, take this woman into custody. Sergeant, search the house. You know what we’re looking for. I’ll check the study.”

The office was to the left off the foyer. It was furnished with an ancient desk, walls hung with memorabilia, and shelves loaded with books. It took Mac less than a minute to locate a briefcase that contained a laptop, a thick sheaf of Excel spreadsheets, and a variety of other documents pertaining to LeMay’s battalion.

Mac placed all of it in a cardboard box, which she carried out into the hall, where the angry maid was waiting. Sergeant Preston looked out of place as he descended the broad staircase. A couple of soldiers followed. “There’s nothing of interest upstairs, ma’am.”

Mac nodded. “Let’s haul ass before people arrive for the wake.”

“Roger that,” Preston said enthusiastically. “They might come after the ear.”

The trip back to the Choctaw Oil Reserve went smoothly. Not a shot was fired. Maybe, Mac thought, they’ll send us north to keep the peace in a city like Vicksburg. Or, better yet, leave the battalion where it is. A vacation so to speak… While the war plays itself out. The idea pleased her, and Mac smiled.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan was seated at his desk staring at page 12 of a tasking order titled: “Operation Exodus.” He’d read every word of it three times. More than that, he’d studied the text looking for anything that didn’t make sense or might be missing. Like the extra helicopter that could have made the critical difference during the Iran hostage-rescue attempt in April of 1980.

Eight helicopters had been sent to the first staging area, but only five arrived in good condition. One developed hydraulic problems, a second was exposed to a cloud of extremely fine sand, and a third had a cracked rotor blade. Or what might have been a cracked rotor blade.

During the planning stage, it was decided to abort the mission if fewer than six helicopters remained operational, even though it was agreed that four aircraft would have been sufficient to carry out the mission. But when military commanders asked President Carter for permission to abort, he agreed.

Then, as the rescue team prepared to depart, a helicopter crashed into a transport loaded with military personnel and jet fuel. The resulting inferno destroyed both aircraft and killed eight servicemen. It was the sort of disaster that Sloan feared.

But no, the president told himself. This mission is risky, but it’s well resourced. Did that mean it was a slam dunk? Of course not. There were lots of variables, not the least of which was the way that Mexico’s government might respond. Maybe they didn’t care what happened to the so-called Angel of Death and her private prison. Or maybe they did and would decide to take offense when sovereignty was violated. That was one of the reasons why Sloan was hesitant to sign the order.

The other reason had to do with the person that his advisors agreed was best qualified to lead the mission: army major Robin Macintyre. Sloan was in love with Mac. Or believed he was in love with her, even though they’d never been on a date or shared a kiss. And if he signed the order, and if his signature resulted in Mac’s death, Sloan knew he would never forgive himself.

But if he didn’t send her, and the rescue attempt failed because of poor leadership by another officer, what would become of the POWs? Slowly, and with great reluctance, Sloan scrawled his name on the sheet of paper.

THE BAYOU CHOCTAW STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE

They came for Mac in the middle of the night. As a dark figure entered her tent, he ran into the waist-high string that pulled a coffee can full of rocks off the top of an upended crate and dumped them onto the plywood floor.

The ensuing clatter was more than enough to wake Mac. She was trapped inside of her sleeping bag as she rolled off the cot, hit hard, and brought the pistol up. The red dot wobbled across the man’s chest. His voice was desperate. “Don’t shoot!”

“Why not?” Mac inquired as she kicked the bag off.

“Because if you shoot him, I’ll have a lot of paperwork to do,” Colonel Walters replied. A boyish-looking lieutenant was pinned in the glare of her flashlight as she entered the tent. “I told him to wait for me, but he didn’t,” Walters added. “They get dumber every day.”

The red dot vanished as Mac got to her feet. She was dressed in a baseball shirt and a pair of running shorts. The air was cold, and Mac shivered as she looked from the lieutenant to Walters. “What the hell is going on?”