Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“The boy genius arrived on a helicopter twenty minutes ago,” Walters said. “He has orders for you and, as far as I can tell, they’re legit.”

The intruder had lowered his hands by then and was struggling to regain some measure of dignity. “I’m Lieutenant Baker,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry about barging in… I didn’t realize…”

“Get out,” Mac said. “I’ll talk to you outside.”

Walters laughed as Baker left. “I wonder if he peed his pants.”

“I damned near peed mine,” Mac said as she kicked the shorts off. “Why couldn’t they send orders down through the chain of command?”

“I asked,” Walters replied. “And Baker told me that I don’t need to know. He’s from the Joint Special Operations Command, which would suggest that some kind of spookery is afoot. And you were chosen to take part in it.”

“But I don’t want to be part of it,” Mac said as she pulled her pants up.

“Nobody cares what we want,” Walters replied. “If they did, I would be allowed to retain your services. You’d make a halfway-decent Marine.”

“Only halfway decent?” Mac inquired as she tied her bootlaces.

“You don’t say the word ‘fuck’ frequently enough to qualify as a real Marine.”

“I’ll work on that,” Mac said as she put her jacket on. “Right after I find out what the fuck is going on.”

“That’s better,” Walters said agreeably.

Baker was waiting outside. He gave Mac an envelope. “Your orders, ma’am.”

“To do what ?”

“You have been temporarily assigned to the Joint Special Operations Command. That’s all I can tell you because that’s as much as I know. Please pack your gear. A plane is waiting for you in New Orleans.”

“That’s it? There’s nothing more?”

Baker nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mac turned to Walters. “What about my battalion?”

“I’ll try to hold it together while you’re gone,” Walters replied.

There were all sorts of instructions that Mac wanted to give her subordinates, and it would have been nice to say good-bye. Walters would try to keep the outfit intact, but could she? The brigade was a temporary entity, so anything was possible.

But orders were orders. And there was nothing Mac could do but go into the tent and pack. She’d done a lot of packing over the last few months and gradually reduced her belongings to the bare minimum. All that remained was her sleeping bag, two sets of camos, and her combat gear. Everything fit into a large duffel bag. Mac lowered the TAC vest over her head, put her helmet on, and was ready to go. It was second nature to grab the M4 on the way out. Walters gave her an awkward hug. “Take care, Robin… I’ll see you soon.”

Mac hoped that was true as she followed Baker to a Black Hawk helicopter. He tossed her bag up to the crew chief and stood to one side. Once inside, she sat where the crew chief told her to, which was all the way in back, facing the cockpit.

Mac held her M4 muzzle down as she listened to the engines wind up. The helicopter wobbled as it left the ground, steadied, and sped away. The doors had been removed, and Mac was thankful for her jacket, as a rush of cold air pummeled her body. A scattering of lights was visible below as the helo continued to climb. The city of New Orleans glowed in the distance. How many people had chosen to ignore the official blackout? Damned near all of them, judging from appearances.

Mac felt lonely… And frightened. Where was she going? And why ? She was like a cog in a machine too large to comprehend. A younger her would have been excited. But a lot of people had died since then, and Mac was tired. She closed her eyes. Faces came and went. Most of them belonged to ghosts.

It was a short flight, and when the Black Hawk landed, Mac realized that the Louis Armstrong International Airport was operating under military control. That made sense since the North and South were still fighting for air supremacy, and it wouldn’t be safe for commercial flights to come and go.

The helicopter skimmed past two tubby transports before landing next to a sleek Learjet. No sooner had the wheels touched down than Baker threw her duffel bag to a dimly seen person on the tarmac. Mac thanked the crew chief before jumping down onto the ground. And there, waiting for her, was a friendly face.

The first time Mac had met Major Sam McKinney was in Richton, Mississippi, where President Sloan’s attempt to establish an airhead had gone terribly wrong. Her company of Strykers had been sent south to rescue as many survivors as possible. McKinney had been Sloan’s military attaché—although “mentor” might have been a more accurate title.

But now Major McKinney was sporting the silver oak leafs of a lieutenant colonel. “Welcome to New Orleans, Major,” he said. “I wish we could go out and grab a good meal, but we don’t have time.”

Mac smiled as she shook his hand. “Congratulations, sir. I’m glad they made an honest 05 out of you.”

“Rank comes quickly during a war,” McKinney observed. “As you are well aware. Come on… The Learjet is for you! And breakfast is included.”

The plane’s interior was luxurious compared to life in a tent, and Mac wished that her boots were clean. But they weren’t, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Once her helmet, TAC vest, and M4 were stowed—Mac took a seat across from McKinney. There was a lot of catching up to do, and they were still at it, when the jet reached cruising altitude. “We’re headed north,” McKinney informed her. “Up to Missouri, west to Colorado, and south to New Mexico.”

Mac frowned. “ New Mexico? Why?”

McKinney was about to reply when the civilian flight attendant brought their breakfasts. The food was precooked but steaming hot, and Mac was surprised to discover how hungry she was. Twenty minutes passed while they ate, and McKinney brought her up to speed on the war effort. The good news was that the North was winning. The bad news was that it was taking forever. And people were dying every day.

Once they were finished, Mac poured the last of the coffee into their cups. “Okay, give. Why are you taking me to New Mexico?”

Mac listened intently as McKinney explained how the general who was in charge of all Confederate POW camps had decided to outsource a prison to a Mexican drug dealer named Rosa Alvarez Carbone, AKA “ La ángel de la muerte .” Or the Angel of Death.

Mac frowned. “Who does General Lorenzo report to?”

“Your father.”

Mac winced. Even though she and Bo were fighting for different sides, she knew what his core values were. Or had been. The man she’d grown up with would never countenance treating POWs the way Carbone was treating the men and women under her control. But people change… And, since her father had chosen to side with the Libertarian oligarchs, maybe he approved of handing POWs over to the lowest bidder.

“So,” McKinney concluded, “your job is to lead a rescue team into Mexico, free our people, and bring them home. How you accomplish that is up to you. A lot of resources have been assembled at Antelope Wells. And, if you need something more, I’ll get it for you. That’s why the president sent me… To make sure that no one roadblocks you. And he told me to give you this .”

As Mac accepted the envelope, she saw that her name was written on it and recognized the scrawl. “Nature calls,” McKinney said. “And, like General MacArthur, I shall return.”

Did McKinney believe, as so many did, that she and the president were lovers? Probably. And he was giving her a moment of privacy to read whatever was contained in the envelope.