Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

McKinney could and did. After getting cups of coffee, they took them into Mac’s office. Her desk consisted of a sheet of plywood resting on two sawhorses. The red plastic chairs were better than nothing. “The night exercises are a great idea,” McKinney observed as he sat down. “Although trying to play capture the flag with eight Strykers and sixty soldiers will result in total chaos.”

“And total chaos is what we’re likely to encounter down south,” Mac said. “So here’s hoping they learn how to deal with it in two days.” Mac eyed him over her coffee mug. “You said you could get me whatever I need. True?”

“True,” McKinney said. “Assuming it makes sense. What do you have in mind?”

“I need four C-17 transport planes plus a backup,” Mac replied.

McKinney’s eyebrows rose. “ Five C-17s? What the hell for?”

“The first bird will bring a load of medics into Ascensión,” Mac replied. “Deeds figures we’ll need about fifty of them. And rather than add all the vehicles required to haul the medical personnel across the desert, I prefer to fly them in. As for planes two, three, and four, they’ll be used to evacuate the POWs who can walk. The fifth Globemaster is a backup. Assuming that all goes well, it won’t need to land.”

“And the POWs who can’t walk?”

“We’ll put them aboard the plane with the medics,” Mac replied.

“That’s smooth,” McKinney said. “Very smooth. But there’s a problem. A big problem.”

Mac nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Ascensión has an airstrip called Amp Aeropuerto . It’s fine for light planes and helicopters, but the runway is short. And a Mexican Army detachment is quartered right next to it. So, even if the seventeens could land there, the Mexicans would be likely to object.”

“Exactamundo,” McKinney said. “So? What’s the solution?”

“The C-17s will land on Highway 2,” Mac replied. “According to aerial photos, the section leading into town is straight as an arrow and two lanes wide. Plus there’s plenty of shoulder on both sides. There is a row of telephone poles, but we’ll drop them if we need to.”

“Shee-it! “McKinney said enthusiastically. “A whole flock of four-engined jets landing on a highway! I’d like to see that. If the Globemasters can land on unimproved runways, then a highway should be a fucking piece of cake. I’ll get on the horn to General Jones. Once he’s on board, the rest will be easy. One thing, though… How about our task force? How does it get in and out?”

“We’ll use Strykers,” Mac replied. “And rather than follow Highway 2 down, we’ll drive cross-country, which will cut forty miles off the trip. We’ll come back the same way we went in. It would be a good idea to have some helicopters on call, though… Just in case.”

“That makes sense,” McKinney agreed as he stood. “I’ll get to work.”

“Me too,” Mac said. “If this operation is classified—how come the paper pushers know where to send all of their bulletins, memos, and instructions?”

McKinney grinned. “Because we work for them … Not the other way around.” And then he left.

FORT BENNING, GEORGIA

Four-Star General Bo Macintyre was seated in the reviewing stand waiting to welcome more than a thousand soldiers into the Confederate Army. And that was good because the casualty rate was high. But there was a dark side to the occasion as well. The young men and women arrayed in front of him were conscripts rather than volunteers. And draftees were less reliable than people who joined on their own.

Even worse was the fact that the need for replacements was so high that it had become necessary to shorten basic from ten weeks to eight. Two weeks was no big deal. That’s what his public-affairs officers had been ordered to say. And that was grade-A bullshit.

But new bodies were required to feed the Confederate war machine, and time was critical. Hopefully, after pushing the Union back, the army would be able to reinstitute the previous standards.

And Bo took comfort from the fact that the board of directors had approved a nationwide draft. That was clear evidence of a renewed commitment to the war. Secretary of the Army Orson Selock was correct. After losing their secret bank accounts, people like President Lemaire had to win the war or live like everyone else.

The thought brought a wry grin to Bo’s face as the current speaker mentioned his name. “So, it is my pleasure to introduce the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Bo Macintyre!”

Bo heard a simultaneous “Hooah!” as he took the podium and knew that it had been rehearsed. A sea of faces stared up at Bo as he began his speech. It was standard stuff for the most part. They were special… They should be proud… And they were about to embark on a grand adventure.

Then it was time to transition into the material supplied by the newly formed Office of Morale Management. Bo’s voice boomed through loudspeakers as his eyes swept the formation before him. “As you take your place among the ranks of soldiers sworn to defend our country, know this… After failing to win the war on the battlefield, the enemy has chosen to terrorize our families with acts of unprecedented barbarity. A week ago a unit of the Union Army entered the community of Macy, South Carolina, and executed every male over the age of twelve.”

That wasn’t true insofar as Bo knew… But if lies would help to win the war, then he was willing to tell them. The assembled soldiers uttered a mutual gasp of horror, which elicited a loud “As you were!” from a drill sergeant.

Bo nodded. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You want to punish those Yankee bastards. Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your chance. Kill those sons of bitches for your family, kill them for your hometown, and kill them for your country! And may God bless the New Confederacy!”

A noncom shouted, “Atten-hut!” The band played “I Wish I Was in Dixie,” and a sergeant yelled, “Dismissed!”

The officer in charge of the training facility was an aging colonel named Mundy. He was waiting to shake Bo’s hand. “That was an excellent speech, General. I hadn’t heard about the massacre in Macy. Damn those bastards to hell!”

Bo said all the right things, left as quickly as he reasonably could, and entered the waiting SUV. It took him to the airfield, where a small jet was waiting. His next stop was Houston. But what should have been a three-hour flight, would take three times that long, because the plane would have to circle out over the Gulf of Mexico before turning north. The trip would give him time to work on administrative tasks, however, and take a nap.

The flight went smoothly, but there was a lot of traffic in Houston, which was virtually untouched by the war. That was clearly a matter of choice since the Union had the means to bomb the shit out of the place if they chose to. And, had Bo been fighting for the North, he would have done so by then.

But most of his peers agreed that President Sloan was too pragmatic to kill thousands of civilians, and by doing so, create the kind of hatred that would make it impossible to put America back together again. And that was fine with Bo since it made his life easier.

Bo’s destination was the new command and control center located south of Houston and adjacent to the Bryan Mound Strategic Petroleum Reserve. Or in the words of one critic, “as far from the fighting as the brass could go without getting their feet wet.”

But the location made sense because it was well away from the civilian population and practically on top of something the Union wanted to protect, which was the Bryan Mound Reserve. The facility was vulnerable to stupidity, however, including meetings like the one Bo had been ordered to attend. Bo’s motorcade consisted of three SUVs. Their grill lights flashed as the lead driver used burps of sound from her siren to clear a path. But in spite of her best efforts, the one-hour trip still took an hour and a half.