Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

After passing Freeport, the motorcade paused at Checkpoint Alpha, where all personnel, Bo included, had to show their IDs before passing into the half-mile-deep “restricted zone.” It was crisscrossed by prepared fighting positions and connecting trenches.

Then the procession had to stop at Checkpoint Bravo and show IDs again. After being cleared, the party was allowed to pass through the twelve-foot-tall steel-reinforced blast wall that surrounded the CCC on three sides. The Gulf of Mexico bordered the center’s south flank, where all manner of naval defenses had been put in place to protect it.

Most of the complex was belowground, so the motorcade had to follow a circular drive down to the third level before Bo could exit the vehicle. Bo didn’t have enough time to stop by his new office, so he went straight to the Executive Center’s Reagan Room, where the most boring meetings were held. This one was titled “Succession Planning,” which typically meant “We’re about to dump the Secretary of XYZ and replace him with someone equally incompetent.”

But as Bo entered the room, he noticed that the mood was different. The side conversations were muted, and being a political animal himself, Bo could smell blood in the air. But whose? His? No, he didn’t think so. But someone was on the bubble. Bo could feel it. And the people in the room had been summoned to witness whatever was about to take place.

Bo sat next to Selock, and both of them watched the president’s cabinet enter the room, closely followed by the man himself. And as Morton Lemaire stepped up to the podium, Bo could see it on the president’s face. He was the one! Holy shit, Lemaire was going to step down! That was a big deal.

It quickly became apparent that Bo’s assumption was correct. After mentioning what Lemaire saw as his primary accomplishment, which was the creation of “… a great nation,” the president cleared his throat. “However,” he added. “I’m sorry to say that my health has taken a turn for the worse, making it necessary for me to resign the presidency. Fortunately, we have a very capable vice president who is ready to take over. Please join me in an offering of universal support for the vice president, soon to be the president, Martha Stickley!”

Bo stood with all the rest of them and joined in the applause. Martha Stickley, he thought. The so-called Iron Maiden. A nickname that stemmed from the fact that if Stickley had a sexual preference, no one knew what it was—as well as the fearsome coffin-like devices of the same name.

So what did Stickley’s ascendency mean to him ? Not a great deal, Bo concluded. Stickley was neither friend nor foe. And, to the extent that she had the balls that Lemaire lacked, Stickley might be the jolt the sagging Confederacy needed. The board of directors clearly thought so because they called the shots. And when they told Lemaire that he was too sick to serve, he had the good sense to feel ill.

Stickley rose to say a few predictable words. Then her chief of staff announced that a press release had gone out fifteen minutes earlier, talking points had been sent to each person via e-mail, and it was important to abide by them.

The meeting was adjourned after that, and Bo was relieved to see Stickley leave the room. The last thing he wanted to do was line up to kiss her ass. There were no negative comments as people filed out into the hall. That sort of thing was best saved for conversations with close confidants.

It was getting late by then, and Bo had promised Kathy that he’d come home for dinner. So he checked out by phone, retrieved his Land Rover from the fifth subbasement, and left the complex. A circular route took him out and around the Brazosport area to the Coast Guard station located in the community of Surfside. And that was where, by virtue of his position, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was allowed to park for as long as he wanted to.

A phone call was all it took to summon a water taxi, which took him along the coast to Galveston’s upscale Cedar Lawn neighborhood. That was where he and his soon-to-be second wife, Kathy Waters, had purchased a three-bedroom ranch-style house.

Kathy was a middle-aged blonde who kept herself in good shape. She’d been Bo’s secretary and companion for many years, and he was lucky to have her. The look of pleasure on Kathy’s face was plain to see as Bo came through the front door and gave her a kiss. “Dump the briefcase,” she told him, “and meet me on the deck. Your drink will be waiting.”

Bo said, “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am,” and made his way down the hall to his office. It was supposed to be a bedroom, but it had a wonderful view of the Gulf and was large enough to meet his needs. They were still moving in, but Kathy was starting to spread things around the house, and his study was no exception.

And as Bo eyed the row of framed photos Kathy had arranged on his credenza, one of them came as a shock. Because there, sitting next to a picture of her mother, was a photo of Robin! That in spite of his negative feelings about her.

The picture was no accident. Bo knew that. Kathy was a peacemaker by nature and, in spite of Victoria’s death, insisted that Bo should regard Robin as being innocent unless she was proven guilty. So Bo hadn’t told Kathy about the bounty. Why upset her? Especially with their wedding day coming up.

He stared at the photographs for a moment. Robin was the spitting image of her dead mother who, in spite of the conflict that characterized their marriage, Bo still loved. More than he loved Kathy? Yes, probably. But Kathy was a lot easier to live with.

As for Victoria, well, she’d been his favorite. The son who never came along and, more than that, a younger him . Slowly, carefully, Bo placed the picture of Robin facedown on the credenza. Kathy would find it there and get the message. Bo had one daughter, and she was dead.

NEAR ANTELOPE WELLS, NEW MEXICO

The sun was a bloody smear in the western sky as darkness fell, and the waiting ended. Mac was standing outside the command trailer drinking black coffee from a ceramic mug. Three days had passed since she had arrived, and the company was as ready as it could be under the circumstances. They were going to leave in one hour. Had she considered everything? Were the Confederates staring down from space? Was she going to die in Mexico?

“Robin?”

Mac’s body jerked at the sound of Lieutenant Colonel McKinney’s voice. Had he noticed it? She tried to sound casual. “Yes, sir… What’s up?”

McKinney’s face was a white blur in the dim light. “We’re good to go… And we have a message from the president. ‘Good hunting, and Godspeed.’”

Mac thought about Sloan. “I’m sending you into danger.” That’s what his note said. “Thank you, sir. Did you pass the word?”

“Yes. The troops are raring to go.”

Mac knew it was true. Because even though the mission was going to be dangerous, every man and woman in her command wanted to rescue the POWs. Mac emptied the last of the coffee onto the bone-dry ground. “All right, Colonel,” she said. “I’ll see you in Ascensión.”

McKinney was going to fly in aboard the first C-17. He nodded. “Take care out there.” Then he was gone.

The vehicles were lined up with their parking lights on. Firefly-like headlamps moved from place to place as drivers carried out last-minute checks on their Strykers.

Mac heard occasional bursts of static and the faint strains of a country-western tune as she passed the BETSY ROSS. Platoon Leader Susan “Sixgun” Evers was there to greet her along with Sergeant Major Deeds. “Good evening, ma’am,” Evers said. “My platoon is ready for inspection.”