Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Mac jumped down onto the highway and looked up at the sky. She could hear the C-17s, but she couldn’t see them. Not until the first plane’s landing lights came on. The big four-engine jet transport was very low—and approaching from the northeast.

According to Mac’s calculations, there was enough room for the Globemaster to touch down on the center of the highway and clear the telephone poles that ran along both sides of it. And those numbers had been checked and double-checked.

Still, what if something had changed since then? What if a wing clipped a new billboard? The plane might crash, killing the crew and leaving the POWs without a way out.

That concern plagued Mac as the plane came straight at her and roared over her head. The rush of air associated with the Globemaster’s passage was so powerful that it almost knocked Mac off her feet. Tires screeched as the C-17 touched down, and the thrust reversers came on. They slowed the plane and reduced the possibility that foreign objects would be sucked up and into the engines.

No sooner had the cargo jet rolled to a stop than the rear hatch opened, lights appeared, and a ramp was deployed. Mac felt a sense of pride as a specially equipped bus loaded with medics rolled down onto Highway 2 and pulled away from the plane. An Air Force Combat Control Team had deplaned and had taken charge of the makeshift runway. The first C-17’s engines began to scream as it took off and another plane came in for a landing.

Mac turned to Harmon. She had to shout. “Tell Evers to send two Strykers. We should provide escorts for the buses.”

A Globemaster landed, delivered a bus, and took off again. The MOLLY WONKERand the UNCLE SAMhad arrived by then and took up protective positions at both ends of the column, which departed seconds later. The prison was ten minutes away, and the operation was running on time.

Mac debated whether to return to the prison or remain in the landing zone, and decided on the latter as the fourth C-17’s pilot cranked the thrust reversers up—and backed her plane up the highway. It was something to see, and Mac was staring at the strange sight, when Lieutenant Colonel McKinney materialized out of the gloom. There was a big grin on his face. “Hello, Major… Fancy meeting you here.”

They exchanged salutes and spent the next few minutes bringing each other up to speed. McKinney was sorry to hear about the loss of the DON’T TREAD ON ME, but pleased to learn that the prison had fallen, and the evacuation process was proceeding smoothly.

The officers were still talking when the medical bus arrived from the prison, rolled in behind the C-17, and propelled itself up into the ramp. Once the vehicle was inside the cargo bay and properly secured, the jet’s ramp came up. The noise produced by the C-17’s engines increased. Moments later, the transport was thundering down the makeshift runway even as another Globemaster landed to pick up another bus loaded with POWs.

After the prisoners were loaded onto the last plane, and Mac’s personnel were assembled next to the highway, she shook hands with McKinney. “Take care, sir. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” McKinney told her. “Watch your six.”

THE TIERRA DORADA RANCH, CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO

It was early afternoon, and all the members of President Luis Salazar’s hunting party were comfortably ensconced in a hillside “hide” waiting for a herd of African blesbok to pass through the defile below. A shooting bench ran across the front of the bunker—and tripod-mounted rifles were aimed at the killing ground. General Bo Macintyre was sitting between a white-clad businessman from Ecuador and a natty drug dealer from Colombia. They were discussing the lamentable shortage of Cuban cigars.

Bo’s weapon was a Nosler M48, which, judging from the box sitting next to it, was loaded with .308 Winchester ammo. It was a big-game rifle to be sure. And, according to Jorge, Salazar’s executive assistant, a favorite with a certain Hollywood actor.

Bo didn’t give a shit who liked the weapon but was careful to act like he did since flattery was free. And if Salazar thought the actor was a big deal, then fine.

Bo sipped his drink, and a woman laughed as Salazar delivered the punch line to a dirty joke. The key, according to the pretrip briefing he’d been given, was to shoot well but not too well. “Kill a buck if you can,” the briefer told him. “But don’t drop more than two. Don Salazar will smoke three or four animals on an average outing, and it’s bad form to top his score.”

“Says who ?” Bo had inquired.

“Says Salazar,” came the response. “And he’s the one you need to please.”

And that was true. Because the war wasn’t going well for the Confederacy, and he’d been sent down south to negotiate a deal. “Places everyone!” Jorge announced. “Get ready to fire! The herd is nearly here.”

There was a murmur of conversation and the scraping of furniture as guests turned to face the horizontal opening. Shooting antelope as vaqueros herded them past an air-conditioned hide was far from sporting. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. But Bo knew the occasion would call for some good marksmanship nevertheless. For one thing the “hunters” would be firing at a downward angle, the animals would be in motion, and none of the guests had fired their weapons before. And that meant something since every rifle has an individual personality.

Then there was the social pressure involved. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. So if he missed, it would not only reflect poorly on the Confederacy’s military, it could put him at a disadvantage during the negotiations that lay ahead, all of which upped the ante. Bo checked to make sure that the weapon was loaded, that the safety was off, and that the tripod was operating properly. When he glanced at the digital readout mounted over the bench, Bo saw that a one-mile-an-hour breeze was blowing south to north through the valley. Still another thing to remember as he took his first shot.

Bo heard the blesbok before he saw them. Their hooves created a dull thunder as they sought to escape the shouting vaqueros . Then the herd appeared. It looked like an undifferentiated mass of heaving horns at first. But as animals approached the hide, Bo could distinguish the antelopes’ white faces, pointy ears, and tan bodies.

Bo spotted a big buck toward the front of the herd. One of his horns was missing. Lead him, Bo told himself, just like a deer. The trigger seemed to squeeze itself, the rifle butt thumped his shoulder, and the blesbok stumbled. Then Bo saw a puff of blood mist appear over the animal’s hindquarters and realized that the animal had been shot by someone else as well.

When the buck disappeared, there was barely enough time to trigger a second shot. It was right on the money. And Bo was pleased to see an antelope go down with a bullet through the heart. Then the blesboks were gone, leaving twelve bodies behind.

A camera drone was circling the scene, and as Bo turned to look at the monitor, he spotted one-horn lying on its side. “Congratulations!” Jorge said enthusiastically. “Almost all of you scored at least one kill. Please make your way up to the parking area, where vehicles are waiting to take you to the Casa de Salazar, where you’ll have time to freshen up before dinner.”

Bo allowed himself to be led past the bar, down a hallway decorated with beautifully executed murals, to a small elevator lobby. Two trips were required to get everyone up to the covered loading area located on the east side of the ridge. Three Range Rovers were waiting. All of them had green paint jobs and bore the Tierra Dorada’s distinctive rising sun logo.