Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

After they cleared the checkpoint, Newsome led Mac down a corridor to the door labeled, HOUSE ARMED SERVICES COMMITTEE. A man left, and as the officers entered, they were intercepted by a young woman named Molly.

“I’m one of Congressman Hastings’s aides,” she informed them. “Please follow me.” Thanks to the schooling she received the day before, Mac knew that Hastings was the chairman of the committee and one of Sloan’s supporters.

Reporters yelled questions as Molly led the officers through the press section and into the area reserved for members of the public. It was packed, and Mac could feel their stares as she followed Molly to a table down front. Three officers were waiting to greet her, all of whom were used to dealing with Congress and could help her in a pinch. Had Secretary Garrison requested that? Or the president himself? Not that it made any difference.

Mac had never met the general, the colonel, or the major before—and wondered how they felt about having to take part. Were they annoyed? Probably. And that would make sense. Her testimony was a sideshow, and likely to be a boring one at that.

But what was, was. And all of them had to go through the motions. “Odds are that everything will go smoothly,” General Overby told her. “But don’t hesitate to stand up for yourself if those jerks get in your face.”

Mac thanked the general for his advice and took her seat, knowing that Newsome, Overby, and the others were seated behind her and had her six. A nerve-wracking five minutes passed while committee members milled around, whispered to each other, and checked their cell phones before finally taking their places.

The session was called to order after that and, much to Mac’s surprise, she was sworn in. Was that a mere formality? Or a hint of potential trouble? Mac was already nervous and felt even more so at that point.

The process began with a warm welcome from Hastings. He was a grandfatherly type from Maine and went to great lengths to thank both the ex-POWs and their rescuers before allowing others to speak.

Then, consistent with Newsome’s warnings, Mac found herself fielding questions about strategy, the new Iron Shield defense system, and the increasing use of robotics on the battlefield. None of which were subjects that she knew much about.

Mac said as much, called upon what little she knew, and things were going fairly well until Congressman Will’s turn rolled around. He had a crotchety manner and, according to what she’d been told the day before, was one of Sloan’s most outspoken critics. And because of her relationship with the president, Mac knew the politician was likely to be hostile. That, as it turned out, was definitely the case.

Will cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I have a different type of question for you, Major. According to what I’ve read, your father, General Bo Macintyre, serves as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs for the New Confederacy. Is that correct?”

“I’ve read that,” Mac replied carefully. “But I don’t have personal knowledge of it.”

Will tilted his head down so as to peer at her over his glasses. “So you don’t communicate with your father?”

“No,” Mac answered flatly. “We’ve been estranged for years. And, even if that weren’t the case, such communications would be inappropriate at this time.”

“I see,” Will said as he played with a pen. “But what if your father found a way to contact you? And told you to act on behalf of the Confederacy? What would you do then?”

“I would tell him to fuck off,” Mac replied. “Then I would report the contact to my commanding officer.”

The audience tittered. Will had bushy eyebrows. They rose incrementally. “Please watch your language, Major. You aren’t in a bar.

“Now, while you maintain that you would ignore an order from your father, I remain unconvinced. And I daresay that others share my concern about the possibility of a security breach where you and General Macintyre are concerned. Especially in light of the fact that you were court-martialed for disobeying a direct order.”

“I was pardoned,” Mac said flatly.

“By a man you may, or may not, have slept with,” Will countered smugly.

A mantle of hopelessness began to settle over Mac. Will was using her to hurt Sloan, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it, unless… A possibility entered her mind. “One moment, please. I would like to submit a document that I believe is relevant to this discussion.”

Chairman Hastings looked surprised. “Yes, of course.”

“I object!” Will said loudly. “We need to make sure that the document is real before…”

Hastings brought his gavel down. “Never fear, the document will be verified.”

Mac opened her purse, removed the piece of paper she kept there, and gave it to Molly.

Molly took the much-folded piece of paper up to Hastings, who flattened it on the table in front of him. A look of surprise appeared on his face as he read it. A thin smile followed. “This is relevant. Molly, please make copies for the rest of the committee.

“In the meantime,” Hastings continued, “I will read the document out loud. ‘Wanted Dead or Alive, Major Robin Macintyre, Commanding Officer Mac’s Marauders, for war crimes.’”

Hastings went on to describe Mac’s photo before reading the rest of the text. “‘After being pardoned by Union president Samuel T. Sloan, Macintyre and her band of criminals committed numerous crimes, including kidnapping and the murder of her sister, Confederate major Victoria Macintyre.

“‘Upon delivery of Major Robin Macintyre to the proper authorities, or DNA evidence proving her death, the government of the New Confederacy will pay a reward equivalent to $100,000 in either gold or silver.’”

Hastings paused at that point, as if to make sure that everyone in the hall was paying close attention. “And here, at the bottom of the page, is the following text: ‘By order of General Bo Macintyre, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Confederate Army.’”

Hastings eyed the TV cameras. “I think that any questions regarding Major Macintyre’s relationship with her father, and her loyalty to our government, have been answered.” The gavel fell again. “This meeting is adjourned.”

HOUSTON, TEXAS

A stiff breeze was blowing in from the southwest. It caused the water taxi to wallow as it turned into the channel that led into Brazosport.

It felt good to be back in Houston even if that meant Bo had to deal with the Iron Maiden. Still, based on what Bo had heard via his personal network, the newly confirmed president was doing a good job. “She’s kicking ass and taking names,” was the way one admiral put it.

And that, Bo reflected, would make for a nice change. Thanks to a combination of incompetence and laziness on the part of ex-president Morton Lemaire, the initiative had been lost during the early months of the war.

Once the launch was inside the channel, the waves disappeared, and it took less than five minutes to reach the Coast Guard station where Bo’s Land Rover was parked. Colin Ferth turned the wheel and brought the boat in next to the dock with a gentle bump.

A skillful application of power kept the boat in place as Bo stood and handed the retired petty officer a silver coin with a likeness of Ayn Rand on it. “Thanks for nothing, Colin… That was a crappy ride.”

Colin grinned. “Tell it to Mother Nature, General. She’s in charge. What time are you going to head home?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bo replied as he stepped up onto the dock. “I’ll text you later in the day.”