Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Colin tossed a salute. “Yes, sir. Have a good one.”

That seemed unlikely. But Bo could hope. It was a short drive to the command and control center, but a long wait was required to get in.

Finally, after working his way through a twenty-vehicle queue, Bo arrived at Checkpoint Alpha. A sharp-looking MP delivered a perfect salute, eyed Bo’s ID, and waved him through.

Half a mile later, Bo had to stop at Checkpoint Bravo and go through the whole rigmarole again. The process was a pain in the ass, but a necessary one, to prevent Union agents from getting in.

After parking his car, Bo rode the elevator up to the floor where his office was located. Bo had been forced to select a new secretary once his engagement to Kathy was announced, and Emily was there to greet him as he entered the office. She was about ten years younger than Kathy, and though given to trendy clothing, had a style that was similar to her predecessor’s. Which was to say that Emily was calm, cool, and magnificently efficient.

Emily handed Bo a list of the people who had called in descending order of importance as he passed her desk, and Bo read it as he entered his inner office, where the usual thermos of hot coffee was waiting. The next forty-five minutes were spent dealing with all sorts of pressing problems, including the raid on a contractor-run POW camp in Ascensión, Mexico.

A number of Mexican prisoners had been captured and taken north, where they would probably spill their guts. And that, according to a telephone conversation with General Marcus Lorenzo, was likely to be a problem. “If the North wins the war, they’re going to hold trials,” Lorenzo explained. “And we could be blamed for irregularities at the prison.”

“ What fucking irregularities?” Bo demanded.

“It seems that Senorita Carbone was feeding the POWs less food than the contract called for,” Lorenzo told him, “which allowed her to skim money off the top. And, according to some, she was abusive.”

Bo felt the anger boil up inside of him. “Listen, you son of a bitch, it was your job to make sure that Carbone honored that contract! I have to meet with the president in fifteen minutes,” Bo added. “But if I didn’t, I’d go down to your office and kick your ass!”

And with that, he slammed the receiver down. General Marcus Lorenzo didn’t know it, but he was going to die fighting for his country, and in the very near future.

The command and control center’s top floor was divided into meeting rooms. They were named after Confederate generals, and it seemed fitting that the meeting with President Martha Stickley was scheduled to take place in the Robert E. Lee Room. Bo and half a dozen of his senior officers were present when the helicopter designated as Rebel One circled the building and landed on the roof.

Ten minutes passed. Then a Secret Service agent entered, looked around, and spoke into a wrist mike. That prompted three additional agents to enter the room. They checked to make sure that the people in the room were who they claimed to be and conducted a brief search before allowing Stickley to enter.

The president was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed. She had dark shoulder-length hair and green eyes. They jumped from face to face as Bo made the introductions. Stickley had met most of the attendees before and, thanks to an eidetic memory, she remembered the date of each encounter. It was an impressive feat, and a surefire boost to needy egos, of which there were many in the room.

Once the pleasantries were out of the way, and everyone had taken their seats around the oval table, it was time to get down to the important business of waging war. “So,” Stickley said as she placed a well-manicured finger on the binder in front of her. “This is the final draft.”

Bo nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And the comma splice on page 112 was corrected?”

Bo wanted to say, “Who gives a shit about the comma splice,” but managed to control his temper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Stickley smiled. “Good. I assume the issues I identified in draft one have been resolved. So pitch me. Or repitch me as the case may be. Why should we enter into an alliance with Mexico? And how would it work?”

Bo, with help from officers representing all of the different branches of the military, spent the next fifteen minutes detailing the plan. And they did a good job, too. That’s what Bo thought, anyway. But, judging from the expression on the president’s face, she remained unconvinced.

“I agree that the influx of four divisions, no matter how untested they are, could make an important difference in the war effort. But the price is too high. Two tons of gold plus the states of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona is more than I can stomach. And, if that part of the deal were to become public somehow, the North would fight even harder.”

Bo nodded. “I realize that, Madam President. But what you won’t find in the written plan, or on the PowerPoint slides, is something called Operation Overlord.”

Stickley looked skeptical. “Which is?”

“President Salazar’s proposal is very specific,” Bo responded. “His chain of command is to be left intact, his troops won’t be allowed to serve side by side with ours, and we can’t break the Mexican divisions down into their component parts. All of which makes sense from Salazar’s point of view. He knows that the citizens of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona will fight back when Mexico declares sovereignty over them. And he’ll need at least four divisions of battle-tested troops to keep the gringos in line.

“But Salazar’s plan has a weakness,” Bo added. “And it’s this… By keeping his forces together, all in one place, he will make them vulnerable to weapons he can’t defend against. Weapons that can lay waste to an entire division in minutes.”

Bo watched Stickley take the idea in and process it. Her well-plucked eyebrows rose. “Let me see if I understand. We pay the deposit, Mexico sends troops, and we use them to win the war. Then we use tactical nukes to decimate Salazar’s divisions before Mexico can seize any territory.”

“Exactly,” Bo replied. “And that might be sufficient. But remember that while Mexico would be severely wounded at that point, it would still have a pulse. And by killing something on the order of sixty thousand Mexican troops, we could create so much hatred south of the border that we would have to fight another war just months after winning the one with the North.

“To avoid that scenario, we recommend that the Confederacy pivot to the south as soon as the tactical situation allows us to, invade Mexico, and take all the territory north of the Panama Canal. Countries like Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua were doing poorly before the meteor strikes. They’re even worse off now.

“Think of it as an extension of Manifest Destiny,” Bo added. “Think of it as the country the United States could have been, should have been, reborn based on conservative principles.”

The president was silent for a moment. Bo held his breath. What would it be? Yes to a glorious future? Or no to the plan that could win the war and pave the way to a twenty-first-century empire?

Stickley’s eyes locked with his. “You amaze me, General… Finally, someone with vision. And the balls to make the vision real. I want every person in this room sworn to secrecy. I want a security detail for all of the participants, and I want everything pertaining to Project Overlord to be classified as top secret. We have a plan, people… Let’s make it happen.”

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

After testifying before Congress, Mac returned to her hotel. And there, waiting at the front desk, was an envelope bearing the presidential seal. Mac took the envelope up to her room before opening it. Mac found a neatly typed itinerary inside along with a handwritten note from Sloan.