Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Dear Robin,

Nice job! It will be a long time before Congressman Will gets over that. As for your father, I knew the two of you were estranged but hadn’t heard about the bounty. I’m sorry, Robin… This is a terrible war in so many ways.

Please review the attachment. If it’s okay, then no action is required on your part. But if you want to make a change, call the number at the bottom of the page by 6:00 PM, and ask for Mrs. Farrow. Sadly, everything I do involves a lot of logistics. So last-minute changes can be difficult.

The press will find out about the trip. That’s a given. But you know that. When we’re together, we can discuss how to handle the inevitable flap. And oh, by the way, you’re on leave. Just in case someone asks about your status.

I look forward to seeing you at O’Hare in the morning.

Mac checked to see if she had any doubts regarding the trip. Was Sam the one she’d been waiting for? Yes, well, maybe. But she would never be able to decide without spending some time with him. Even if a price had to be paid.

Mac slept well that night, awoke feeling rested, and ordered room service. Then, after completing her morning routines, she got dressed. Not in a uniform but in some of the civilian clothes she had purchased the evening before. Mac had lost track of fashion many months earlier. Fortunately, the store had a professional shopper who was happy to help and professed to be a fan. Mac knew she had critics. A lot of them. But it was nice to have a fan.

Now, dressed in new clothes, Mac felt different. For once, the person in the mirror came across as a young woman instead of a military officer. An attractive woman? She hoped so.

Since her arrival in Chicago, Mac had not only acquired some civilian clothes, she’d been issued new uniforms as well, and stocked up on everything from toothpaste to shampoo. That forced her to purchase a rolling suitcase to carry her loot in. After completing an idiot check to make sure she had everything, Mac towed the bag out into the hall.

It was early, and there was only one other person in the elevator that carried her down to the lobby. A man in a black suit was holding a card with her name on it. Mac identified herself, and unlike all of the drivers she’d had in the past, this one demanded to see her ID.

Something else was different, too… Rather than offer to take Mac’s suitcase, the man led the way unencumbered. In order to keep his hands free? If so, the security precautions weren’t for her but for Sloan.

It was quiet in the back of the SUV. So much so that Mac figured the vehicle was armored and sealed against gas attacks. It took the driver forty minutes to work his way through traffic and arrive in front of an obscure gate at O’Hare Airport. The guards wore civilian clothes but had military mannerisms.

A two-person team ran a check on the vehicle, while a third checked the driver’s ID, before coming back to request Mac’s. After examining the card, the woman gave it back.

Then, before Mac had time to roll the window up, the guard came to attention. The salute he gave her even though neither of them was in uniform was parade-ground perfect. “Thank you for getting those POWs out of Mexico, ma’am. One of them was my brother.” And with that, the MP turned and walked away.

After passing through the gate, the SUV followed a pickup equipped with flashing lights through a maze of access lanes to the location where a Boeing C-32 sat waiting on the tarmac.

The SUV stopped a hundred feet away from the roll-up stairs that had been pushed up against the plane. As Mac got out of the vehicle, the driver went back to get her suitcase. It made a rattling noise as he towed it forward, and Mac was about to take over, when an air force noncom appeared. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “It will be available in the main cabin if you need it. The president is here… You’re free to board.”

Mac thanked both men before making her way up the stairs to the entry port, where a casually dressed attendant was waiting to greet her. “Major Macintyre? I’m Tim… Welcome to Air Force One. Please follow me.”

As they went aft, Mac caught glimpses of a communications center, a galley, and a lavatory. Then came a section of seats followed by a private cabin. There were more business-class seats beyond that. Sloan rose to greet her. “Good morning! Have you had breakfast? No? Have a seat. Tim will fix you up. I need to go forward for a minute… But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mac was sipping coffee by the time Air Force One took off. Tim brought breakfast shortly thereafter, and Sloan arrived two minutes later. He was dressed in a polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of beat-up cowboy boots. “How’s the food?”

“Good, thanks,” Mac replied. “I love the fresh fruit.”

“It’s coming back,” Sloan said as he sat next to her. “Slowly, but surely, everything is coming back. It’s only a matter of time now. The Confederacy is on its last legs.”

“Good,” Mac said. “The sooner the better.”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed. “But enough of that. I’m taking the day off, to the extent that such a thing is possible.”

“You told me that we’re going to the family farm,” Mac said. “Where is it?”

“North of Omaha,” Sloan replied. “I’m an only child. And when Dad passed away, Mom hoped that I would take over. But I had other ideas. So she hired a local man to run it. His name is Tom Benson. Then, when Mom’s health started to slide, I moved her to D.C. so I could keep an eye on her.”

Sloan looked away at that point. “Mom’s assisted-living facility was near ground zero. I went there as soon as I could. But there was nothing left.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac said as she placed a hand on top of his.

Sloan forced a smile. “Thanks. I was trying to protect her… to take care of her. And, if I’d left her in Nebraska, she’d be alive.”

“All you can do is work with the information you have,” Mac told him. “And there was no way to know that meteors were going to fall—much less exactly where they would strike.”

“Yeah,” Sloan agreed. “That’s what I tell myself. Anyway, Tom continues to run the farm, and he’s doing a good job. But that isn’t the point of the trip. I want you to see the place where I grew up. How I grew up. And I want to escape the press for one glorious day.”

The rest of the flight was spent talking about Sloan’s childhood adventures, the summer vacations Mac had spent on her father’s farm, and the steadily growing rift that came to separate them.

The trip to Offutt Air Force Base took a little more than an hour, and a Marine Corps VH-60N “White Hawk” helicopter was waiting on the ground when Air Force One landed. Marine One carried them over Omaha and up into farm country, where vast tracts of corn could be seen from both sides of the aircraft. “The crop is only half as tall as it should be at this time of year,” Sloan observed. “Government scientists are working on that. In two, maybe three years, we’ll have a variant that can flourish with less sunlight. That’s when production will increase.

“The Whigs oppose that research by the way… Some of them believe that God sent the meteors to punish sinners—so bioengineering constitutes a contravention of God’s will.

“Others suggest that I’m pushing the project because I own a farm. Meanwhile, the lobbyists for the big agro companies are all for it. They like me.” Sloan sighed. “This stuff begins to wear on you after a while.”

Mac changed the subject. “We covered your childhood on the farm. What about college? I have you down as a class-cutting, pot-smoking, girl chaser. Am I wrong?”