Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Bo laughed and left the room. There weren’t going to be any uniforms. Kathy had been clear about that. So his tuxedo was laid out on the bed, and Bo knew that Kathy was in the bathroom. He was tying his shoes when she emerged. She had chosen to wear a peach-colored dress. It looked good against her tanned skin.

Bo went over to give Kathy a kiss, and she raised a hand. “Oh, no you don’t! I just put my makeup on. Your tie is crooked. Hold still while I fix it.”

Bo held still. He was lucky, very lucky, and wanted to tell her that. But such things were difficult for Bo. Maybe, had he been able to communicate more freely, his first marriage would have been more successful.

Forget that, Bo told himself. It’s over. Margaret is gone, just like Victoria, and you have to live in the now. Just thinking about Victoria was enough to choke him up.

“There,” Kathy said. “Slip into your jacket, and you’ll be ready.” Then, by way of a concession, she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” Kathy said. “Now get out there and mingle!”

The ceremony was going to take place on the large terrace located next to the house. A buffet-style dinner would follow. In the meantime, guests were starting to gather under the umbrellas out front. That’s where the bar, the appetizers, and the view were. Sun sparkled on the Gulf. And as Bo stepped onto the deck, a warm breeze caressed his face.

Kathy appeared shortly thereafter, and the next twenty minutes were spent socializing. Bo didn’t care for such occasions as a rule. But, with Kathy to keep things going and a couple of drinks under his belt, Bo had to admit that he was having a good time.

The ceremony was classy but short. And by the time it was over, the sun was hanging low in the sky. Bo was chatting with Admiral Howell when Kathy appeared at his side. “Excuse me, gentlemen… But the bartender is running low on champagne, and I’m sending the general to get more.”

“Your wish is my command,” Bo said. After excusing himself, Bo circled around to the kitchen, entered through the back door, and made his way down a set of narrow stairs to the half basement below. The space was prone to flooding at times. But it was the perfect place for the old refrigerator that served as a wine cooler. Bo pulled the door open, reached inside, and heard what sounded like a clap of thunder.

Suddenly, most of the air was sucked out of the room, the ceiling caved in, and a two-by-four clipped the side of Bo’s head. He fell to his knees. The possibility of a natural gas explosion was the first thing that entered his mind. But the house didn’t use gas.

Then the awful truth dawned on him. A bomb! Dropped from a plane. No, that didn’t make sense. Houston was a prime target, so it was surrounded by air-defense installations and protected by fighters. There would have been a warning had Northern planes headed south.

Bo placed the bottle of champagne on the floor and struggled to his feet. Plaster and other pieces of debris cascaded off his shoulders as he stepped over a shattered beam and was forced to crawl through a hole to reach the stairs. He had to find Kathy. She would be mad about the tux—and how dirty he was.

Bo battled his way up and into what amounted to a crater. The circular debris field was at least a hundred yards across, and with the exception of a single contrail, the sky was empty. There was no sign of bombers, fighters, or anything else for that matter. What then, Bo wondered? What would account for such devastation?

The answer was a missile. A fucking missile. Launched from a submarine off the coast and flying so low that none of the defensive radars had been able to detect it.

The attack was similar to those he had requested while serving in Afghanistan. Only instead of targeting the Taliban, the North had attempted to kill him . And the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It would be a coup… the sort of strike that would do incredible damage to the Confederate war effort. “Kathy!” Bo yelled. “Where are you?”

Sirens could be heard in the distance as Bo searched the rubble, looking for his wife. When Bo found her, he wished he hadn’t. Kathy’s body lay in a pool of blood. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, and her right arm was missing. “Oh, God,” Bo said as he fell to his knees beside her. “Please, no.” Bo’s tears landed on Kathy’s face and cut tracks through the dust on her cheeks. He held her hand, the one with his ring on it, and sobbed. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

A fireman appeared. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing you can do for her, sir. Here… Let me give you a hand.”

“Look at what the bastards did,” Bo said, as the fireman helped him to stand. “I’m going to kill them. Not just a few… I’m going to kill all of them.”

“Yes, sir,” the fireman said soothingly. “You’re bleeding. Come with me… We’ll patch you up.”

Bo had to step over Admiral Howell’s decapitated body in order to leave the scene. Broken glass crunched underfoot, a helicopter clattered above, and sunlight glittered on the sea.

OFFUTT AIR FORCE BASE, NEBRASKA

When the helicopter touched down at Offutt, Sloan left the aircraft by himself. An air force officer was there to escort the president to Air Force One. Sloan paused at the top of the stairs, turned to wave at the cameras, and ducked inside.

Then, and only then, did Mac emerge from the helicopter. Yes, the press might grab a shot of her. But it wouldn’t be the one they wanted so badly. Which was to say a shot that included Sloan. Not that it mattered much. Sloan had already heard from Press Secretary Besom. Footage of what the press was referring to as “the kiss” had aired and was getting lots of play.

A noncom was waiting for Mac. He saluted. “I’m Sergeant Lewis, ma’am. They sent me over to give you a lift.” He gave her an envelope. “Your orders are inside. Here, let me give you a hand with that suitcase.”

The drive took ten minutes. Mac chose to leave the envelope unopened until Lewis delivered her to the terminal, where the tubby C-17 sat waiting. “That’s your bird,” Lewis informed her as he removed the suitcase from the back. “It’s scheduled to take off for NAS/JRB in thirty minutes. Have a good trip!”

Because of the time she’d spent down south, Mac knew the noncom was referring to Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans. So she was being sent back to Louisiana. But to do what ?

Mac thanked Lewis and towed her suitcase up the ramp and into the equivalent of a flying bus. Her fellow passengers included a group of navy SEABEES, an army medical team, and a twenty-person detachment from the air force band. Mac noticed that the other passengers were staring at her and wondered why. Did they recognize her from TV? Had they seen footage of the kiss? The true nature of the attention became clear when a loadmaster approached her. “Yes, miss? Can I help you?”

That was when Mac remembered that she was wearing civilian clothing, and not just any civilian clothing but an outfit appropriate for a date. “Yes,” Mac replied. “I’m Major Macintyre. Have you got a slot reserved for me?”

The noncom consulted a clipboard. “Yes, ma’am… We’re expecting you. Please follow me.”

Once her suitcase was secured, Mac found herself seated against the port bulkhead between an army chaplain and a navy supply officer. The swabbie was snoring and reeked of alcohol. The sky pilot was reading an e-book and humming to himself.

Mac strapped herself in and opened the envelope. There was the usual boilerplate to plow through. But the so-what of the orders was clear. Mac’s Marauders were now part of the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC). Meaning the same secretive organization that had sent her into Mexico after the POWs.