Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

I’ll bet it’s a temporary gig, Mac thought, like protecting a base or participating in a raid. But that was pure conjecture, and there was no way to get real answers until she arrived in New Orleans.

The trip took forever. What should have been a five-hour flight took twice that given the need to avoid Confederate airspace and land at out-of-the-way airports. So it was dark by the time the C-17 landed in New Orleans, and Mac was able to drag her suitcase off the plane.

There was a swirl of activity, and Mac was searching the crowd for a friendly face when a sailor appeared out of the gloom. “I’m sorry about the delay, ma’am… My name is Givens. I didn’t know you were wearing civvies… The loadmaster pointed you out. Have you got more gear? No? Please follow me.”

Givens led Mac to a Humvee, placed her suitcase in back, and slid behind the wheel. “We’re headed for the HQ building. The CO wants to see you right away.”

Mac watched the headlights swing across the remains of a two-story building. The base had fallen to the rebs shortly after hostilities began. And, from what she could see, the North had bombed the shit out of the place before taking it back. “Can I stop at my quarters?” Mac inquired. “I’d like to change.”

Givens glanced her way. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

“Of course.”

“When Commander Trenton says ‘now,’ she means ‘yesterday.’ If you know what I mean.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Mac replied, as the Humvee bumped through a pothole. It seemed that the CO was female—and a hard-ass. Ah, well… Mac had been there before.

“This used to be the base exchange,” Givens told her, as the Humvee came to a stop. “But it serves as the unit’s headquarters location now. I’ll grab the suitcase.”

Mac thanked him, followed a path toward double doors, and saw that the windows were blacked out. A man emerged from the shadows. He wore TAC gear and was carrying an HK MP7. That was one of the weapons SEALS favored for close-quarters work, and Mac wondered if he was one. “Hold on, ma’am. I need to see some ID.”

Mac produced her ID card, the sentry aimed a flashlight at it, and made the comparison. “Thank you, Major… Please stand by while Compton checks your bag.”

Another sailor appeared. This one was female and equipped with a headlamp, which she turned on. The rating had clearly searched bags before and knew how to do it quickly. Her report was clear and concise. “A Glock nine mil, two magazines, and a knife. That’s all.”

The male sentry nodded. “Zip it up. Okay, Major… You can enter.”

Light spilled through the entryway as Mac opened the door and towed the suitcase inside. A reception desk faced her on the other side of the room, and wheels clicked as Mac made her way over to it. A petty officer first class sat behind the counter. He knew who she was. “Welcome to NAS/JRB, Major Macintyre. Commander Trenton is in her office—and would like to speak with you.”

Mac glanced at her watch. It was a little after 2200, and Trenton was still at work. What had Givens told her? “‘Now’ means ‘yesterday’”? Yes. Mac made her way over to the door and knocked three times. A female voice yelled, “Enter!” and Mac obeyed.

Trenton’s hair was short, combed boy style, and parted on the right. The asexual look might have been weird on someone else but was consistent with Trenton’s blue-eyed, hollow-cheeked face. Rather than a uniform, Trenton was wearing a navy tee shirt with a silver oak leaf pinned to the collar. A special operator? Yes. They weren’t into uniforms. “Well, well,” Trenton said. “What have we got here? A party girl? Or an army officer?”

“Ma’am, my name is…”

“Shut up,” Trenton said as she rose from the chair and circled the desk. “I know who you are.” By that time, Mac could see that the navy officer was wearing shorts. In a marked contrast with Trenton’s left leg, which consisted of flesh and blood, the other had been fashioned from titanium and plastic. A pair of combat boots completed the look.

“ You are Major Robin Macintyre,” Trenton said, as if accusing her of a crime. “The officer who rescued the president from the mess in Richton, and went on to become his fuck buddy, which is why he pardoned your ass.”

Even though Mac was wearing civilian clothes she found herself standing at attention. “That isn’t true,” she objected. “I’m not his…”

“I told you to shut up,” Trenton said, as she circled Mac. “That was an order. But you don’t like to follow orders, do you? That’s why your fuck buddy had to intervene. And don’t try to tell me that Sloan isn’t your fuck buddy because I watched you trade spit with him earlier today. Everybody did. And that includes the slackers, thieves, and perverts in your so-called battalion.”

Trenton stopped in front of her. “Well, guess what, Major … Your ass doesn’t belong to Sloan. Your ass belongs to me . And I’m going to work it hard .”

Trenton was nose to nose with Mac by then. So close that Mac could see the pores in the naval officer’s skin. “Do you read me, bitch?”

“I read you, ma’am.”

They stood that way, neither flinching, for a good fifteen seconds before Trenton took a step back. “Good. Now sit down and listen up. I want you to know what’s going on.”

Mac sat in one of two guest chairs while Trenton circled the desk. “You and your people have been selected to carry out an important mission. You participated in the battle for the Bayou Choctaw Strategic Petroleum Reserve. And, according to Colonel Walters, you’re more than a pretty face. But then she chose the Marine Corps over the navy, which doesn’t say much for her judgment.

“But regardless of that—this mission will be similar to the one at the Choctaw Reserve except that the West Hackberry Reserve is off to the west and well within Confederate-held territory.”

Mac opened her mouth to speak, and Trenton raised a hand. “Hold that thought. I’ll let you know when I’m done. A push is coming. A big push… And the rebs will be forced to retreat. Will they leave the Hackberry Reserve intact? Or will they destroy all of the infrastructure associated with it? We can’t take that chance. So we’re going to drop Mac’s Marauders in there before the push begins. Your job will be to capture the base and hold it until you are relieved. Okay, you have questions. Ask them.”

Mac locked eyes with Trenton. “What does the word ‘drop’ mean in this context?”

Trenton smiled thinly. “That’s the correct question. Good for you. I mean we’re going to attach parachutes to your Strykers, load them onto C-17s, and drop them onto the Hackberry Reserve. But don’t freak out… I’m talking about a low-altitude auto-extraction from twenty feet in the air. So your vehicles aren’t going to float all over the place and wind up in a swamp.”

“With personnel aboard?”

“Yes. There are two reasons for that. First, we don’t have the time to put you and your felons through jump school. Second, there’s a strong possibility that you will find yourself in a hellacious firefight within minutes of putting down. There won’t be time to round people up, dust them off, and have a cup of joe before engaging the enemy. Or, put another way, your ass will be surrounded.”

“How long do I have to get ready?”

“Two weeks.”

Mac stood. “Is there anything else?”

“There is one thing,” Trenton said as she leaned back in the chair. “Your fuck buddy attempted to kill your father yesterday. Unfortunately, he failed. You have to give Sloan credit, though… It was your father’s wedding day, so most of the Confederacy’s Joint Chiefs were gathered at his house, sucking free beer. So it was a class-A juicy target. The cruise missile was spot-on. Everyone died. Everyone except your daddy, that is… Meanwhile, as that shit was going down, Sloan was tongue-fucking you up in Nebraska. Sweet, huh?”