Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

It was meant to hurt, and it did. Mac did an about-face and left the office. The sound of Trenton’s laughter followed her out into the reception area.

FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY

Sloan’s bedroom was furnished with odds and ends of furniture and generally messy. Some of that had to do with the clutter that covered the long, conference-room-style table that stood against one wall. It served as a place to stack his homework as well as a surface to work on. Sloan had both a laptop and a printer but had chosen to write the letter longhand. He read the most recent draft and swore. The shredder whirred as it consumed the letter. Then, determined to succeed, Sloan tried again.

Dear Robin,

By now you know about the attempt on your father’s life and the fact that it failed. You, of all people, understand that it was necessary to try. And you know why I couldn’t tell you that the attack was going to take place. You have proven yourself again and again. No one other than an idiot like Congressman Will would dare question your loyalty to our country. Yet there are rules, and I must obey them like everyone else. Plus it would have been cruel to tell you and thereby make you a coconspirator in the assassination attempt.

That said, there is something I wish to apologize for. In retrospect I realize that I should have broken our date when it became apparent that our time together was going to take place on the same day as the attack. But, because I’d been looking forward to spending time with you for so long, I managed to convince myself that it would be okay. After all, I reasoned, Robin’s father put a price on her head. And he’s an enemy combatant. So why would Robin care?

After giving the matter considerable thought, I realize how selfish, not to mention stupid, that was. And I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.

Sloan read it over, concluded that it was the best he could do, and signed it. The letter went into an envelope that already had an alter ego’s name and return address on it. Mrs. Farrow would mail it in the morning. That was all he could do.

Sloan sighed, took a document off the top of a pile, and began to read. Bo Macintyre had spent time on Mexican President Salazar’s vast ranch a week earlier and, according to a CIA agent who was also present, the two men had a private meeting. A great deal of encrypted radio traffic had been flying back and forth between Houston and Mexico City ever since.

Meanwhile, Confederate engineers were working to repair the B&M Bridge over the Rio Grande River. Even though their forces had destroyed it months earlier. Why? The question followed Sloan into his dreams.

NAVAL AIR STATION JOINT RESERVE BASE, NEW ORLEANS

Hangar 3 was barely large enough to accommodate all 250 members of Mac’s Marauders. Mac entered through the enormous door, made her way over to the staging normally used to work on airplane engines, and climbed the stairs to the top. Company Sergeant Chris Bader’s voice was loud enough to be heard outside. “Battalion! Atten-hut!”

Mac scanned the first rank of faces. Some were familiar, but they were the exception. There had been casualties during the months since the battalion had been commissioned. Lots of them. And, as the unit gained increased notoriety, there had been no shortage of volunteers. So many that two-thirds of the people assembled in the hangar had clean records. A fact that Commander Trenton seemed to be unaware of. When Mac said, “At ease,” she was pleased to see her troops shift position in unison. Mac could thank Executive Officer Trey Munson for that… Along with Bader and the rest of the NCOs.

“We have a mission,” Mac began. “A top secret mission the exact nature of which will become clear over the next couple of days. But I can tell you this… Mac’s Marauders are going to operate behind enemy lines. That means we will be surrounded from the very beginning. And we won’t be able to count on a whole lot of air support, either. Other than that, this is going to be a piece of cake.” The words produced nervous laughter and scattered “Hooahs.”

Mac smiled. “Simply put, our mission will be to take an objective and hold it until we are relieved. We were chosen for this task because our armor will give us an important edge—and because we are the best of the worst.”

That produced a hearty cheer even though most of the battalion had never seen the inside of a jail cell. They liked the battalion’s bad-boy rep as well as its edgy motto. Mac felt guilty about manipulating their emotions. But that was part of the job. “Now listen up,” Mac told them. “Rather than drive into enemy territory, we’re going to drop our Strykers from planes. Why? To scare the shit out of the rebs, that’s why.”

That wasn’t why. But the line got a laugh. “We are going to spend the next two weeks learning all about parachutes and gravity,” Mac told them. “During that time, there won’t be any passes, there won’t be any access to the Internet, and we’ll be logging twelve-hour days.

“But, if you do well, I’ll throw a party forty-eight hours prior to takeoff. And liquid refreshments will be served.”

A predictable cheer went up, Mac waved, and Bader yelled, “Atten-hut!” There were tears in Mac’s eyes as she left the hangar. A lot of her soldiers were going to die. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

MATAMOROS, MEXICO

The sun was little more than a buttery glow beyond the perpetual haze as General Bo Macintyre stood at the south end of the Brownsville & Matamoros Express Bridge and looked north. He felt guilty, and for good reason. Rather than being in Mexico, working on Operation Overlord, he should have been in Houston attending Kathy’s funeral.

But Bo knew he couldn’t get through it. And, after losing two generals and an admiral to a single missile, the last thing citizens needed to see was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs sobbing on TV. Fortunately, Bo’s job gave him an excuse to be at “an undisclosed location,” “fulfilling his responsibilities,” while Kathy’s sister handled the funeral arrangements.

As for Kathy, well, she would understand. Would she approve of his new mission in life? Which was to avenge her death? No, she wouldn’t. “That won’t solve anything,” she would say. But that’s where Kathy was wrong. Killing Sloan, as well as the people who made him possible, would cleanse North America of a dangerous infection. Then, once he was dead, the North and South could reunite. In that way, something good would come out of Kathy’s death.

Bo eyed the scene in front of him. Forces under Victoria’s command had destroyed the B&M Bridge so that a Mexican drug lord couldn’t use it. Now, ironically enough, Bo was in charge of the effort to repair it. Cranes had been brought up the Rio Grande on barges. And as Bo looked on, people from both sides of the border were working to drop a new support beam into place.

The Confederacy had delivered a ton of gold to Mexico City a few days earlier. And that meant all three of the bridges that crossed the river between Matamoros and Brownsville would be required as sixty thousand Mexican soldiers traveled north. By crossing at that point, the allied troops could enter Texas and pivot to the east without encountering the sort of resistance they would have confronted in New Mexico and Arizona.

Bo’s train of thought was interrupted as a helicopter clattered overhead, circled the construction site, and came in for a landing. One of Bo’s aides was a burly major named Ted Caskins. He arrived as the helo touched down. “The polo team has landed.”