Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Then something went wrong. Mac, who was standing next to Cassidy, heard the other officer’s inflection change. “Roger the flameout, Backhauler. Break it off, I repeat break it off and return to base.”

Mac could see the plane coming in from the east. It was flying on three engines, and that spelled trouble. Maybe three power plants would be enough, but maybe they wouldn’t. The plan called for each C-150 to drop a Stryker and pull up hard . But Backhauler was determined to go for it, and in he came.

Mac saw the chute blossom behind the transport, saw the load appear, and saw the Herc falter as a second engine failed. “Forget the pullout,” Cassidy instructed. “Turn north and climb out gradually.”

The pilot tried. But he was too low by then… And as the C-150’s starboard wing dipped, it hit the ground, and part of it sheared off. That threw the transport into a loop. A propeller scythed through the air, the fuselage surfed on a wave of dirt, and Mac heard a dull thump. Flames appeared seconds later.

Mac turned to Duke. “Send the rescue truck.”

The battalion didn’t have a crash truck. But the third Stryker to land had been designated as the rescue vehicle—and was equipped with some fire extinguishers and extraction tools. It wasn’t much, but it beat the hell out of nothing.

Mac turned back, and was about to tell Cassidy to carry on, when she realized that the JTAC was still doing her job. The next C-150 dropped an LAV and pulled up. Commander Trenton would approve.

Mac eyed her watch. The insertion was running five minutes slow… But that was pretty good given the nature of the situation. Now that she had ten vehicles on the ground, Mac had enough firepower to attack the rebel base. And the sooner the better. LITTLE TOOTwas going to remain at the LZ, as were two “enemy-response trucks,” and the rescue vehicle. The plan called for Mac to take the other Strykers with her. “Bravo-Six to Bravo-Five. Over.”

“This is Five,” Munson replied, from a position a thousand yards to the west. “Over.”

“The LZ is yours. Keep me informed. Over.”

“Roger that, over.”

Six vics were lined up in the field behind Mac, with their engines running. The detachment was under the command of Tommy Whitehorse, Alpha Company’s commanding officer. He tossed Mac a salute as she arrived. “Let’s roll, Tommy… We wouldn’t want to keep the rebs waiting.”

“No, ma’am,” Whitehorse agreed. “Perish the thought.”

Mac climbed up on top of the THUMPERwhile Duke entered via the ramp. Whitehorse lowered himself through the front hatch—while Mac took the one to the rear. The Stryker belonged to him, after all. As did responsibility for the assault.

Had Mac taken command, not only would it make Whitehorse look bad, it would have diverted her attention away from the big picture, which included what was taking place back in the LZ. The vic jerked into motion.

Rather than use the local roads, which might be mined, Whitehorse ordered his drivers to cross open fields instead. What remained of the Herc lay to the left and continued to burn. A thick column of black smoke spiraled up into the sky.

It took less than five minutes to reach Black Lake Road and cross it. And that was when the platoon took fire. It came as no surprise. Mac and her officers had been studying high-altitude recon photos for weeks by then and knew that Hackberry was only lightly defended. What they estimated to be a single company of troops was stationed at the reserve, and that made sense, since the main battle front was located one hundred miles to the east. And the rebs weren’t expecting trouble. Not at Hackberry, anyway.

Still, even though Black Lake offered some protection on the north, east, and west sides of the complex—the officer in charge had put his or her troops to work digging a network of trenches on the south side of the reserve. Some were wide enough to keep vehicles from crossing over them, while others were narrower and intended to connect defensive positions together.

Mac heard a series of thumps as mortar shells landed, followed by the rattle of machine guns. The incoming fire forced Mac to drop down into the cargo compartment. Bullets pinged against the THUMPER’s hull as the vic’s gunner fired her 105mm gun, and the driver took evasive action.

Meanwhile as the THUMPERand a vic called JERSEY GIRLgave the rebs something to shoot at, the rest of Whitehorse’s machines were circling around to attack the enemy’s left flank. A large trench had been dug to prevent such a maneuver.

But the ditch was visible on recon photos, so the Marauders were prepared to deal with it. Two of Whitehorse’s vics were carrying military-grade pierced-steel planks. And once they were thrown across the moat-like ditch, the Strykers could cross.

The reb commander sent a squad to stop the invaders, but it was no contest. The handful of defenders didn’t stand a chance against the heavily armed vehicles. And Whitehorse’s troops were able to take control so quickly that Mac found herself with more than sixty POWs to keep track of. Something she hadn’t planned for.

All the Marauders could do was disarm the enemy troops, corral them in one of the wider trenches, and post guards. But what seemed like a simple situation wasn’t. “Don’t do it!” one of the rebs yelled. “Don’t machine gun us!”

That was when Mac realized that the rebel troops had been fed a steady diet of propaganda—and believed that the Marauders were going to massacre them. Even though every second was precious, Mac did her best to assure the POWs that they wouldn’t be harmed.

And it seemed that the effort was working until a reb removed a wanted picture from his pocket and held it aloft. “Look!” he said. “It’s her ! The officer who murdered her sister!”

At that point, Mac had to turn her attention elsewhere. Reports continued to flow in from Munson. All of the Strykers were down safely, all of the crew members on the Herc were dead, and a C-150 had been shot down while returning to base. There was no time in which to grieve. That would have to wait.

With the landings out of the way, Moody was about to bring the rest of the battalion onto the reserve. And not a moment too soon since word had arrived that a rebel relief column had departed Fort Polk and was coming their way. That meant the Marauders had only hours in which to prepare for a major counterattack.

Mac waved a noncom over. His name was Logan. “Keep the prisoners corralled until I send word to release them. We can’t spare the personnel or the supplies required to cope with them.”

Sergeant Logan nodded. “Yes, ma’am. No prob.”

Thanks to the reconnaissance photos taken weeks earlier, Mac and her officers had been able to map the reserve and how their defenses would be laid out. As ESVs went to work scooping out revetments for the vehicles, teams of soldiers began to lay mines, while others took possession of the enemy’s machine guns and mortars. Each weapon had to be checked, more ammo had to be brought forward in some cases, and more fighting positions had to be dug.

Meanwhile, Mac’s supply officer, Captain Wendy Wu, had inventoried all of the equipment that had been captured from the enemy. Mac was watching a platoon leader position a Stryker when the diminutive officer arrived. Wu was one of the original marauders and a person Mac had come to rely on. “What’s up, Wendy? Did you find some instant Starbucks for me?”

Wu’s expression remained unchanged. “No, ma’am. But we are the proud owners of an uparmored Humvee, two trucks, a backhoe, some private vehicles, and an underground gas tank. There’s an emergency generator, too… Plus a pallet of MREs.”