Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

But Bo was adamantly opposed to the idea. “We will deliver at least a third of this traveling circus to the front and do so within three days,” Bo had insisted. “Because if we don’t, the Yankees will take more ground. Once the Mexicans are in place, you can work on the logistical problems.”

Meanwhile, Sloan and his lapdog General Jones had been trying to hit the column from the air. But, thanks to the brave pilots of the Confederate Air Force, only a handful of Northern bombers had been able to break through. That situation wouldn’t last forever, however. And when push came to shove, the Mexicans would have to earn their ton of gold.

In the meantime, a cruise missile launched by a Union submarine had struck the expeditionary force. But since each cruise missile cost 1.4 million prewar dollars, they were poorly suited for that type of mission. Four of the weapons had been fired the previous night. And, even though all of them were on target, the damage had been negligible. Five-point-six million was a lot to pay for the privilege of killing twelve soldiers and destroying three trucks. And that, Bo felt sure, was why there hadn’t been any missile attacks since.

Bo spotted an overpass up ahead. A banner was draped along the front of it. ¡VIVA MÉXICO! it proclaimed. People waved and cheered as a Humvee passed beneath the span.

Bo looked up, saw what looked like a black dot start to fall, and shouted: “Grenade!” He tried to catch the object but fumbled it. There was a thump as it hit the floor. Ramos picked it up. “Look, General, a beer! And a Pacifico at that… Do you have an opener?”

Bo felt stupid as he passed a pocketknife over. No, there was more to it than that. He was old, tired, and stupid. Kathy… Kathy was gone. The Union would pay for that.

A news chopper clattered overhead. “Pink Cadillac,” by Bruce Springsteen, was playing on the sound system, and General Ramos was sipping beer. The world had gone crazy.

WEST HACKBERRY STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE, HACKBERRY, LOUISIANA

The attack on the West Hackberry Petroleum Reserve had failed. But, according to the satellite imagery available via the people in New Orleans, a battalion-strength convoy of Confederate soldiers was southbound from Fort Polk. Mac expected them to arrive in the evening or just after dark.

With that in mind, she drove her people hard. There were more revetments to scoop out of the rich soil, more trenches to dig, and more bunkers to construct. Not the least of which was an underground command post.

But for reasons known only to them, the Confederates had chosen to stop short of Hackberry and spend the night. Or so it appeared. But what if the bivouac was fake? What if enemy troops were going to attack under the cover of darkness? Mac had to consider every possibility.

That meant that the Marauders had to work through the night. But Mac knew her soldiers had to get some rest as well. So she ordered Munson and roughly half of the battalion to grab four hours of sleep. Then it would be time for the rest of them to get some shut-eye.

A building at the center of the compound had been chosen for use as a communal sleeping hall. The metal roof and siding might stop a .22 caliber bullet but nothing larger.

So even as some of the battalion’s troops slept, others were busy reinforcing the roof and walls with whatever they could lay their hands on. That included pieces of metal taken from neighboring buildings and sheets of plywood “liberated” from a construction site.

Later, Mac hoped to construct underground quarters that could withstand a direct hit from a five-hundred-pound bomb. For the moment, however, most of the battalion’s resources had to go into military fortifications. And Mac was supervising the construction of what she called a “pop-up” ramp when Lieutenant Forbes approached her.

Forbes had a bowl haircut and was sporting a pair of army-issue “birth control glasses.” She delivered a smart salute, which Mac returned. “You did a nice job today, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Forbes was visibly pleased. “I’ll pass that on to my soldiers, ma’am. I know you’re busy, but there’s something that worries me. I took it to my CO, and he sent me to see you.”

Mac was running on empty at that point… And the last thing she needed was another problem. But she’d been a lieutenant not that long ago and knew it was important to hear junior officers out, even if it was a drain on her energy. “Shoot… What’s on your mind?”

“It’s the lake, ma’am… What’s to stop the rebs from sending boatloads of soldiers across the lake? It surrounds us on three sides.”

The question fell on Mac like a thunderbolt from the sky. Mac should have addressed the threat but hadn’t done so. Because she was stupid? Or because she was exhausted? No. If others weren’t allowed to offer excuses, then neither could she.

Then a scary possibility entered her mind. Was that why the rebs were taking the night off? So that a second force could make preparations for an amphibious assault? One which, like the airborne attack, would try to put the battalion in a vise?

Maybe, and maybe not. But one thing was for sure… The hole had to be plugged. And that realization was enough to get the wheels turning. Mac smiled. “That is a very important question, Lieutenant. Thank you for asking it. Let’s put our heads together and come up with an answer.”

Mac spent the next fifteen minutes with Forbes, gave the platoon leader some additional resources, and responsibility for defending the battalion’s north flank. It was nearly midnight by then, and Forbes delivered another textbook salute before disappearing into the night. That one has promise, Mac thought to herself. And her company commander gated her through. I won’t forget either one of them.

Munson returned to duty shortly thereafter. That gave Mac the chance to get her pack out of the LITTLE TOOT’s cargo bay, eat half of an MRE, and stretch out on one of the cots the rebs had been forced to vacate. The POWs, Mac thought, as sleep pulled her down. I need to deal with the POWs.

“Major? I’m sorry to bother you… But the rebs are closing in. Captain Munson sent me to wake you.”

Mac opened her eyes. RTO Larry Duke was standing next to her cot. What had it been? Five minutes since she’d gone to sleep? No. According to her watch, four and a half hours had elapsed since then.

Mac yawned, swung her boots over onto the concrete floor, and stood. The soldiers around her were getting up as well. Most were bitching and griping. “Thanks, I think,” Mac said. “Are they shooting at us?”

Duke shook his head. “No, ma’am… Not yet. But we have a drone up, and Sergeant Evans says they’re no more than thirty minutes out.”

“Okay. That means I can pee before they kill me. Is there something else?”

“Yes, ma’am. Captain Munson told me to tell you that they have tanks. Two of them.”

Mac swore. “All right, thanks. I’ll meet you in the command bunker.”

Duke looked what he was, a scared nineteen-year-old kid. “Your coffee will be ready, ma’am. And an MRE, too.”

Mac smiled. “Keep it up, soldier, you’ll be a sergeant major by Friday.”

Mac arrived in the command post fifteen minutes later. It was located on the south side of the oil reserve, which was where Mac expected most of the fighting would take place.

The bunker had been dug just off one of the larger trenches. By placing sheets of metal siding over a hole and dumping two feet of soil on top, the Marauders had been able to create a serviceable bunker. A table occupied the center of the room. That’s where the controls and monitor for the RQ-11 drone were located. “Good morning,” Sergeant Evans said. “Check this out. It looks like the rebs want to parley.”