Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“Yes, sir,” Trenton said. “The unit you referred to is Mac’s Marauders under the command of Major Robin Macintyre. The original plan was to take control of the facility in advance of the big push—and prevent the rebs from destroying it when they were forced to pull back. But the strategic situation has changed.”

Her eyes were locked with his, and Sloan could see the challenge in them. It seemed safe to assume that Trenton knew the battalion was his idea—and that she was cognizant of his relationship with Robin. And Sloan knew the people in the room were waiting to see how he would respond. He chose his words with care. “Yes, the situation has changed. So, since you’re in command, how are you going to get our people out?”

The emphasis on “you” was intentional—and Sloan watched Trenton’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She couldn’t pass the buck the way the admiral had and made no attempt to do so. “We have teams both large and small trapped inside enemy territory,” she answered. “Mac’s Marauders is in queue behind a platoon of Rangers and a couple of downed pilots.

“As you can imagine, combat search and rescue teams are in short supply right now. Would you like me to move the Marauders up to the top of the list?” It was said sweetly and with a sardonic smile.

Hell yes, Sloan wanted to move the battalion up, but it wouldn’t be right to do so. More than that, it would be political suicide to show any hint of favoritism. Something which, judging from the look on her face, Trenton was well aware of.

“No,” Sloan said. “I never interfere with operational matters. But I’m worried about all of the people on your list. For that reason, I’m going to ask my attaché, Lieutenant Colonel McKinney, to track the situation. Please keep him informed.”

“I will,” Trenton replied tightly. “Is there anything else?”

“Just this,” Sloan said flatly. “Thank you for your service to our country.”

Some of those in the room took the comment at face value. Others thought the sentence had an ominous ring to it. As if Trenton’s military career might be coming to an end. McKinney, who was seated behind Sloan, smiled.

WEST HACKBERRY STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE, HACKBERRY, LOUISIANA

Mac had returned to the command bunker. The good news, such as it was, lay in the fact that the air attack had taken place after the tanks had been neutralized. Mac knew it would have been nearly impossible to stop the behemoths while being bombed at the same time. “This is Six actual,” Mac said over the radio. “Get ready… They’ll be back.”

At that point, Mac left Lieutenant Burns to handle the AA effort while she focused on the ground war. “Here they come,” Evans said. And, as Mac eyed his monitor, she could see that at least two companies of enemy troops were moving forward. “Six here,” Mac said, as she watched a group of rebs bunch up behind the burned-out tanks. “Put mortar fire on both tanks. Then, when they break cover, take them down. Over.”

“Show me the lake,” Mac said, as the outgoing mortar fire began. “I want to see those barges.”

The drone circled out over Black Lake. “There they are,” Evans said. “It looks like there are about ten people on each one of them. That adds up to a platoon.”

Mac knew what the noncom was thinking. Once the platoon landed, Mac would be forced to shift resources to the lakeshore, thereby weakening the battalion’s southern defenses.

But, before the rebs could land, they’d have to deal with Lieutenant Forbes and her tiny command. “Six actual to Bravo-One-Six. They’re coming in. You know what to do.” Mac heard three clicks by way of a response.

Captain Cassidy was there along with her radio operator. “I put out a call for help,” the air force JTAC said. “Nothing so far.”

“This is Charlie-Two,” Burns said over the tactical frequency. “Two northbound aircraft at six o’clock. Ready, aim, fire!”

Even though Mac was in the command bunker, she could hear the now-familiar bang, bang, bang sound as Stingers took to the air. “The rebs are popping flares,” Burns added. “They’re trying to pull the Stingers away. Damn… No hits.”

Mac swore, and was about to reply, when a precision-guided 250-lb glide bomb hit the roof. It exploded, and half of the ceiling caved in. A sudden avalanche of dirt knocked Mac to the floor. They’ve been watching, Mac thought. They know where the command post is.

Duke was untouched. He bent over to give Mac a hand. Dirt fell away from Mac’s shoulders as she stood. Cassidy was okay, as was Evans, but a runner named Minsky was down. The reason was obvious. A beam had fallen on the private’s unprotected head. Cassidy’s RTO knelt next to the body. She looked up and shook her head. “He’s gone.”

Mac made a face and turned to Duke. “Help her haul Minsky out of here… Evans, it’s time to move. Follow me.”

With Evans right behind her, Mac exited the bunker, followed the main trench to the back end of a Stryker, and made her way inside. The vehicle was empty except for the truck commander and his gunner. Duke followed Evans up the ramp. “Forbes is about to engage the rebs,” he said. “They’re a thousand yards offshore.”

“Show me the drone feed,” Mac said, as Evans hurried to get his gear up and running again. The process ate fifteen long seconds, and by the time video appeared, the battle was under way. Mac had been forced to place most of Forbes’s vics elsewhere. But the platoon leader had one Stryker, and more importantly, both of the Marine Corps’ LAVs. Three vehicles in all.

When Forbes gave the command, the Stryker emerged from hiding, sped down to the lakefront, and opened fire. The rebs returned fire as geysers of water shot up all around the lead barge. They had an AT4 launcher, but the rocket went wide and struck a shed. There must have been something flammable inside it because the structure exploded. And that was fine with Mac since it was a good diversion.

The LAV-25s had been launched during the hours of darkness. Then they had been moored in between two-hundred-foot-long barges and covered with tarps. Now both of the amphibious vehicles were under way and about to attack the rebs from the east.

The LAVs weren’t fast, but they were steady, and Mac could see their wakes as the drone circled above them. The moment they came within effective range, both vehicles fired their 25mm chain guns.

That, combined with the .50 caliber fire from the Stryker, was devastating. The rebel soldiers had no protection—and were swept away by the hail of lead. One of the barges started to sink. And as the drone flew low, Mac could see the bodies heaped on the others, and the rivulets of blood that ran down into the lake. She felt sick to her stomach. It was her doing. But what choice did she have? It was either their people or her people. The choice warriors had been forced to make for thousands of years.

“Four navy F-14s are inbound,” Cassidy said, as a reb fighter roared overhead. “Maybe they can chase the bad guys away.”

Mac heard the now-familiar bang, bang, bang as Stingers were fired, followed by a whoop of joy from Burns. “A hit! We got a hit! He’s trailing smoke and losing altitude.”

That was good news indeed. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. The Stryker shook as the top-mounted fifty fired a burst. Listening to the TAC frequency was like checking the battalion’s pulse. “Put a rocket on that Bradley, One-One-Alpha… Kill that bastard. Over.”

“This is Two-Two-Delta… We need some ammo, and we need it now . Over.”

“Three-Three-Charlie here… The lieutenant is down. Send a medic! Over.”