Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Cassidy summoned the Warthogs again. But even though the A-10s destroyed six Jaguars, the rest remained operational. A wave of Mexican soldiers surged forward as the first Chinook landed. Mac was there, firing her M4, when Trenton jumped to the ground. The navy officer was wearing a ball cap, a TAC vest, and shorts. A red, white, and blue artificial leg completed the look. Trenton was armed with a Belgian FN SCAR-H. She nodded. “Good afternoon, Major… This is quite a shit show. But I’ve seen worse.”

And with that, Trenton knelt next to the LITTLE TOOT, raised the SCAR, and began to fire single shots. Mac was firing, too, but not as accurately. Each time Trenton squeezed the trigger, an enemy soldier died.

What ensued was a hellish symphony of roaring engines, machine-gun fire, and shouted orders. The Mexicans attacked, went to ground, and attacked again. Cassidy called for the Strykers to drop red smoke, waited for it to billow upwards, and put out the call.

Some of the Mexicans were belly-crawling toward the LZ. Mac was so focused on killing them that she barely noticed the roar of jet engines as the Hogs made another gun run. Thirty mike-mike rounds tore the enemy infantry to shreds.

Then the ground shook, and Mac thought the planes were dropping bombs, until someone shouted, “Incoming!” That was when Mac realized the truth. The rebs had brought artillery to bear and were determined to kill the Chinooks.

Mac shoved a fresh magazine into the M4 while Cassidy’s RTO spoke with one of the F-14 pilots. There was no way for them to know what the zoomie did, but the shelling stopped two minutes later. Mac’s ears were ringing, and she felt dizzy.

“Major,” a male voice said. “Shall we blow the charges?”

Mac turned to find that Captain Munson was standing behind her. He was alive! She wasn’t sure of anything by that point. “Yes, blow the charges,” she said. “And get your people on that Chinook.”

The ground shook as charge after charge went off, destroying all of the reserve’s infrastructure, the battalion’s supply dump, and the Strykers that remained in their revetments.

With only one helicopter remaining, Trenton approached her. The navy officer extended her right hand, and Mac shook it. “I apologize,” Trenton said. “You are the real deal. Come on… Let’s go home. There’s plenty of booze in the O club, and I’m buying.”

They walked side by side to the waiting helo and climbed on board. The twin engines spooled up, the ground fell away, and the battlefield appeared. Hundreds of people lay dead. For what? Mac asked herself. A failed plan? Yes. But there was no point in dwelling on that. Such things were outside the sphere of her control. We had orders, Mac concluded. And we followed them. And that is all that a soldier can do.

NEAR CALUMET, LOUISIANA

The small group of officers were standing on the west side of the channel looking east as they sipped coffee and nibbled on the cinnamon rolls that had been brought forward from the town of Centerville. A layer of mist floated just above the land on the other side of the divide and eddied gently as a breeze slid in from the south.

The Yankees had been pushed east to Calumet, Louisiana. And that was a natural place for them to make a stand. The Atchafalaya Spillway formed a barrier that ran straight as an arrow all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and the only bridge was in Calumet. Or had been in Calumet, until the Confederate Army had been forced to destroy it thirty days earlier, when it appeared as though the enemy was going to chase them all the way to Houston. So, with swamps protecting both its north and south flanks, the Union Army was in a strong position.

And if it could hold the Mexicans off long enough, the Union might be able to force a stalemate and use it to buy some much-needed time. That scenario was one that Bo was determined to prevent by pushing through what he thought of as “the squeeze” at Calumet and recapturing the city of New Orleans, which lay to the east.

Unfortunately, Bo had more than the Union Army to worry about. His new allies were both a blessing and a curse. Major General Matias Ramos emptied his coffee mug and held it out. An orderly wearing a white jacket stepped forward to fill it up. “A nice day for it,” the Mexican general remarked, as a 155mm howitzer shell rumbled overhead and exploded somewhere behind them.

Much to Bo’s amazement, Ramos looked none the worse for wear despite the party he’d thrown the night before. “ Every day is a good day for killing Yankees,” Bo observed. “It’s my pleasure to inform you that our engineers are ready to put an Improved Ribbon Bridge (IRB) in place, so that your forces can cross the spillway. Shall I give the order?”

Bo held his breath while Ramos dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. Would the son of a bitch agree to move forward? Or would he spend half the morning getting a hot shave? “Excellent,” Ramos replied. “Please proceed. I would like to send a brigade across before nightfall. However, it’s quite likely that our northern friends will object and send planes to destroy the bridge. Will we have air cover?”

“Of course,” Bo replied, hoping that the wish would come true. Based on previous experience, he knew that Ramos wouldn’t move even a foot without jet fighters circling above. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Work began immediately. In order to deploy the IRB, it was necessary to bring the sections in on Common Bridge Transporter trucks, dump the prefab elements into the channel, and hook them together. And as the Confederate engineers worked, Union gunners shelled the spillway, sinking two work boats. Shortly after that, a surface-to-surface missile severed the span, and a brace of the enemy A-10s attempted to sneak in under the fighters circling above. The span was repaired, and the intruders were shot down.

Still, by the time the sun set, the bridge was operational, and Ramos kept his word. A brigade of troops crossed the IRB, secured a bridgehead, and dug in. Bo wanted to push on and take more ground. But Ramos and his polo-playing buddies had other ideas.

They were quartered in the picturesque town of Franklin, which was located twelve miles to the rear, and they liked their comforts. So Bo had to accompany them there and sit through an evening of revelry or run the risk that a staff officer would take the opportunity to fill Ramos’s head with bullshit.

Ramos, Bo, and the other officers were staying at the Quality Inn. One of the hotel’s meeting rooms had been transformed into a lounge, complete with a buffet table and a makeshift bar. Plus, each night local beauties were on hand to offer the foreigners some Southern comfort. And if Ramos had a weakness, that was it. The man seemed to have an insatiable libido and typically took a different woman to bed every night, an indulgence that Bo saw as a weakness.

But finally, after Ramos and his entourage spent hours eating, drinking, and groping their female companions, they went to bed. Then, and only then, could Bo and his staff turn in. Once in his room, Bo lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling for a while, and closed his eyes.

Where were the dreams? The hopes? The plans? Nearly all of them were dead. Like his wife. Like his daughter. The exception, the thing Bo lived for, was the chance to kill Samuel T. Sloan. The man directly responsible for Kathy’s death… And the man who, according to various news stories, was screwing the daughter he no longer acknowledged. Why did he care then? Because Robin was his … That’s why.