Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Trenton looked from face to face. “Your job will be to slip in behind Mexican lines, snatch Major General Matias Ramos, and bring him back for questioning. If you succeed, maybe we can convince Ramos to tell us why his country was willing to do such a risky deal with the Confederacy.”

Trenton turned to Lyle. “The major will be in overall command. But you’ll be in charge of the snatch itself.” Trenton pushed two sealed envelopes over to them. “Study this stuff and return here at 1400. You will be leaving at 1700 tomorrow.”

Mac frowned. “Why so soon?”

“Because we know where Ramos will be tomorrow night,” Trenton replied, “unless the Mexicans break through our lines before then.”

Mac had all sorts of questions, not to mention objections, but could tell that Trenton didn’t want to hear them. Not yet, anyway. So she stood and tossed a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lyle did the same, and they left together. “Holy shit,” the Green Beret said, once they were outside. “ Tomorrow? That’s tight.”

“It sucks,” Mac agreed. “Come on… We’ll get some coffee and do our homework. Then, assuming this mission is as fucked up as it sounds, we’ll go AWOL.”

Lyle laughed. “Done and done. I’m in.”

After a visit to the chow hall, the officers sought refuge in the tiny R&R office that Mac had been using. As the officers read the operation plan and studied the accompanying maps, it was clear that a lot of forethought had gone into the documents.

The team was to consist of ten people—two of whom would be navy Riverines. Their job was to take the team up the Atchafalaya Spillway to a rendezvous with a CIA agent. He would provide the operatives with the transportation required to reach the town of Franklin. That’s where Lyle and three Green Berets would carry out the snatch.

Maybe the vehicle the CIA agent furnished to them would be sufficient to get them home, or, as the operation plan stated, “it might become necessary to source additional transportation locally.”

“What,” Mac wanted to know, “is this ‘transportation will be sourced locally’ shit?”

“It means we might have to steal it.” Lyle replied. “That’s more common than you might think.”

Mac frowned. “But what if we can’t?”

“Then we’re SOL,” the Green Beret replied. “But we will,” he added confidently.

Mac made a note. When it came to recruiting some “volunteers,” she would need an extremely competent driver, and the best “wrench” available. Meaning a tech who could break into vehicles if necessary, hot-wire them, and carry out minor repairs while on the move. No problem there… Her battalion was home to some very skilled ex-criminals.

As for the proposed exfil route, that sucked big-time. They couldn’t, in the judgment of the people who had authored the plan, go east after the snatch. That’s what the rebs would expect them to do.

So the answer was to head west, turn north toward Lafayette, and flee east on I-10. The freeway would take them over the Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge to the outskirts of Baton Rouge, where a team of CIA spooks would be waiting. According to Mac’s calculations, the exfil would take roughly four hours. Assuming no one attempted to stop them. And how likely was that ?

But what was, was. Both officers drew up wish lists, which they took to the meeting with Trenton. All of their requests were approved. And the whole thing was very matter-of-fact until the officers stood to leave. That was when Trenton circled her desk in order to shake hands with them. “I want you back,” she told them sternly. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Lyle grinned. “No, ma’am… We wouldn’t dream of it.” The meeting was over.

The rest of that day, and half of the next, were spent prepping for the mission. That included choosing people for the team, meeting with them, and drawing their gear.

Unfortunately, that left very little time for Mac to meet with Captain Munson. Mac wasn’t free to disclose anything about the mission, other than there was one, and it wouldn’t take long. “Assuming that things go well, I’ll be back within forty-eight hours,” she promised him. “And if they don’t go well, put in a requisition for a new major. I don’t know anything about the 32nd Infantry Brigade. Report in, find out what you can, and kiss some butt. I want the CO to be in a good mood when I request some Strykers.”

Munson chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. Take care out there. I’ll see you in forty-eight.”

In order to cut the travel time down, the decision had been made to depart from Port Fourchon, which was located southwest of New Orleans. Mac had been too busy to worry right up to the moment when the team boarded the thirty-six-foot Chris Craft that Chief Petty Officer Myron had chosen for the infil. Now Mac felt the first stirrings of fear. Because even though she had participated in three special ops missions, all of them had been large-scale endeavors like the attack on the Hackberry Reserve. And there was a certain amount of comfort to be derived from having a lot of people around even when outnumbered by the enemy.

But this felt different to her, even if Lyle took it in stride. “In and out,” the Green Beret said. “A piece of cake.” Maybe, Mac thought. And maybe not.

Like the rest of the team, Mac was dressed for a boat ride. Her outfit consisted of a cotton blouse and white shorts. Meanwhile, navy petty officer Casey Hunt had chosen to wear a two-piece bathing suit and a pair of slip-on tennis shoes. And, because Hunt had a nice figure, there were no complaints from the men. They were dressed in garish Hawaiian shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops. A disreputable group for sure, but members of a special ops team? No. Spies, if any, were unlikely to suspect the group of anything more than bad taste.

“Make yourselves at home,” Chief Myron said. “Hunt and I will handle all of the boatey stuff.” Mac knew that Myron was a very experienced member of the navy’s Riverine Squadrons. An organization that specialized in small-boat operations, often in conjunction with Navy SEALS. Myron had dark skin, a long, tall body, and the confident swagger typical of professional noncoms everywhere. There was a roar as the twin Volvo engines came to life, followed by the throaty burble that Chris Craft boats are famous for and a wave from Myron. He was playing his part and enjoying it. “Feel free to cast off, hon.”

“Fuck you,” Hunt replied sweetly, as the rest of the team laughed.

Once both lines were aboard, Myron pushed the throttles forward, and the boat pulled away from the dock. That was when “Kokomo,” by the Beach Boys, began to blare over the sound system, and the people on a sailboat waved. “Here you go,” Lyle said as he offered Mac a beer. “It’s your duty to drink this. Spies are everywhere.”

Thus began a wonderfully boring trip, past the point where the Atchafalaya River joined the Gulf, and into the maze of channels associated with the Atchafalaya Delta Wildlife Management area. Thanks to the boat’s three-foot draft, Myron was able to navigate the shallows without running aground, something they couldn’t afford to do, lest they be late for the rendezvous.

The sun was low in the sky by then, and based on aerial surveillance conducted the previous day, the team had been told to expect some sort of interdiction. It came in the form of a twenty-five-foot rebel patrol boat, which, given the gray-over-red paint job, had been the property of the United States Coast Guard before the war. It was armed with machine guns fore and aft, plus a police-style light bar on top of the cabin. Myron cut power the moment it began to flash. “No need to get up off your army asses,” the chief advised. “The navy will take care of this.”