Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“Run!” Mac shouted. And they were off. Timms and Wynn were lugging Ramos. A farmhouse was visible ahead. And there, parked next to an old barn, was a tractor-trailer rig!

“Ryson!” Mac said. “Head for the truck… Get it started. Carter will drive, and I’ll ride in the sleeper. I want everyone else in the trailer.”

Flashing blue lights could be seen on Highway 90 as both the police and the local fire department responded to the helicopter crash. What would they make of the van? And of Orney’s body? Mac hoped the locals would spend a lot of time sorting things out.

The house was dark. Thanks to the power outage? Or because no one was at home? The answer became clear as Ryson started the truck, and a man with a shotgun came dashing out of the house. Then he ran into Wynn and wound up flat on his back. “I’ll take that,” Wynn said as he appropriated the scattergun. “Stay where you are, and everything will be fine.”

“Come on!” Mac said. “Get aboard.”

Carter could drive anything, big rigs included. And it took only a minute to clear the farm and turn onto a country road. The owner chased them but was forced to give up as his property pulled away. “We’ll take Highway 182 instead of 90,” Mac said, from her perch in the sleeper. “Maybe we’ll have better luck with that.”

Then Mac’s thoughts turned to Sergeant Orney. The rule was, “No man left behind.” But Orney had been. And the thought of it made Mac feel sick to her stomach.

Orney’s last words had been, “No worries, I have this.”

Mac fought to prevent the tears from flowing. Not here, she thought. Not now. She forced herself to focus. Had the semi departed the farm unnoticed? That was possible since local authorities had a van, a burning helicopter, and a body to puzzle over. But a clean getaway was by no means certain.

So it wasn’t until they’d been under way for fifteen minutes that Mac allowed herself to relax a little. But something was bothering her… Something important. But what ? Now, in the wake of the gunship attack, Mac felt increasingly certain that the traffic jam had been the result of a roadblock rather than a car accident.

And come to think of it, why send an Apache rather than the Black Hawk loaded with troops? Then it struck her. The rebs were trying to kill Ramos! But that didn’t make sense. Or did it? Maybe Ramos was even more valuable than JSOC thought he was.

But how ? How had the rebs been able to locate the team so quickly? The answer came in a flash. Ramos was carrying a GPS tracker! Mac keyed her mike. “Thomas… I think Ramos is carrying a tracker. Search him. Check everything he has. Over.”

“We’re on it,” Lyle responded. “Stand by. Over.”

Mac saw a sign flash by. The semi had passed the turnoff for New Iberia, which meant Cade was up ahead. Lyle broke into her train of thought. “All Ramos has on is a pair of boxer shorts, a wedding ring, and a Rolex. The back is engraved with a Confederate flag, and the words ‘ Amigos Para Siempre ,’ or ‘Friends Forever.’ How much do you want to bet the rebs gave Ramos more than a watch? They want to keep track of him.”

“Damn it,” Mac said. “You can throw the Rolex out the back if you want to… But it won’t make much difference. The bastards have a drone following us by now.”

“Then why are they allowing us to run?” Lyle demanded. “A Predator could take us out with a Hellfire missile.”

Mac saw the Cade exit pass by. The town of Broussard was next. As for the “why,” that wasn’t clear. “I’m not sure,” Mac answered. “But I think they’ll be waiting for us somewhere.”

“So what’s the plan?” Lyle wanted to know.

There was no plan. But Mac couldn’t say that. So she said the only thing that she could. “We’ll take the semi as far as we can, fight when we have to, and complete the mission.”

“Roger that,” Lyle said flatly. “We’ll be ready.”

“Hunt,” Mac said. “Do you read me?”

“Five by five,” the petty officer answered. “Over.”

“Get Kingpin on the horn. Explain our situation. Tell them we need air cover. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I’m on it,” Hunt replied. “Over.”

At that point, all Mac could do was wait. The town of Broussard marked the point where Carter had to switch from Highway 182 back to 90. Mac half expected to encounter a roadblock at the crossover point. But for reasons known only to them, the rebs had chosen to let the tractor-trailer rig pass. Maybe the shit would hit the fan in Walroy then. Or when they arrived in Lafayette. “Hunt here,” the sailor said. “Kingpin says that most of their assets are up and trying to defend New Orleans from enemy bombers. They’ll see what they can do. Over.”

That wasn’t much but gave the team something to hope for. After they passed Walroy, Highway 90 turned into Highway 167. That suggested that the enemy would try to stop the semi in Lafayette. Mac spoke to Carter. “I think they’re waiting for us up ahead. If so, there won’t be time for me to give orders. Do what you think is best. But remember this… Our immediate goal is to reach I-10 east. If we get that far, there’s a good chance we can make it the rest of the way.”

“Uh-oh,” Wynn said. “Look at that. The road is empty.”

Mac saw that he was correct and knew what that meant. The rebs had been busy clearing a path and setting their trap.

Mac’s thoughts turned to Sloan. What would the outcome be? A paragraph in his morning briefing? Mac felt a moment of regret for what was… And for what could have been. Lights flashed ahead of and behind them. The trap snapped closed.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

During the period when they ran New Orleans, the Confederacy’s military commanders had chosen to meet on the ninth floor of city hall because that was where the city’s Emergency Operations Center was located. But then the North attacked. So to avoid the possibility of being killed during a bombing raid, or by a Predator drone, the military brass moved their meetings to an underground data-storage facility located just outside New Orleans. Now Union officers were in control, and the subsurface command and control center was theirs.

As a result, Sloan was spending a great deal of his time 650 feet below sea level, behind four-hundred-foot-thick limestone walls, living in what amounted to a series of interconnected caverns. But nice caverns to be sure… Complete with polished floors and excellent lighting.

So when Sloan and his bodyguards stepped off the freight elevator, two green golf carts were waiting. Motors whirred as Sloan and the members of his security detail were whisked away to what staff referred to as “the Situation Room South.” It consisted of a large oval table, surrounded by two dozen chairs, and banks of video screens.

A number of Sloan’s advisors were present, and all of them stood as he stepped off the cart and walked over to the table. “Take a load off,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry about the late hour, but I had to address a joint meeting of Congress this morning. Even our most ardent supporters are feeling a bit antsy. And for good reason. The rebs are, as the saying goes, knocking on the door.”

Sloan grinned. “I assured them that we have a plan and that there’s no reason to worry. Please tell me that I was correct.”

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Jones made a face. “We have a plan,” he agreed. “That’s true. But we aren’t ready to act on it yet.”

“Why?” Sloan demanded.

“Simply put, we’re twenty thousand soldiers short of what we require to push the Mexicans back,” Jones replied. “But even if the additional troops were here , ready to fight, we would need more of everything before launching a counterattack. Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “Most of the resources are in the pipeline. But it will take a week to get all of it here and spread it around.”