Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Sloan eyed the faces around him. “A week… Do we have a week?”

“That depends,” National Security Advisor Toby Hall replied. “According to the most recent intel reports, Confederate General Bo Macintyre is spending every waking moment with Division Commander Matias Ramos and wants him to launch an all-out attack.

“Fortunately for us, Ramos continues to drag his feet. Sources indicate that while Ramos is perfectly willing to fight—he doesn’t like to advance unless he has half of the Confederate Air Force circling overhead.”

“Meanwhile,” Secretary of Defense Garrison added, “Mother Nature is about to weigh in.”

Sloan frowned. “Meaning?”

“According to the National Hurricane Center, a powerful storm is headed our way. Assuming it maintains its present course, the hurricane will cross the coast somewhere between Biloxi and Port Arthur. And that might help or hurt us. It’s too early to say which.”

“It would keep all aircraft on the ground,” Director of National Intelligence Kip said. “Confederate planes included. And Ramos won’t advance without them.”

“That’s true,” Jones agreed. “But, while a serious storm might prevent Ramos from taking more ground, it would hinder our ability to help civilians as well.”

Sloan tried to imagine it. A meteor fall, followed by a war, followed by a hurricane. If there was a worse scenario, he couldn’t imagine it. “All right, keep me informed. In the meantime, I expect FEMA to keep the public informed and to coordinate with the usual NGOs.”

Sloan eyed the faces around him. “Cheer up, people… It’s like someone said to me a few days ago. We’re deep inside what used to be enemy territory—and only 350 miles from Houston. We have the bastards where we want ’em.”

LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA

“Hang on!” Carter shouted as she shifted into a higher gear and put her foot down. “We’re going through!”

Mac was forced to hang on as the truck accelerated. Lafayette’s streetlights were on. A flare popped high above the truck and began to float down. The roadblock consisted of three cop cars and two city buses, which were parked nose to nose.

That would have been sufficient to stop most vehicles. But the weight of the semi, plus the half-loaded trailer, totaled to something like seventy thousand pounds. And the combo tossed the police cars aside as if they were toys.

Then, with plenty of inertia left, the big rig smashed into the barricade that lay beyond. Tires screeched, and safety glass shattered, as the buses were forced to part. Mac was thrown into the sleeper, where thick padding kept her from being hurt. “The engine’s on fire!” Carter exclaimed. “Everyone out.”

The sleeper had a door. Mac pushed it open, jumped to the ground, and found herself surrounded by swirling smoke. But, thanks to her night-vision gear, she could see.

The team was surrounded. Rebs, Mexicans, and police officers were shooting at them from every direction. Bullets snapped past, pinged the truck, and buzzed like bees.

Mac saw Timms stagger as a burst of automatic fire took him down. Wynn ran forward to provide first aid but stood a moment later and began to return fire.

Myron bellowed a war cry and was firing his MP7 at a police officer when a bullet struck his head. Mac ran to check on him, but the chief petty officer was dead.

“Follow me!” Lyle shouted. “Get to the Hummers!”

Mac could see the vehicles through the drifting smoke. Mexican soldiers were using them for cover, and the Humvee on the right had a top-mounted fifty. It began to chug.

Lyle ran straight at the vehicles, pushing the half-naked Ramos in front of him. The general was wearing a Union TAC vest and a pair of striped boxer shorts. That was when Mac realized that Lyle had given his body armor to Ramos! In an effort to protect the prisoner. Mac shouted, “No!” But it came too late. A bullet knocked Lyle down.

Ramos stopped and raised his hands. “¡Dejar de disparer! ¡Soy yo! ¡General Ramos!” (Stop firing! It’s me! General Ramos!)

The fifty stopped firing as the rest of the team caught up. Then all of the Mexicans stopped firing, and one of them ordered the Confederates to do likewise. And they obeyed.

It seemed that even though the rebs wanted to kill Ramos, they couldn’t do so with the Mexicans looking on because the alliance would come apart. That meant Ramos was their ticket out. But only so long as he was alive. What if a gung ho reb took him out?

“Surround the general!” Mac ordered. “So they can’t shoot him. Grab Lyle… And take control of those vehicles.”

Mac looked back at Timms and Myron. She wanted to recover their bodies. But at what cost? Could the team retrieve and load the bodies without losing the initiative? And sacrificing the mission? Mac couldn’t take that chance.

Hunt and Wynn got Lyle up and on his feet as Ryson and Yang advanced on the Mexican soldiers. The Mexicans had no choice but to fall back. That cleared the way for Yang to scramble up onto the armed Humvee and aim the fifty at them. “Don’t fire,” Mac told him. “Not unless they try to stop us. We’re here to snatch Ramos… Not mow people down.”

Thanks to their hostage, plus Yang’s fifty, the rest of the team were able get in the vehicles and depart. No shots were fired at the Humvees as they pulled away. Ryson was driving the vehicle with the fifty and was in the lead.

But Mac, who was riding shotgun in the second Humvee, ordered him to fall back. “They’re going to tail us,” she told him. “And if the Confederates can get rid of the Mexicans, they’ll attack. That’s when the fifty will come into play.”

That prophecy was borne out five minutes later. The team was eastbound on I-10 when the Apache helicopter caught up with them. Yang’s fifty was the only defense they had, but it was a potent weapon and sufficient to draw the pilot’s attention. He or she fired a brace of unguided rockets at the Hummer and missed.

Mac turned to Hunt. The sailor was seated in the backseat with Wynn and Ramos. “Get Kingpin on the radio. Tell them we’re eastbound on I-10 in two Humvees—and that a Confederate helicopter is trying to take us out.”

“Should I request air support?” Hunt inquired.

“I think that’s implied,” Mac said dryly.

“You won’t make it,” Ramos predicted.

“You’d better hope that we do,” Mac countered. “Because if we go down, you’ll go with us. I guarantee it.”

Ramos shrugged. “So be it. You’re quite pretty for a commando.”

Carter produced a snorting sound. “Holy shit! He’s hitting on you!” Wynn laughed.

Hunt had finished speaking with Kingpin by then. She leaned forward. “They say help is on the way. ETA ten minutes.”

“Did they say what kind of help?” Mac inquired.

“No, ma’am.”

Mac considered it. Ten fucking minutes? That was a lifetime. And what could be a short one. She opened her mike. “Hey, Yang… Quit screwing around and grease that bastard.”

“I’d like to try something,” Yang responded. “I’m going to spin the fifty around. When I give the word, I want both Humvees to stop. Over.”

Mac understood the plan. The Apache would pass overhead. And, once Yang’s vehicle came to a stop, he would be able to fire at it from a stable platform. Could he shoot the reb helo in the ass? Possibly. It was worth a try. “Go for it,” Mac told him. “Ryson, Carter, stop when Yang gives the word. Over.”

“Here it comes,” Yang said. “Wait for it… Now! ”

Both drivers stood on the brakes. And that ruined the copilot’s aim. At least a hundred rounds of 30mm shells plowed a furrow in the concrete up ahead.