Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“Yeah,” the man in the bib overalls said. “What about hazardous duty pay?”

“Was that mentioned in your contract?”

“No.”

“Then there isn’t any,” Mac replied. “All right… We’re leaving in ten minutes. Be ready.” And with that, she made her way over to the enormous doorway. The sky had an ominous look, the rain was falling in sheets, and large puddles were forming on the concrete parking lot. How was the counterattack going? Mac wondered. Did Sloan have reason to be happy? She was about to find out.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

Four-Star General Bo Macintyre was AWOL as Hurricane Whitney closed in on the Gulf Coast. And he didn’t give a shit what President Stickley thought. It had been a three-hour drive from Houston to Fort Hood, a normally bustling city that looked like a ghost town. Why? Because the army was the engine that made Fort Hood go, and most of it was in the field fighting, and all too often dying.

One of the people who had given their lives for the Confederacy was Bo’s daughter, Major Victoria Macintyre. All of her possessions had been left to him, and that included the sleek, modernistic condo that was located a few miles from the base.

Did the military know that he owned it? Bo didn’t think so, although he knew they would figure it out once they got around to looking for him. But that would take a while. And Bo would be gone by then. In the meantime, the condo represented a link between Bo’s past and his future. Bo put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

It was the first time Bo had been inside the condo since Victoria’s death. And that had been what? Three months earlier? Something like that. He should have come sooner, like Kathy urged him to do, but he’d been busy.

No, that was a lie. He could have visited the condo, in order to pack things up, but that would have required him to accept Victoria’s death. Something he hadn’t been ready to do. So as Bo closed the door behind him, he expected to feel a surge of raw emotion. There wasn’t any.

What was the saying? “The passage of time heals all wounds?” Yes. And that’s why the tears weren’t flowing.

The kitchen was just the way his daughter had left it, which was to say neat as a pin. And that was very different from the fifteen-year-old who hated washing dishes, taking out the trash, and cleaning the house. That was one way in which the army had left its stamp on her.

The living room was nicely furnished but reminiscent of an upscale hotel suite. The guest room was equipped with a treadmill, free weights, and a yoga mat. The only thing that resembled a personal touch was the photo montage on the wall next to the treadmill.

All of the pictures had a common theme: Victoria crossing the finish line. Victoria running an obstacle course. And Victoria jumping out of a plane. Bo smiled. The girl was an asskicker… That was for sure.

But the master bedroom, well, that was different. It had a feminine flair… And like an echo of Victoria’s younger persona, the bed was unmade.

A single photo sat on the dresser. A photo of a much younger him . And he was in uniform. Was that important somehow? Bo figured it was. And the realization produced a twinge of regret. What if he’d been an accountant? Or a teacher? Maybe Victoria would still be alive.

As for the big walk-in closet, that was the way Bo expected it to be, which was filled with uniforms. But there was something else as well. Something most young women didn’t have. And that was a refrigerator-sized gun safe.

Most fathers would have been surprised to make such a discovery, but Bo wasn’t one of them. Victoria had been part of an elite special operations organization. Although it was classified as a counterterrorism team, and functioned as such, the supersecret cell had been called upon to carry out “special sanctions” when they were deemed necessary. Were the assassinations legal? No. Were they necessary? Yes. And that was why Victoria needed to keep an array of “clean,” untraceable weapons in her home.

Bo entered Victoria’s birthday into the combination lock and heard a click. The door swung open. And there, racked side by side, were three assault rifles and two submachine guns. Pistols were kept in separate drawers. But the real prize was a .50 caliber ammo box filled with American Eagle gold coins! Each eagle would fetch something on the order of three thousand dollars on the wartime black market. And, after twenty-seven years of service, Bo figured that he was entitled to something. Especially since he wasn’t going to get any retirement checks. Bo sat on the floor, leaned back against the safe, and began to sob.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

As Mac left the building, she saw that teams of soldiers were placing magnetic stickers on the vehicles in her convoy. The graphics consisted of a huge red ball without text. Lieutenant Carey was supervising the process. “What’s going on?” Mac inquired, as rain rattled on her slicker.

“This is a high-priority convoy,” Carey explained, “and the red balls signify that. Other vehicles are supposed to get out of the way.”

It was an echo of the famous Red Ball Express of WWII, when trucks emblazoned with the iconic red balls rushed desperately needed supplies from the beaches of Normandy up to the front. Most of the big six-by-six trucks had been driven by African-Americans, who were prime targets for German planes. Now someone up the chain of command was bringing the concept back. “Good,” Mac said. “When you’re finished, report to the Stryker. I will ride at the head of the column. If I get killed, you’ll be in command. So conduct yourself accordingly. The way the troops perceive you now is how they will perceive you then.”

Judging from the expression on Carey’s face, the possibility of being in command hadn’t occurred to her. And no wonder… Like most butter bars, she hadn’t led anything more than a play-pretend platoon. She swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then Carey started to salute, stopped, and brought her arm down. Mac grinned. “Well done. Learn everything you can about Strykers… The knowledge might come in handy sometime. Who knows? Maybe we can turn you into a cavalry officer.”

Mac made her way up along the column of trucks to the Humvee, checked to make sure the front passenger seat was available, and opened the door. The wind tried to snatch it away, but Mac held on, and pulled it closed.

A corporal was seated behind the wheel. He smiled. “Welcome aboard, Major. I’m Corporal Ito. Private Ann Green is your RTO, and Private Duncan Hemmings is our gunner.”

The other soldiers were seated in the back. Mac greeted both of them before turning to Green. The RTO had black hair, brown skin, and a serious demeanor. “Who is supposed to track our progress?”

“That would be Pushback-One-Two.”

“Call ’em,” Mac said. “Get a weather report if you can—and tell them that we are about to depart.”

As Green made the call, Mac made use of the tactical frequency to hold a roll call. All of her personnel were ready to roll. An MP waved as the Humvee passed by him. And that, Mac knew, was the only fanfare they were going to receive.

“Pushback says the storm will get steadily worse,” Green said.

Mac thanked Green and opened the map that Colonel Prevus had given her. The plan was to drive west on Highway 90. A route that, ironically enough, would take her back to the same spillway that she, Lyle, and the rest of them had used what? Two days earlier?

The thought of Lyle and the others caused a lump to form in Mac’s throat. She turned to look out of the side window. There was so much grieving left to do. When would it end? Mac pushed the thought aside—and forced her eyes onto the map.