Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

“I concur,” Breeson said. “She is quite competent. Especially where midnight requisitions are concerned. What happened to your convoy? It looks like someone used it for target practice.”

“Partisans attacked us last night,” Mac replied. “Truck three caught fire, but we put it out. Most of the cargo is undamaged.”

“Did you bring us some ammo?” Breeson asked hopefully.

“Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “About a third of each load consists of ammo.”

“Thank God,” Breeson said. “We’re running low. Captain Wu… you know what to do.”

Wu left to get the unloading process under way, and Mac took the opportunity to ask a question. “What about my battalion, Colonel? Does Mac’s Marauders still exist?”

“It does,” Breeson assured her. “Although I haven’t been able to find any Strykers for you. I suggest that you report to Colonel Tompkins. He’s the XO.” Breeson turned. “Sergeant Omar! Take the major over to HQ.”

Breeson turned back. “You’d never find it without a guide,” he explained. “This place is like a maze.”

Mac thanked Breeson and keyed her mike. “All military personnel will report to me. And bring your gear. You won’t be back. Over.”

Rather than ask Breeson what to do with the soldiers under her command and run the risk that he’d take control of them, Mac had decided to assume they were hers. Would the strategy work? Time would tell.

Omar led them up a ramp to the surface, through a muddy trench, and past a busy mortar pit. Mac was struck by the amount of litter on the ground. There were ration boxes, some in Spanish, and bloody bandages, and items of clothing lay everywhere.

Eventually, they entered a bunker that led to another bunker, and that’s where Omar left them. Mac turned to Carey. “Wait here. If anyone asks, tell them that you report to me.”

Carey’s eyes widened. “So you aren’t sending us back to New Orleans?”

Mac chuckled. “Fat chance. No, someone will grab the detachment, and it might as well be me.”

“I’d like that,” Carey said. “‘The best of the worst.’ That’s what they say.”

Mac smiled. “That’s because it’s true. Keep everyone together. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The bunker beyond the outer bunker was guarded by two Rangers and a dour-looking master sergeant. “Good morning, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Mac replied. “I just arrived. I’m Major Macintyre. Is the XO available?”

The noncom had bushy eyebrows. Both of them rose. “ The Major Macintyre? Sergeant Major Price was a friend of mine. He told me that you are the best fucking officer in the army. No offense, ma’am… That’s how he put it.”

Price had been killed in action, and Mac missed him. She felt a lump form in her throat. “No apology is necessary, Master Sergeant. That’s how he would say it all right. He was an outstanding soldier.”

“Hold on for a second,” the noncom said. “I’ll see if the colonel can fit you in.”

He was back a minute later and offered a big paw. “Master Sergeant Oliver, ma’am. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Done,” Mac said, as they shook. “Thank you.”

The command bunker was equipped with lawn furniture that looked as if it had been “liberated” from a Home Depot store. A skeletal rack supported six flat screens, each of which featured a different scene. And there, standing on two shipping pallets, was Colonel Tompkins. For reasons known only to him, Tompkins was wearing an army blue uniform rather than camos.

When Tompkins spoke, it was into a headset as his eyes scanned the screens in front of him. “Pay attention, Roach-Four… Kill that battery, and kill it now. Baker-One-Eight… watch your left flank. They’re trying to do an end run on you. Nice move, Alpha-Six. They won’t forget that.”

Then, after a quick glance at Mac, his eyes returned to the screens. “Welcome to the 32nd, Major… A brigade of jarheads is going to travel up the ship channel and land here in about six hours. Our job, your job, is to clear a spot for them to land and hold it. Then we’re going to push the enemy back and win this fucking war. Do you have any questions?”

Mac had to admire the precision with which Tompkins delivered the briefing. “No, sir. No questions, sir.”

“Good,” Tompkins said, as his eyes continued to scan the screens. “Then why are you still here?”

NEAR PECAN WELLS, TEXAS

After parking his rental car in a grove of trees two miles away, and hiking cross-country on foot, ex-general Bo Macintyre had climbed to the top of the promontory that locals called “Goat Rock.” Bo had chosen the spot because he’d been hunting in the area and was familiar with it. The vantage point also allowed Bo to look out over the surrounding countryside and see everything that moved. He could see a hawk riding a thermal, a yellow school bus driving up the highway, and a pickup truck headed in the opposite direction. All of which was wonderfully normal.

Bo settled into the shadow thrown by a pinnacle of rock, put the rifle aside, and shrugged his way out of the day pack. Then he looked at his watch. It was 0732. Assuming they followed his instructions, Bo’s guests would arrive at 0800.

He glassed the cabin below. It belonged to a friend. A general who, if he was lucky, would survive the war. In the meantime, Bo was going to use the structure for a few hours before putting the key back above the door. There was nothing to see around the structure except the hop, hop, hop of a rabbit.

Was the government searching for him? Maybe, but maybe not, since Stickley was up to her ass in trouble. Ramos had spilled his guts, just like Bo figured he would, and the Union was riding the bastard like a horse. They had released a video of Ramos shooting his mouth off about the true nature of the Mexican-Confederate alliance, and it was getting lots of play.

Bo was staying at a motel in nearby Gatesville. And he’d seen hours of the blah-blah. Was Ramos lying? Had he been tortured? Did that kind of deal make sense? How could the Confederate government countenance such a thing? On and on it went as people who didn’t know jack shit pretended that they did.

The real truth was that the “territorial concession,” as some commentators called it, had been part of a larger strategy. A daring plan to double-cross the Mexicans, and take their miserable country over, along with all of the land down to the Panama Canal.

And had it not been for a strange confluence of events, it would have worked. But no one, Bo included—had been able to anticipate the abduction, the storm, and Sloan’s decision to attack.

I should have thought of it, Bo thought. I underestimated Sloan. And he made me pay. The failure weighed heavily on Bo’s mind. Focus on the future, he told himself. Do what you can do.

Bo opened the pack, removed a thermos, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Paper rattled as he stuck a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered doughnuts and selected one. “You’ll get fat.” That’s what Kathy would have said. Her absence was a hole that couldn’t be filled.

The doughnut tasted good. A gulp of coffee washed it down. Bo was about to take a second bite when he noticed a flicker of movement south of the cabin. A deer perhaps? He brought the glasses up. No, it wasn’t a deer. A man or a woman, he couldn’t tell which, was kneeling in some scrub glassing the cabin!

Had the government located him? No. They would have arrived in force, thrown a cordon around the area, and locked it down. This person was one of his guests. And a cautious one at that.

Bo finished his doughnut as the person circled the cabin, climbed the stairs that led to the porch, and read the note on the door. Then, after looking around, he or she went inside.