Уильям Дитц: Seek and Destroy

A trail of scuff marks led Mac to what was popularly known as “the command shack.” She pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth provided by a “liberated” stove. Staff Sergeant Woods was seated behind one of the beat-up desks that had been captured with the rest of the complex. “Good morning, ma’am,” the noncom said cheerfully. “The major is in his office.”

Mac said, “Thanks,” and turned to her right. She was about to knock when Granger motioned her in. He had carefully combed hair, a slightly bent nose, and gray eyes. Mac saluted, and Granger threw one of his own. “Close the door and take a load off. I’ve got a job for you.”

Mac wasn’t surprised. In addition to the responsibilities associated with being in command of Bravo Company, Mac served as the battalion’s executive officer, too. “Yes, sir. What’s up?”

“The brass want us to snatch a rebel general,” Granger replied.

“Okay, no problem. Before lunch? Or after?”

Granger chuckled. “After. His name is Revell. General Scott Revell. He’s in command of the Bloody Bill Anderson 205th Infantry Regiment. That means he could provide us with valuable information.”

Mac knew the rebs liked to name regiments after Confederate generals from the first civil war and, by all accounts, Anderson had been famous for his brutality. “Okay, and what makes them believe that we can grab a regimental commander? That sounds like a special ops mission to me.”

“It is a special ops mission,” Granger told her. “Your job will be to deliver the operators, provide security, and bring everyone out in one piece.”

Mac frowned. “Really? We’re supposed to fight our way through a regiment of troops, find their CO, and take him home? Why not use helicopters instead?”

“Because,” Granger said, “you won’t have to fight your way through Revell’s regiment. According to one of our spies, he’s having an affair with the wife of a local politician. The pol has to attend a county-council meeting each Wednesday at 7:00 P.M. And that’s when Revell drops by.

“The politician’s house is located about twenty miles inside reb-held territory. And, whereas the weather might keep the rotor heads from lifting off Wednesday night, your Strykers will be able to get through.”

Mac knew that the Union had spies down South, just as the Confederates had agents in the North. And she knew Granger was correct… The weather could keep the helos on the ground. But driving twenty miles into enemy-held territory wasn’t her idea of a good time. Of course, Granger didn’t care—and neither did the brass. “Yes, sir. So we’re talking this Wednesday? As in tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night,” Granger replied. “If that’s convenient.”

Mac grinned. “I was going to paint my nails… But if you insist.”

“I do. An eight-man special ops team under the command of a butter bar named Thomas Lyle will arrive here in a couple of hours. Be nice to him.”

Mac looked innocent. “I like second lieutenants. They’re cute, like puppies. Is there anything else?”

“One thing,” Granger replied. “And that’s security. If word of this operation were to leak, you could walk into a trap.”

It was a sobering thought. Mac stood. “Roger that, sir.”

“Good hunting.”

As Mac left the command shack, she headed straight for the motor pool, which was housed in another one-story concrete building. The structure had been bombed during the fighting, but the roof had been repaired, thanks to the efforts of Company Sergeant Mary Dodge. That meant the interior was ten degrees warmer than the outside temperature.

But Mac could still see her breath as she made her way over to the spot where Second Lieutenant Marvin Haskell was kneeling next to a Stryker’s exposed brake drum. It was a Stryker RC. The “RC” stood for “recon,” and the crew consisted of a commander/gunner and a driver, both of whom were present. The gunner yelled, “Atten-hut!” and Mac waved the courtesy off. “As you were… Which is to say, damned cold.”

The joke produced an appreciative chuckle from everyone except Haskell. He had sandy-brown hair, a farm-boy face, and a serious expression. “Morning, ma’am,” Haskell said, as he stood. “The brakes on one-one are good to go.”

“Excellent,” Mac replied. “Come on… Let’s grab a cup of coffee.”

The big pot was on twenty-four/seven and contained a liquid that had the appearance and consistency of motor oil. But it was located on a table where they could talk without being overheard. Mac took the opportunity to brief Haskell on the mission. She finished by saying, “We’ll take one-one, one-two, and one-three. Each truck will carry four green hats plus the crew. I’ll ride in one, and you’ll ride in three. Any questions?”

“Yes, ma’am. What about my soldiers?”

Each platoon included four squads of infantry, one per truck. “Tell ’em to grab some extra sleep,” Mac replied.

“They won’t like being left out.”

Mac shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s how it is. And Marvin…”

“Ma’am?”

“Smile once in a while.”

Haskell frowned. “Yes, ma’am.”

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

In spite of the damage done to Washington, D.C., the presidential retreat known as Camp David was unscathed. Sloan and his advisors on national security were seated around the long wooden table in the Laurel Lodge conference room. It was a sobering moment because the last time Sloan had been there, it had been for a cabinet meeting. And, except for him, all the other people who’d been present were dead. Including the previous president. He pushed the thought away. “Okay, people… Let’s get to it. You’re up first, George… What’s happening in Europe?”

Secretary of State George Henderson had brown skin, a jowly face, and was built like a fireplug. “Nothing good,” Henderson replied gloomily. “Most of them suffered a significant amount of damage. And, like us, are going through social turmoil as a result. Sweden broke away from the EU, Muslim extremists took over a large section of France, and the government of Germany imposed martial law.”

“That works for me,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. Four-star General Herman Jones was a Marine from the top of his closely cropped head down to the toes of his extremely shiny shoes. “I’m in favor of anything that keeps the Europeans busy. Otherwise, one or more of them might form an alliance with the Confederacy.”

Henderson nodded. “Fortunately, that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Russia took some serious hits, and they’re busy gobbling up all of the ex-Soviet states, plus anything else that isn’t nailed down. That’s going to be a big issue postreconstruction, but there isn’t anything we can do about it now.”

“The secretary is correct,” Martha Kip agreed. She was a fiftysomething blonde who had spent fifteen years in the CIA and five at the NSA before Sloan chose her as National Intelligence Director. “As for Iran,” she added, “we might see something good develop there. Indications are that the Grand Ayatollah is dying of cancer—and there’s a real possibility that a more progressive leader will succeed him.”

Sloan was just getting to know Kip but liked her style. He turned to Henderson. “I know you’re thin on the ground, but let’s get ready to take advantage of the change if the Ayatollah dies, and a more amenable person takes his place.” Henderson nodded as he scribbled something on a pad.

Sloan made eye contact with Jones. “How about the war, General? Do you have anything new to report?”

“General Hern has been able to hold on to every square foot of territory we’ve taken,” Jones answered proudly. “That said, we’re stalled just north of the Mississippi state line.”