Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

“Good,” Oxley said, as if an important understanding had been reached. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. And there’s no point in crying over spilled milk, is there?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s the spirit,” Oxley said. “As I mentioned in my e-mail, we have a new assignment for you.”

“What about Howard, sir?”

“Don’t worry,” Oxley replied. “We’ll take care of him… But he won’t be on the receiving end of any more helicopters.”

The dig hurt, but Victoria kept her face blank. “Yes, sir. And the assignment?”

Oxley was enjoying himself. He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been busy… So it’s possible that you missed the news stories regarding the so-called Resistance. They’ve been killing our troops, blowing things up, and spreading antigovernment propaganda. They claim to be fighting for what they call ‘a full restoration of the United States government,’ but they’re terrorists, pure and simple.

“So the decision was made to create a military counterterrorism team, and the folks in Houston chose you to lead the team.” It wasn’t clear whether Oxley approved of the choice, but Victoria suspected that he didn’t.

“Everything you need to know is on this thumb drive,” Oxley told her as he pushed a USB drive across the surface of his desk. “The material on it is classified, so take good care of it.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said, as she accepted the device. “Whom will I report to?”

Oxley produced a shit-eating grin. “That would be me , Major… I think we’ll make an excellent team. Don’t you agree?”

Victoria didn’t agree, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Study the information on the drive and let me know if you have any questions.”

Victoria knew a dismissal when she heard one and stood. “Yes, sir.” She saluted, Oxley threw one in return, and Victoria left. What was the old saying? “If you can’t take a joke, don’t join the army?” It was true.

NEAR CASPER, WYOMING

The Flying H Ranch was located in the Rattlesnake Hills region west of Casper. And as the van bounced along a dirt road, Mac wondered why anyone would choose to live in such a desolate place. Most of the terrain was rocky and cut by ravines. What grass there was stood in frozen tufts and seemed unlikely to support more than a few dozen cattle.

But that’s where Sarah Huntington, the great-granddaughter of Fergus Huntington, had chosen to live. And she was the scout that Crowley had been working with prior to his death. So if Mac wanted to learn about Crowley’s secret plan of attack, Huntington was the person to see.

That’s why Mac and a small group of soldiers had chosen to travel in a civilian van. Assuming that Howard’s spies weren’t aware of Huntington, and her relationship with Crowley, Mac didn’t want to tip them off.

Perkins swore as the van topped a rise, took to the air, and landed hard. Perkins was riding in back with Mac’s RTO and two soldiers. “Damn it, Johnson… What’s wrong with you? Slow down.”

“Sorry, sir,” Johnson said. But Mac was sitting next to the driver and noticed that he didn’t look sorry. She smiled. Even though officers were in charge, and NCOs ran the army, privates could make life miserable for their superiors when they chose to.

Johnson braked as the road rounded the side of a hill—and passed a weather-faded sign. It was succinct if nothing else. TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

The road ran straight as an arrow after that, and Mac could see a cluster of trees ahead. They framed a yellow double-wide and a scattering of shabby outbuildings. Huntington’s home? Yes. It was quite a comedown for the family that once owned a gold mine, lived in Huntington Lodge, and owned vast tracts of land.

How Huntington wound up on Crowley’s radar wasn’t clear… But, while trolling through Crowley’s laptop, Mac came across her name under CONTACTS, and the note that went with it: “New scout/Operation Payback.” But it was password protected. And that meant Mac would have to talk with Huntington if she wanted to learn about Operation Payback.

The van came to a stop. The old four-by-four pickup parked in front of the house suggested that Huntington was home. If so, she was in no hurry to come out and welcome uninvited guests. Mac didn’t blame her. Not with the horde roaming the land. “Stay in the van,” Mac instructed as she opened the door.

It was cold outside—and Mac could see her breath. There were boot prints in the snow… Plus a lot of paw prints. Mac felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She was being watched. That’s how it felt. And as she looked around, Mac saw them. Dogs… At least a dozen of them. Some of the mutts were sitting with tongues lolling out of their mouths. Others were crouched, as if prepared to attack, and one lay on its side as if waiting for her to scratch his tummy. Vapor misted the air around its snout.

Mac’s carbine was in the van—but her pistol was holstered on her vest. Could she draw and fire in time? No. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. “Ms. Huntington?” Mac shouted. “My name’s Macintyre… Captain Macintyre. Colonel Crowley was murdered. I found your name on his computer. I’d like to talk to you about Robert Howard.”

Seconds passed. Mac heard a noise and turned to see a person roll out from under the pickup truck. She stood and took a moment to brush snow and ice off her clothes. One by one, the dogs gathered around her. One of them growled. “Are you Sarah Huntington?” Mac inquired.

“Yes,” the woman answered. Huntington appeared to be in her fifties because of her sun-ravaged skin, but she could have been younger. Her hair hung down in braids, and she was wearing a duster. “Say your piece.”

Mac saw that Huntington was holding a long-barreled revolver down along the outside surface of her right thigh. It was pointed at the ground but could come up in a hurry. “You were working with Colonel Crowley to finalize a plan called Operation Payback. Maybe that plan has been compromised. If not, I’d like to use it. Howard is a murderer, a thief, and a slaver. Plus he took prisoners in the town of Wright… Female prisoners. We might be able to save them.”

Huntington’s hand moved, and the pistol seemed to jump into the cross-draw holster on her belt. “Show me some ID.”

Mac produced her card, gave it over, and watched Huntington scan it. “Okay,” the scout said. “Your soldiers can leave the van… The dogs won’t hurt them.”

Mac turned to the van and gave a thumbs-up. Doors opened, and her troops got out. Then, on an order from Perkins, they deployed with their backs to the vehicle.

Mac turned back to Huntington. “Did you know that Crowley had been murdered?”

Huntington nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“The police told you?”

“No.”

“Then how did you find out?”

“Follow me,” Huntington said, and walked away. Mac followed her to one of the sheds out behind the house. Smoke dribbled out of a metal stovepipe.

“This is my smokehouse,” Huntington announced as she opened the door, and Mac followed her inside. Big chunks of meat hung from hooks. Mac was about to ask, “Why did you bring me here?” when Huntington pointed to a carcass. “ That’s how I knew Crowley was dead.”

The light was dim, and the air was thick with drifting smoke, so it took a moment for Mac to recognize Lieutenant Casey. He was nude and hanging head down. Large chunks of flesh had been ripped from his body. “The bastard is heavy,” Huntington commented. “But a buck weighs even more. That’s where the chain hoist comes in.” It was said matter-of-factly, one woman to another.