Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

It was the very thing that Sloan feared. A long, grinding war that would take a terrible toll on both sides and leave the country vulnerable to external threats. In an effort to end the war quickly, Sloan had approved an airborne assault deep into enemy-held territory, where he hoped to seize an oil-storage facility and establish a foothold. Unfortunately, that effort had been a colossal failure. Sloan still had nightmares about it.

So what to do? Grind away? Or press the Joint Chiefs for a new strategy? Sloan made a mental note to speak with Jones privately. “My compliments to General Hern,” Sloan said. “Please tell him how much I appreciate his efforts. We will, needless to say, continue to monitor the situation. What else have we got?”

Attorney General Allston cleared his throat. “The preliminary report regarding the assassination attempt is in, Mr. President, and the findings are significantly different from what we expected.”

Sloan’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”

“Based on what the FBI has been able to piece together, the assassins weren’t rebels,” Allston replied. “They were members of an obscure religious cult associated with a man who calls himself the warlord of warlords.”

Sloan was well aware of the fact that while his government had succeeded in restoring law and order to many areas of the country, that wasn’t true everywhere. Criminal gangs, led by self-styled “warlords,” had taken advantage of the chaos to carve out personal kingdoms. It was a problem that hadn’t been fully addressed because of the war. “Okay, who is this guy? And why does he want to kill me?”

“His name is Robert Howard,” Allston answered. “He’s an ex–army noncom who, according to various sources, is very charismatic. So much so that he runs his own religious cult. Based on his military experience and personality, he controls most of north-central Wyoming.

“As for why he wants you dead, the answer is simple… Howard can see the handwriting on the wall. Once the federal government is fully restored, it will turn its attention to him. And he wants to maintain the status quo.”

Sloan turned to Jones. “Are we working this?”

The general shook his head. “Not really, Mr. President. Most of our assets are pointed south.”

“I get that,” Sloan replied, “but we need to squash this bug. Not because of the attack on me—but for the citizens of Wyoming.”

Jones nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Sloan turned his attention to Besom. “What about optics, Doyle? What’s the flavor of the day?”

Besom stirred. “With very few exceptions, the press corps assumed that the assassins were rebels, Mr. President. So their stories are slanted in that direction. The general effect has been to demonize the Confederacy.”

“So how will we correct that?”

Besom’s eyes bulged. “ Correct it? I don’t understand.”

Sloan frowned. “Shouldn’t we set the record straight?”

“Hell no,” Wendy Chow responded. “Not yet anyway.” The White House Chief of Staff had been on the job for less than a month. But her tough “I don’t suffer fools gladly” persona had already made itself felt.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Reggie,” Chow continued. “But we never pointed the finger at the Confederacy… We said that an investigation was under way. I think we should leave it at that for a few weeks. Then we can issue a report.”

Sloan knew that he should force his staff to tell the truth. He also knew that there was a need to cement public support for the war. And, if the public believed that the Confederates were behind the assassination attempt, that would help. He let the matter ride. The meeting droned on.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

Second Lieutenant Thomas Lyle was something of a surprise. Rather than the fuzz-faced kid Mac had expected, Lyle was a hard-edged veteran who’d spent six years in the army prior to graduating from OCS. Mac, Lyle, and Haskell were geared up and standing next to Stryker one-two as the light continued to fade. “Okay,” Mac said. “Any last-minute questions?”

“Yes,” Lyle said with a straight face. “Can I have my mommy?”

Mac laughed, and Haskell stared. “Too late for that,” Mac replied. “Let’s haul ass.” With Mac in one-one, Lyle in one-two, and Haskell in one-three—every vehicle would have a leader even if the others were lost.

Once the officers were inside their respective vehicles, the ramps came up, and the mission began. Mac didn’t like being cooped up in a steel box, especially one that stank of sweat and hydraulic fluid. So she made her way forward to the point where she could stand on a filthy seat and stick her head up through an air-guard hatch. The Stryker was in motion by then—and the ride was smooth when compared to other military vehicles.

After rolling through the inner perimeter, the Strykers had to pass through a buffer zone prior to exiting the base via a heavily guarded gate. It wasn’t dark yet, and Mac waved at a sentry. He waved back.

The truck’s commander was a noncom named Lamm… And Mac heard the usual high-pitched whine as he put his foot on the accelerator. The house where General Revell’s lover lived was out in the country. The plan was to swing wide, go off road, and use the cover of darkness to reach the objective without engaging the enemy.

Would someone notice the vehicles? Yes, of course they would. But given all the military activity in the area, Mac didn’t think the locals would report the Strykers. Even if they did, what could the caller say? “Something drove through my pasture.” Maybe the rebs would respond, but it didn’t seem likely.

Lamm could see the manually loaded route on his nav system and didn’t require directions from Mac. That left her free to eyeball the surrounding countryside. It had a greenish glow thanks to her night-vision gear, and there wasn’t much to see other than the widely separated lights belonging to people who were ignoring the blackout. And that was fine with Mac.

The next twenty minutes were spent pursuing a zigzag course that took the Strykers to within a mile of the constantly shifting front line. Then, confident that friendly forces could see their identification friend or foe (IFF) signals, Lamm sent BULLY BOYthrough a fence and into a field.

Mac was forced to hang on with both hands as the truck bucked over a rock and headed downslope to what was supposed to be a shallow stream. And if it wasn’t? They’d be screwed. But the rebs wouldn’t expect Union vehicles to use the streambed as a road.

The stream was shallow but thick with water-smoothed rocks, and Mac was thrown every which way as all eight wheels fought for a purchase. When Mac looked back over her shoulder, she took comfort from the fact that two sets of taped headlights were following along behind. So far, so good.

As Mac turned forward, she saw a head-high obstruction coming straight at her, and heard Lamm yell, “Duck!” Mac realized that the vic (vehicle) was going to pass under a bridge as she dropped into the cargo compartment. That was when she felt the Stryker jerk, heard a muffled bang, and realized how lucky she’d been. Fortunately, the soldier who’d been standing in the rear hatch had heard the warning as well. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

Mac returned the gesture before going topside again. The light machine gun mounted forward of the air-guard hatch was still there, but the .50 cal and the remote weapons station had been sheared off, along with one of two whip-style antennas.

The vic rocked from side to side as it powered its way through a rock garden. The transmission dropped into a lower gear as Lamm drove up a sloping bank and into the adjoining field. Mac had seen drone footage of their route and didn’t remember seeing a bridge. Shit! They were lost. “Lamm… That bridge shouldn’t have been there. We took a wrong turn somewhere. Tell the others that we’re going to pull up and kill the lights.”