Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

She told the story military style—so it came across as a report. But Sloan didn’t care. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice—and to watch the expressions on her face. “So that’s it,” Mac said finally. “And here I am.”

“Yes,” Sloan replied, “here you are. I wasn’t lying… You deserve our thanks. But I have a confession to make.”

Sloan saw Mac’s eyebrows rise. “Which is?”

“My motives aren’t entirely professional. You made quite an impression on me. So much so that I think of you frequently. And, due to the nature of my job, I haven’t had the freedom to contact you. And that explains this kind of creepy moment.”

Mac laughed. He liked the sound of it, but not what followed. “Thank you, I think. And, if you lose the next election, give me a call.”

“So you would ? See me that is?”

Mac smiled. “Yes. But what about Ms. Morgan? How does she fit in? I read an article about the two of you earlier today.”

Sloan was struggling to formulate an answer when there was a knock on the door. He went to open it, and there was Beth. She was wearing her coat and carrying his over one arm. “The car is out front,” she said. “I’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

Then, having turned to Mac, she nodded. “The uniform becomes you, Captain… Congratulations on your victory.” Then she was gone.

Mac stood. Her face was professionally blank. “Can I be excused, sir?”

Sloan swallowed. “Yes, of course.”

Mac walked past him and out the door. The reception was over.

FORT HOOD, TEXAS

Victoria was in a covert-action suite within the Internet Warfare section of the fort’s military-intelligence complex. Her video conference with Union Underground leader Nathan Hale was about to begin. The meeting had been arranged through a series of e-mails, and was scheduled to last thirty minutes.

Like any mission, this one had priorities, the most important of which was to learn whatever she could about the terrorist known as El Carnicero , or the Butcher. But Victoria hoped to capture Hale as well and thereby score a deuce. That’s why specialists were waiting to trace the incoming call.

Victoria was seated on a white Tulip chair in a pool of light. A roll-around TV monitor was positioned in front of her, and the rest of the studio was dark. The tech sergeant who was in charge of tracing the call could communicate with her via an earbud. His name was Orson, and his voice was unnaturally loud. “Stand by. The call’s coming in.”

Video appeared on the screen, swirled, and locked up. And there was a much younger Victoria. She was dressed in a high school cheerleader outfit and smiling for the camera. Had the shot been lifted from her yearbook? Yes, it had.

The first photo was followed by a well-produced slideshow that included pictures of her as a cadet at West Point, running a marathon, and being promoted to major. All of which were intended to send a message: “We have resources, we know who you are, and we can find you.”

Victoria’s respect for the Underground went up a notch as the final picture dissolved into a shot of a man wearing a latex mask. The likeness was that of Morton Lemaire, President of the New Confederacy. A joke then. “Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Nathan Hale.”

“And I’m Victoria Macintyre.” Her identity was something she would normally protect, but there was no point in doing so now. Hale knew who she was even though his identity remained a secret. Union Underground one, Victoria zero.

“Yes, you are,” Hale replied. “Plus you are General Macintyre’s oldest daughter and Captain Robin Macintyre’s sister. Did you know that forces under your sister’s command located and killed Robert Howard? He was an ally, wasn’t he?”

Victoria didn’t know. The New Confederacy’s censors didn’t have the means to prevent determined citizens from getting outside information. But they could prevent it from appearing in local newscasts. Victoria felt a twinge of regret about the girl. The one that she’d been forced to kill in order to prove herself. “Yes,” Victoria lied. “My sister is on a roll. I suggest that we put the posturing aside and get to work.”

Orson broke in. “They’re using onion routing to route the feed from computer to computer. Our Internet service provider will use timing analysis to determine where the call originated. So stall.”

Hale was oblivious to the fact that Orson was speaking, so their words overlapped. “Absolutely,” Hale said. “As I indicated earlier… the Butcher is not , I repeat not, a member of our organization.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s a serial killer,” Hale replied. “If the North and South weren’t at war, he would kill people anyway. He enjoys it.”

The experts Victoria had spoken with agreed with that analysis. But she was playing for time. “Okay, but how do you explain the fact that all of his victims are Confederate soldiers?”

“It’s like I said,” Hale replied. “He’s a psycho who is using the Underground as an excuse for what he does.”

“ Or ,” Victoria said, “he’s an Underground operator who went rogue. And, because you have been unable to find him, you turned to us.” It was a stall… a way to keep the conversation going but one that produced some unexpected results.

Hale shrugged. “There’s some truth to that. But what I said is true. He’s crazy.”

Victoria felt the same sense of satisfaction she felt after winning a tennis match. “Thanks for your honesty… But I still don’t get it. So long as he kills our people, rather than yours, why get in the way?”

“We have him!” Orson exclaimed. “And the bastard is only a few miles away… A special ops team is in the air. They’ll land in a minute or two.”

“The Butcher is unpredictable,” Hale told her. “Who knows what he’ll do next?”

Victoria felt the excitement that preceded a kill. “Like target you ?” she demanded.

There was a sudden commotion on the screen as what might have been a body passed in front of Hale. Then the image grew smaller as the camera zoomed out to reveal a monitor and the empty room around it. That was when Victoria understood the truth… The transmission was originating from a place other than the spot she was looking at. Hale laughed. “Seriously? You think we’re that stupid?” The video snapped to black.

NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE

The trip from Fort Knox, Kentucky, to the base in Tennessee involved hitching rides on half a dozen southbound army trucks and took the better part of three days. So Mac was both relieved and tired when her latest ride dropped her off in front of battalion headquarters. Rather than the old warehouse complex, where the outfit had been quartered in Murfreesboro, the battalion was operating out of a rock quarry near the town of Readyville.

A number of soldiers were out and about, but none of them looked familiar. Mac felt like a stranger until she heard a familiar voice and turned. Sergeant Lamm had been in command of BULLY BOYon the night they snatched General Revell. There was a smile on his face. “Good morning, ma’am, and welcome back. Here, let me help with that bag.”

As Lamm escorted Mac past the helipad and over to one of the sandbagged tents, she had the perfect opportunity to quiz him. According to Lamm, the battalion was spending most of its time on recon and special ops missions. As for the war, Lamm was anything but optimistic. “We keep grinding away,” he said. “But the rebs continue to hold the line. This thing could go on for years.”