Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

But Sloan’s spirits were dampened by the knowledge of what was to come. And when he left his office to join Beth in his private quarters, it was with a heavy heart. Buck up, he told himself. Don’t drag it out.

That plan went out the window as he opened the door and entered the dimly lit sitting room. A linen-covered table sat at the center of it. Candles flickered, silverware gleamed, and soothing music filled the air. “Happy birthday,” Beth said, as she came forward to give him a kiss. “And congratulations regarding the reconstruction bill. It’s a historic piece of legislation.”

Sloan felt the usual spark as her lips pressed against his and her perfume embraced him. All sorts of emotions battled each other for supremacy. It felt good to have someone remember his birthday—and praise his achievement. But, sweet though the moment might be, the relationship was doomed. “Thank you, Beth… How thoughtful! I really appreciate it.”

“You’ll appreciate it even more when your steak arrives,” Beth replied. “But let’s have a drink first.”

A small bar stood against one wall, and Sloan went over to make drinks. A rum and Coke for her… and a gin and tonic for him. Both doubles.

They sat next to each other on the couch, arms touching. Beth was all wound up about some politics at work, and Sloan forced himself to listen as she chattered away. Eventually, when they were on their second drinks, he took the plunge. “Beth, we need to talk.”

Beth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Really? About what?”

“About us.”

Sloan saw her smile tighten. “Uh-oh… I don’t like the sound of this. Are you about to dump me? Again? ”

Sloan tried to come up with a way to soften it and failed. “I’m sorry, Beth. You’re a wonderful person. But a very different person from me.”

Her eyes were like bottomless black pools. “Does this have something to do with Captain Macintyre?”

Sloan felt flustered. “Yes, I mean no. The captain and I don’t have a relationship if that’s what you mean.”

There was a hard edge to her voice. “But you’d like to have one.”

“Yes, I suppose I would,” Sloan admitted. “But that misses the point. It’s like I said earlier. You and I are very different people. And that would be a problem even if I didn’t know Captain Macintyre.”

Beth placed her glass on the coffee table and stood. There were no tears in her eyes. Just an implacable anger. “I’m not a toy, Sam. Something to be used, reused, and discarded. Everything has a price—and you will pay.”

With that, Beth turned, snatched her coat off the back of a chair, and left. Someone else might have slammed the door. Beth didn’t.

Sloan sighed. He’d known it would be bad but not that bad. There was a discreet knock on the side door. Sloan frowned. “Come in.”

Sloan heard a soft thump as a stainless-steel trolley pushed the door open. It was followed by a waiter dressed in white. “Good evening, Mr. President. Steaks for two… May I serve?”

Sloan felt his stomach rumble. “Tell me something, Louie… Do you like steak?”

The waiter was sixtysomething, gray, and extremely dignified. “Yes, sir… I do.”

“Good. Please serve. Then, if you’d be so kind, please join me for dinner. It’s my birthday.”

Louie was in no way perturbed. “It would be my pleasure, sir. And happy birthday.”

NEAR READYVILLE, TENNESSEE

Three days had passed since the rescue mission—and the battalion had been ordered to move again. It was an arduous process, especially for the XO, who was expected to handle most of the logistics. So Mac was in a meeting with the battalion’s supply officer and her staff when the private came looking for her. He was a gangly kid who had graduated from high school six months earlier. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. But Major Granger wants to see you right away.”

“Right away as in now ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mac eyed the faces around her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Remember what I said. Don’t trust anybody. Count everything before you load it.”

Lieutenant Simmons nodded. “Don’t worry, Captain. We’re on it.”

“Good,” Mac said, as she stood. “I’ll check with you later.”

There was activity all around as Mac crossed the compound. Tents were coming down, boxes of gear were being stacked for loading, and a line led into the first-aid station. Vaccinations had to be renewed on a regular basis, and Mac knew her name was on the list. When would she find the time?

As Mac entered the Conex container, she saw that it was nearly empty—and knew the techs were working out of the battalion’s com truck. Two people were present. Granger and a staff sergeant who looked strange in his class-A blue uniform and mirror-bright street shoes. That was when Mac saw the military police insignia. Shit. One of her people was in trouble. Granger looked grim. “Have a seat Captain,” he said. “This is Sergeant Wilkins.”

Mac sat on a folding chair. “Good morning, Sergeant… Did one of our soldiers screw up?”

Wilkins’s eyes were like black buttons, it appeared as if his nose had been broken at some point, and his mouth was little more than a horizontal slash. “None of your soldiers are in trouble, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of anyway. I’m here to arrest you .”

It came as a complete shock. Mac could hardly believe her ears. “ Me? What for?”

“You have been charged with disobeying a direct order from a superior officer,” Wilkins replied.

Mac wasn’t in trouble with Granger. She knew that. Who then? Crowley? No, even though she disagreed with the colonel regarding all sorts of things, Mac had obeyed his orders. Besides, Crowley was dead. She looked at Wilkins. “Who is my accuser?”

“Major Jeremy Fitch, United States Air Force,” Wilkins answered.

Fitch, Fitch, Fitch… Who the hell was Fitch? Oh, shit… Now she remembered. The incident had occurred months earlier as Mac and her soldiers were making the long, arduous journey from Washington State to Arizona. Along the way, they’d stopped outside Mountain Home, Idaho, in hopes of finding weapons, ammo, and supplies in the National Guard armory.

The sheet of plywood propped up in the middle of the road had been visible from half a block away. The words GOV. PROP. DO NOT ENTER had been written on the wood with white paint.

Mac remembered seeing the ruins of a building on the right. It looked like the structure had been leveled by the Chinese missile that had destroyed nearby Mountain Home Air Force Base. “I see movement at two o’clock,” Brown had announced as he brought the .50 around.

Mac looked in time to see a man emerge from the hut located adjacent to the remains of the building. He was dressed in combat gear and carrying a light machine gun. After ordering a sniper to target the man, Mac had gone forward to speak with him.

Mac remembered how the ice crystals glittered in the sunlight as she jumped down off the truck—and made her way over to where the man was standing. He was a major, or some guy pretending to be a major. “I’m Lieutenant Macintyre, United States Army. And you are?”

“Major Fitch, United States Air Force.”

The way Mac remembered it, Fitch had deep-set eyes and a gaunt appearance. And, when Mac asked Fitch what he was doing, the answer had been clear. “I’m guarding what remains of a building.”

During the following exchange, Fitch had asserted his authority over Mac, and she had refused to accept it. Why? Because she and her troops were cut off from their battalion, the country was in the shitter, and she had no way to accurately assess the man in front of her. Was he a die-hard hero? Or some sort of mental case? Who else would hole up next to a National Guard armory and guard it all by himself?