Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

“If I choose you, and you steal so much as a pencil, you’ll be back here the next day. You understand that?”

Wu looked up. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay… I’ll think about it. Next.”

The next officer was a drug trafficker who had been selling speed to his troops and using it himself. He was sober now and swore that he would stay that way. But Mac had doubts. It was difficult for the man to make eye contact, and he had a tendency to mumble. She wasn’t impressed.

The pusher was followed by an officer who, after discovering that his CO was having an affair with a subordinate’s husband, took the opportunity to blackmail her. He was handsome, smooth, and subtly flirtatious. None of which would be useful on a battlefield. He had led a platoon of Strykers however, and that was relevant. Mac placed him on the maybe list.

The next candidate was Captain Avery Howell who, according to his file, was a decorated company commander and inveterate gambler. A habit that was his undoing when he borrowed money from a mob boss, lost it playing poker, and was ordered to make good on his debt by stealing a tank. He’d been caught in the act and sentenced to eight years. He had an honest straightforward manner, however—and Mac liked him from the start. But could he part with his addiction? She asked him that.

“I think I can,” Howell answered. “I want to… And the busier I am, the better it will be.”

“No problem there,” Mac assured him. “If I choose you, you’ll work your ass off.”

Mac took a lunch break at that point and discovered that the food served in the staff cafeteria was just as bad as what they fed her in the prison! Then it was time to return to the conference room.

The next four candidates were unacceptable. The first was thirty pounds overweight, the second wanted to know if she could go on leave prior to joining the battalion, the third wanted to wait until the results of his appeal came in. As for the fourth… she claimed to be the Virgin Mary… and was clearly looking for some sort of medical discharge.

That left Captain Irwin Overman. He had a buzz cut and a pair of fierce eyes that stared out from bony caves. According to Overman’s file, he was serving a six-year sentence for desertion. Not in the face of the enemy, but after 60 percent of his company had been killed in a single battle, leaving him untouched. After three days on the run, Overman turned himself in.

“Why?” Mac wanted to know. “Why run, and come back? I’ve read the reports. The high casualty rate wasn’t your fault. Your outfit was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Overman shrugged. “That’s what the shrinks tell me.”

“And the voices? What do they tell you?”

Overman looked surprised. “How do you know about the voices? I never told anyone.”

“I hear voices of my own,” Mac said.

“Then you know what they say. They want to know why they’re dead and you’re alive.”

“I know,” Mac said. “But what is, is . The fact is that you survived… And you can save other troops by providing them with good leadership. I need officers who won’t run from the enemy but won’t waste lives either. How about it? The rebs killed your soldiers. Would you like to get even?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“Yes, I am… For a cause. A good cause.”

The eyes stared at her. Thirty long seconds passed. He nodded. “If you want me, I’m in.”

“I want you,” Mac acknowledged, and she made the decision on the spot. “Welcome to Mac’s Marauders.”

PORT ST. JOE, FLORIDA

The two-story house sat atop stilts and was located well back from the glittering water. Victoria was wearing a black two-piece and gloried in the feel of the sun on her skin. Such moments were rare now that the postimpact haze obscured so much of the sky. Victoria heard movement and turned to look as her father stepped onto the deck. He offered her an ice-cold beer. “Here… This will wet your whistle.”

General Bo Macintyre was in good shape for a man in his early sixties. But his skin was a bit looser than it had been a few years earlier, and he had an incipient paunch, both of which frightened Victoria. What would she do when he died? Her life was organized around the never-ending task of earning his approval. She knew that wasn’t healthy yet couldn’t stop.

They talked about fishing for a while, then golf, then the war. “How are we doing?” Victoria wanted to know.

Bo took a sip of beer and stared at the sea. “That depends on how you choose to measure it. We’re holding the bastards off, but that won’t lead to victory. To accomplish that, we’ve got to push them back across the New Mason-Dixon Line, destroy their industrial base, and sap their will to fight.”

Victoria stared at him. “Can we do those things?”

Bo’s eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses. “We can… But we’ve got to be willing to use all of the weapons at our disposal.”

Victoria took a moment to consider that. “Do you mean nukes?”

“Yes. The present situation reminds me of what they called mutually assured destruction, or MAD, during the Cold War. Both side had nukes, and both sides were afraid to use them.”

Victoria frowned. “So, what are you saying? That we should use nukes?”

Bo turned to look at her. Victoria could see reflections of herself in his glasses. “You tell me, Victoria… Let’s say you’re facing a grizzly, and you’re carrying a .22 and a .338 Weatherby. Which rifle would you choose?”

“The .338,” Victoria replied. “But that’s a false analogy. In this case, the griz has a . 338, too.”

“True,” her father replied. “But a series of well-targeted preemptive strikes would solve that problem.”

“And destroy a lot of what we’re fighting for.”

“Victory always comes at a cost,” Bo replied. “And I think we should pay that price before the Union can grow any stronger. Or,” he continued, “we should make peace. But Lemaire took a run at that, and Sloan refused to listen. What happens next is up to the politicos in Houston.”

The fact that Lemaire had attempted to negotiate with Sloan was news to Victoria. And it served to put her father’s comments in a different light. If Sloan wasn’t willing to negotiate, then he, and the idiots who backed him, deserved what came their way. And that included nukes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Victoria said.

“You didn’t hear it,” Bo said, as his gaze returned to the water. “Any of it.”

“No, of course not.”

Bo’s secretary appeared at that point. Victoria knew her as Mrs. Walters, even though her husband had been dead for many years, and her first name was Kathy. She had carefully arranged blond hair, a nice figure, and made the summery outfit look good.

Victoria had been aware of the love affair for a long time and approved of it. Her mother was dead after all—and there was no reason why her father shouldn’t have some companionship. But this was the first time that the twosome had been so open about their relationship. Kathy was carrying a glass of iced tea, which she placed on a side table prior to sitting down under an umbrella. Bo removed his glasses and produced a rare smile. “There you are… and just in time, too. We were talking shop.”

“Shame on you,” Kathy replied. “You came here to escape that.”