Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

Mac felt a stab of pain as she pushed herself up out of the hatch. Her left sleeve was soaked with blood and, as she slid down onto the road, she felt light-headed. Dozens of troops were deassing the Strykers by then, and one of them spotted the blood. “We need a medic over here! The major was hit!”

Mac sat with her back to an enormous tire as a medic cut her sleeve away, assured her that the wound was relatively minor, and wrapped a dressing around it. “Painkiller, yes or no?” the woman inquired.

“No,” Mac replied. “Not yet… Not until we lock the area down. Help me stand.”

With help from the medic, Mac made it to her feet. And that was when she heard the now-familiar moan of the Mississippi ’s horn. “There she is!” someone said, and as Mac looked upriver, she saw the flotilla round a bend in the river.

Two smaller boats were dashing about. Their hulls were covered with camouflage paint, and they bristled with weapons. The Riverines that Russell had mentioned? Yes… The first battle was over. But how many still lay ahead?

Once Mac was confident that Overman had control of the west end of the bridge, and Quick’s platoon leaders had secured the prisoners, she made her way east. Atkins followed a few steps back.

The LAV-AT was still burning, and machine-gun ammo continued to cook off as a daring soldier scooted in to hook a cable onto one of the vehicle’s hard points. Were the reserve missiles inert? Or could they blow? Mac didn’t know for sure but felt a sense of relief as the enemy vehicle was hauled away.

Mac continued on to the point where the first missile had detonated. What remained of MAMA’S BOYwas still smoking. For some reason, the vic’s TC had veered out of line. That made his Stryker visible to the enemy gunner, who had chosen to target MAMA’S BOYinstead of the SKATE. That’s how war was. Split-second decisions were made, and people died. Or lived…

A voice broke into Mac’s thoughts. “The colonel is on the horn,” Atkins said, as she offered the handset.

Mac took it. “This is Rocker-Six. Over.”

Russell was all business. “Give me a sitrep.”

Mac forced her eyes off the MAMA’S BOY. “We’re in control of the bridge. An LAV-AT and a force of about thirty rebs were waiting for the flotilla on this side of the break. An equal number were on the west side of the span. We lost eleven people and have approximately twenty prisoners. Over.”

“They might try to retake it,” Russell replied. “Don’t let that happen. Over.”

“No,” Mac said. “We won’t. Over.”

Mac let her eyes swing back to the wreck. “There are bodies in that Stryker, Atkins. Tell Captain Quick that we need a squad, cutting tools, and eleven body bags.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mac turned and began the long walk back. She was crying… But no one could see the tears.

ABOARD THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER GEORGE WASHINGTON , IN THE GULF OF MEXICO

Tropical Storm Ernesto was sending fifteen-foot-high rollers toward what had once been the United States of America as if determined to attack it. Sheets of spray flew away from the carrier’s bow as it broke through a wave, and the hull shuddered. Sloan’s stomach felt queasy, and he wanted to hurl, but that wouldn’t look right to the people on the George Washington ’s bridge.

The carrier, and her sixty-five warplanes, were at the center of a group that included seventy-five hundred navy personnel, plus transports loaded with three thousand Marines, a flotilla of eight destroyers, and a screen of five hunter-killer submarines. This was it… Or Sloan hoped so, as the contents of his stomach threatened to surge up and into his throat.

Month after month had passed while armies fought each other to a slow-motion standstill south of the New Mason-Dixon Line. The standoff was what Secretary of Defense Garrison referred to “as a nonstop meat grinder,” which had already transformed a broad swath of the country into what looked like a postapocalyptic wasteland.

In an effort to open a new front and cut the Confederacy in two, Sloan’s advisors recommend that he authorize an amphibious attack on the port of New Orleans. And after months of planning, Operation Swordfall was under way. The bow plunged, and Sloan had to grab a plotting table for support. “How long before we make contact?”

Admiral Carrie Moss was tall, slim, and had a smile on her face. The kind of smile that suggested that she, as an admiral, knew things a mere civilian couldn’t understand. And Sloan figured that was true. “We made contact ten minutes ago, sir… They shot down one of our P-3 Orion antisubmarine aircraft, and we destroyed one of their attack submarines.”

People were beginning to die as spray hit the glass, and wipers cleared it away. All because of orders that he had given. It was going to be a long day.

NEAR HELENA, MISSISSIPPI

More than twenty-four hours had passed since the fight on the bridge, and about half of the battalion was still up there, guarding against the possibility of a Confederate attack. Meanwhile, Mac was standing on the Mississippi ’s top deck, just forward of the wheelhouse. Her arm ached but was going to be fine. Or so Dr. Halley claimed.

As she looked out over the ship’s bow, Colonel Russell explained the process. “The spud barge, which is to say the one directly in front of us, has so-called spuds, or metal columns located at all four corners. They’re down now, resting on the bottom of the river. That’s what makes the spud barge stable.

“My divers have been working in shifts to clear the tangle of metal down there. Think about it, Major… Think about trying to work in almost zero visibility, with a two-mile-an-hour current trying to push you downriver and jagged metal all around! It takes skill, and it takes courage.

“Here we go,” Russell added, as the crane’s engine began to roar—and black smoke jetted out of its exhaust stack. A cable led down into the murky depths, and Mac watched it tighten. A cheer went up from the people assembled on the spud barge as the first chunk of dripping metal was hauled up to be deposited on the deck.

Russell smiled. “We’re starting phase two now… By late afternoon tomorrow, I hope we’ll be able to move on. How are we doing where security is concerned?”

“I think we’re in pretty good shape,” Mac replied. “I’m not so sure about the situation downstream, though… Lieutenant Hicks is coordinating airborne reconnaissance via the air force—and they sent a drone down toward Ferguson early this morning. The rebs shot it down. And they did so with considerable speed.”

“They were waiting for it.”

“Exactly. So Lieutenant Lasser is going to take me down for a look-see.”

“I’ve seen her people,” Russell said. “They look like a pig’s breakfast.”

“They’re navy, sir.”

Russell laughed. “Good point… Give me a report when you get back.”

Mac made her way aft to the point where a set of metal stairs led down to the landing platform that had been rigged for the convenience of small workboats. That’s where Lieutenant Lasser and her four-person crew were waiting. The special operations boat was thirty-three feet long, powered by two 440hp engines, and armed with a deadly array of weapons.

“Good morning,” Lasser said as she rendered a salute so casual that it resembled a wave. The navy officer was wearing a faded baseball cap, a gray sweatshirt with a silver bar pinned to the collar, and a pair of army-style camouflage pants. Her footgear consisted of retro high-topped sneakers decorated with pink laces.

Lasser’s crew wasn’t any better… And that raised a question: Was Mac looking at a bunch of screwups? Or some hard-core special ops types with special privileges? Time would tell. “Good morning,” Mac replied as she stepped into the boat. “Are we ready to go?”