Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

It was the Marine’s turn to laugh. “I like your style, Major… Step out of the tent, turn left at the water buffalo, third and fourth sanikans on the right.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

As Victoria looked into the telescopic sight, she was aware of many things. Included among them was the way the light breeze might affect the flight of her bullet, the fact that her heart was beating faster than was ideal, and how the Union soldier was standing. His back was to the buildings on the west side of Bayou St. John, his assault weapon was slung, and he was looking down. Why? Because he was taking a pee, that’s why.

Victoria smiled, and the trigger seemed to pull itself. She felt the stock kick her shoulder, heard the sound of the report, and backed away from the edge of the roof. Clay had been watching through a spotting scope. “Target down,” Clay said via Victoria’s earbuds. “Nice shot.”

Victoria knew that without looking. It would have been impossible to miss. “We’re pulling out,” she said into the wire-thin boom mike in front of her lips. There were two sets of double clicks by way of a response. Both men knew that Union soldiers would arrive soon, barge into the church, and search it. The key was to be elsewhere when they arrived. Something the three-person team was good at.

The fact that Victoria was there, and still alive, was something of a miracle. As Victoria followed Radic down a set of metal stairs, she remembered the shock of landing in the cold water, the way her clothing pulled her down. And Victoria’s lungs had felt as if they were going to burst by the time the second boot fell away, and her body began to rise.

But the helicopter was still there, hovering over the spot where the motorcycle had gone into the lake, firing its nose gun. Slugs churned the water as Victoria surfaced, took a deep breath, and dived. When she surfaced again, it was well outside the circle of agitated water. After filling her lungs with air, she went deep.

Victoria had a plan by then. The marina was nearby. If she could get in among the boats, she’d be hard to spot. But Victoria was tired. Very tired. And cold. Hypothermia was her worst enemy, and it was winning. She wasn’t going to give up, though… So Victoria was still swimming, and still kicking, when a hand grabbed her collar. Strong arms pulled her up over the side of a small RIB boat. “There,” a male voice said. “The catch of the day.”

As Victoria lay in the bottom of the boat next to a couple of recently caught trout, she heard a motor start and knew the boat was moving. “Don’t worry,” the man said. “The Dee-Dee is only two minutes away. You’ll be warm soon.”

It turned out that the Dee-Dee was a large pontoon boat. And, although she had a couple of outboards to push her around, she was more houseboat than runabout. The interior was not only furnished like a home but equipped with what Victoria needed most, and that was an electric heater. The old man cranked it up to full blast and ordered her to strip. “I have a daughter about your size,” he said. “I’ll get a towel and something for you to wear.” And with that, he disappeared.

The clothes consisted of frayed jeans that were a size too large, a tee shirt, and a Levi’s jacket. A pair of slip-on tennis shoes completed the outfit. Once Victoria was dressed and holding a mug of hot chocolate, she realized how lucky she’d been. Without the old man’s help, she’d be dead. He was seated a few feet away. “I saw the whole thing… The Yanks were trying to kill you. Why? ”

Victoria saw no reason to lie. “Because I blew up some pumps and floodgates. We need to slow them down.”

“So you’re in the military?”

“The Confederate Army… Yes.”

The old man nodded. “Good girl. Becky is, too… You can stay here as long you like.”

But Victoria hadn’t stayed. She couldn’t stay. There was work to do, and she was doing it. Radic raised a hand as he opened the door to the parking lot. Then, after a careful look around, he waved them forward. The day was young, and there were people to kill.

It would have been nice to settle in for a couple of days and get organized, but that wasn’t possible. According to Colonel Walters, Mac’s Marauders were required on the streets “yesterday.”

So Mac and her people worked through the night to get ready—and sent the first patrol out at 0600. Now it was midafternoon, the first Strykers were back, and six more had gone out to replace them.

Mac was riding with a platoon leader named Gomez and two vics loaded with infantry. She planned to spend time with every platoon in order to assess how they were doing. No one had deserted yet… And that was amazing since so many of her soldiers had been in jail a few months earlier. There had been some fistfights, however, a case of thievery, and a sexual assault. None of which could be tolerated.

The patrol went easily at first. There were areas of flooding, including places where the water was a couple of feet deep, but the Strykers had nearly two feet of ground clearance and could plow through even deeper spots when necessary. Not many people were out and about. But of those Mac saw, most were openly hostile. And no wonder… The Northerners had not only penetrated the heart of Dixie, the locals believed that they were responsible for the flooding, not to mention the bombing raids. And who could blame them? That’s what they’d been told.

Gomez’s vics were on Gravier Street, not far from the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, as two squads of ground pounders deassed their trucks. The mission was to search for a sniper team that had been working the area all morning. And there were lots of empty buildings and parking garages for such a team to take advantage of.

Gomez was clearly nervous about Mac’s presence but did a good job of positioning his vehicles to protect each other and dispersing his troops. He led squad one through a shattered door and into a five-story insurance building, while the second squad remained outside to provide security. Mac followed squad one inside. Two of Gomez’s soldiers were armed with M24 sniper rifles, and she had chosen to carry one as well since it was possible they might have to engage the enemy at a distance.

Each floor had to be cleared, and that took time. There was evidence of looting but no sign of snipers. And a careful examination of the roof didn’t turn up anything either. No spent shell casings, no empty food containers, and no piles of poop. Half an hour had been wasted.

Once they were back on the street, Mac told Gomez’s RTO to report the building as clear. Then they were sent to a structure located three blocks away. This one was “hot.” Or so the operations people claimed, meaning that they had a drone circling above and had eyes on some bad guys. But Mac had heard that story before only to discover that the “bad guys” were vagrants camped on a roof. But orders were orders, and off they went.

The target building was an old factory that had been converted into chic office space. And as the soldiers began to leave their Strykers, a shot rang out. One of the soldiers went down clutching her leg. A medic ran to help and took a bullet in the head. It went through his helmet and entered his brain. Soldiers returned fire and risked their lives to pull both of their comrades in behind a vic. “It came from up there,” a corporal said as she pointed to a structure located across the street from the target building.

“Are you sure?” Mac inquired.

The soldier nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I saw a head and a puff of smoke.”

Mac was angry. Very angry. And confused. Had the operations people been wrong? It could happen. Were two sniper teams working the area? Or were noncombatants on the roof of the old factory building? She turned to Gomez. “Clear that building, Lieutenant. And get some people up to the roof. In the meantime, I’m going to take a fire team up to the top of the factory building. We’ll nail ’em one way or the other.”