Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as two A-10 Thunderbolts roared overhead and circled the city. So much for her dreams of capturing the Air National Guard assets stationed at Gowen Field. The unit’s aircraft and their supplies were already under someone’s control. She moved to make room for Sparks Munroe. “Get Peters on the horn,” she instructed. “Tell him to lie low… Tell him that a couple of Hogs are circling the city.” Sparks nodded and went to work.

“A delegation is coming out to meet with us,” Garcia announced as he peered up at her.

Mac could see them through the glasses. She nodded before climbing down. Sparks followed. Once on the ground, Mac said, “Okay, time for a chat. But be ready just in case.” Both men checked their weapons.

It was a typical postimpact day, which was to say gray, cold, and windy. Pieces of litter skittered across the highway as Mac and her soldiers went forward to meet the townsfolk. The local delegation included two men armed with AR-16s, and a woman decked out in a white fur coat. That would have been politically incorrect months earlier, but things had changed since then. Staying warm had priority now—and to hell with how a person went about it. A pair of shiny, knee-high boots completed the look. Mac felt dowdy by comparison.

“Good morning,” the woman said, as both groups came to a halt. “My name is Pam Scheemer—and I’m the mayor of Boise.” Scheemer had well-plucked brows and rosy cheeks.

“I’m Lieutenant Robin Macintyre,” Mac replied. “It looks like you’re building a wall. Were you attacked?”

“No,” Scheemer replied. “Not yet. But, with no one to protect us, it’s just a matter of time.”

Mac looked up as one of the A-10s circled to the south. “No one to protect you?”

“We have our local guard unit,” Scheemer acknowledged. “But they live here. Where’s the rest of the military?”

“I’m sorry about the lack of support,” Mac replied. “I wish we could help… But we were cut off from our unit. And the ham operators claim that President Wainwright is dead. So we’re traveling to Arizona.”

Scheemer frowned. “On orders from the army? Or to suit yourselves?”

Mac was formulating a response when Sparks Munroe stepped in. “We call ourselves Mac’s Marauders, ma’am. And we plan to fight for those who need help.”

“For money,” Scheemer said contemptuously.

“To survive,” Mac replied. “You have homes, and we don’t, so we’re looking for a place to live. If you’ll let us through, we’ll be on our way. It’s as simple as that.”

Scheemer was silent for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “But keep your word. The A-10s will eat you for lunch if you don’t.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac replied. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Scheemer nodded and tugged her fur collar up around her face. “I think it’s going to snow,” she said to no one in particular. Then she turned and walked away. Mac looked up, and sure enough, snowflakes were beginning to fall.

The roadblock consisted of two semi-tractor-trailer rigs parked trailer to trailer. Diesel engines rattled, and black smoke jetted up from chromed stacks, as the trucks pulled away from each other. About two dozen locals were there to watch the convoy pass through the resulting gap. A Humvee was stationed on the other side. The FOLLOW ME attached to the back end said it all.

In spite of the agreement with the mayor, Mac knew they might be entering a trap. And since she couldn’t call on the Apache for help, she was blind. Or thought she was until a familiar voice came over her headset. “Roller-Two-One to Roller-Six. The Raven is up and feeding video. The route is clear. Over.”

Mac was standing in the back of Roller-One at that point just forward of the fifty. Sparks was at her side. Even though Esco hadn’t been ordered to launch a drone, he had taken it upon himself to do so. “Well done, Two-One. Over.”

Mac turned to Sparks. “Tell Peters to take off, circle west, and approach the town of Kuna from the south.”

Mac watched the A-10s circle the town one last time before lining up on the airport. Chances were they’d been ordered to land to conserve fuel. “Peters is airborne,” Sparks told her.

“Good. By the way… Where did the Mac’s Marauders stuff come from?”

“That’s what we call ourselves.”

“I didn’t get the memo.”

Munroe grinned. “No, ma’am. You didn’t.”

Both of them laughed.

The pilot vehicle left them half a mile farther on, and once the convoy was south of Boise, Mac ordered Garcia to take a right and head for the town of Kuna. It had been little more than a railroad stop back in the old days. But because of Boise’s growth, Kuna had become a bedroom community.

However, since Kuna was located outside of the new defensive wall, it was certain to be looted and used as a staging area by any force that hoped to conquer Boise. And judging from what looked like dozens of vacant buildings, people understood that.

After entering Kuna, Mac directed Garcia to lead the column east—into the area located just north of the Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area. What would become of the nation’s parks? she wondered. Would people move in, log the trees, and hunt the animals into extinction? There was nothing she could do about it, so Mac pushed the thought away.

She was standing by then, peering over the truck’s cab, as cold air buffeted her face. Everything looked the way it had two years earlier. Her sister had been overseas, but her father was in residence, and Mac had been hoping for some sort of reconciliation.

But Bo Macintyre wanted his younger daughter to attend West Point just as her sister had. And the fact that Mac had been accepted into Officer Candidate School and graduated at the top of her class meant nothing to him. OCS was for second-raters, in Bo Macintyre’s opinion… And being father to the best of the second-raters was nothing to brag about. The long weekend was punctuated by periods of silence—and poisoned by things unsaid.

When Mac left, it was with the conviction that she’d never return. Yet there she was, turning off the blacktop to follow the driveway up and around the farmhouse to park in back. Brown swiveled the fifty around, searching for targets, but there weren’t any.

Everything appeared to be normal at first. But, as Garcia killed the engine, Mac realized that she was wrong. On closer examination she saw that some of the ground-floor windows were shattered, and the back door had been left ajar. So what lay within? Had her father been there when the meteors struck? And if so, was he all right?

There weren’t any vehicles to be seen, but that didn’t mean the house was empty. Mac ordered Sergeant Poole to take his squad in and clear the residence. Once that effort was under way, Mac turned her attention to setting up a defensive perimeter, bringing the Apache in next to the barn, and digging latrines.

That was when Staff Sergeant Emilio Evans approached her. He was second-in-command and, since her platoon had evolved into a company, she should promote him. But how? The army had a process for such things, but that was gone. Mac forced herself to focus on the situation at hand. “Hey, Evans… How’s it going?”

“So far, so good,” he replied. “How did you know about this place?”

Mac felt a pang of guilt. “It belongs to my father.”

Evans looked at her. She had put herself first, and he knew it. All she could do was stare back. “Do you have a question, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evans answered formally. “It’s about the latrines. Rather than dig them by hand each day, how ’bout we look for one of those mini backhoes? Some of them can be towed. Or maybe we can find a trailer.”