Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Sloan turned back to discover that McKinney was already disappearing into the ectoplasm-like fog. He hurried to catch up and position himself fifteen feet behind the ex-soldier. Intervals were important, he knew that now, and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another cutting comment.

Even as Sloan sought to maintain the “situational awareness” that McKinney liked to harp on, he couldn’t help but think about where they were, which was just south of the imaginary boundary separating North from South. Except it wouldn’t be imaginary for long. Huxton and his cronies were building a picket fence–like barrier designed to keep what they called “the takers” from flooding the South and laying waste to it. Nothing of that sort had occurred, but a constant flow of propaganda assured Southerners that it could, unless they threw their support behind the “New Order.”

The ground began to slope up at that point, forcing Sloan to watch his footing. There was a lot of loose rock, and when one of Sloan’s boots sent a chunk bounding downhill, he found himself on the receiving end of a frown from McKinney. Fortunately, the ex-Ranger couldn’t say anything without breaking one of his own rules.

Sloan managed to complete the climb without committing any additional errors. As they approached the top, he knew it was time to get down and crawl. After elbowing his way onto the ridge, Sloan heard the sound of a helicopter engine approaching from behind. He was careful to lie perfectly still as the aircraft passed overhead.

As the Apache continued to descend, Sloan could see where it was going. He’d seen pictures of defense towers by then, but always from a long ways off and in the early stages of construction. This one was different. Though not an expert, Sloan could tell that the roughly three-hundred-foot-tall structure was nearing completion. The central column was thick enough to house a cluster of elevators, including one large enough to accommodate the Apache.

The helicopter flared and put down on one of four circular pads clustered around the central “trunk.” Once the rotors stopped turning, a tractor towed the helo into the column, where an elevator would be waiting. Then the aircraft would be lowered into an underground maintenance facility.

It stood to reason that a lot of dirt had been removed to make the underground complex possible, and Sloan could see that it had been used to create the berm that surrounded the base of the tower. As Sloan raised his binoculars, he could see that gun positions were embedded in the wall.

“Those are Vulcan Air Defense System guns,” McKinney said, as if capable of reading the other man’s mind. “They were designed to fire on aircraft but can be used against ground targets as well. They’re no longer state-of-the-art, but each one can pump out a whole lot of 20mm projectiles in a very short period of time.”

Sloan tried to imagine participating in an infantry assault on such a well-defended wall and couldn’t. “But they can’t fire on aircraft,” he observed. “Not from where they are.”

“That’s true,” McKinney agreed. “But look at the topmost platforms. Those weapons can fire on planes.”

“What’s that boxy thing?” Sloan wanted to know.

“That’s a C-RAM,” McKinney replied. “It’s designed to throw a wall of metal into the air to destroy incoming rockets and mortar rounds before they can hit the tower. The next pod over is a surface-to-surface-missile battery.”

Sloan considered that as he turned the binoculars to the right. The sun had risen by then and was peeking through broken clouds. Only a few wisps of fog still remained. Off to the east, Sloan could make out the faint outline of another tower. “What do you think?” he inquired. “Could a strike force slide in between the towers and break through?”

McKinney looked at Sloan with a look of newfound respect. “Very good! You’re thinking like a soldier… I don’t know. It would depend on the range of the defensive missiles, how good their targeting systems are, and whether the Confederates have been laying mines to prevent such an attack. But never say never.”

Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Major.”

“I was a captain.”

Sloan lowered the binoculars. “Not anymore. You’re a major now, and my military attaché.”

McKinney stared at him. “No offense, Mr. President… But I have no desire to be an REMF.”

“And what,” Sloan inquired, “is an REMF?”

“A rear echelon motherfucker, sir.”

Sloan laughed. “I get that. But consider this… Assuming we succeed in rebuilding the army, I’ll be surrounded by REMFs… Some of them will try to blow smoke up my ass. How will I sort them out without your sage advice?”

McKinney was silent for a moment. Then he produced one of his rare smiles. “That would be me, sir… Major McKinney, smoke detector extraordinaire.”

Both men laughed, pushed themselves away from the ridge, and began the trip down. It was the beginning of a much longer journey that took them up through Branson, Ozark, Springfield, and into the town of Marshfield, Missouri.

After spending some time in the South, Sloan was eager to see how things were going up north. The answer wasn’t good. In a marked contrast with cities like Shreveport, Louisiana, the people who lived above the Mason-Dixon line had to deal with frequent power outages. Or no electricity at all. And while there were places where local governments had stepped up to provide local citizens with a modicum of security, the coordination normally provided at the state level had all but vanished, never mind the federal government—which was MIA.

The result was a patchwork quilt of hamlets, towns, and cities, many of which had to compete with each other for scarce resources. All too often, they had fallen under the control of a strongman or -woman who was more interested in taking care of themselves than the population at large. Other communities were under the sway of a single religion. Never mind the legal strictures regarding the separation of church and state or the wishes of nonbelievers.

Each time Sloan became aware of such a situation, he felt a strong desire to wade in and set it right. But the others held him back. “It’s too early for that,” Allston insisted. “The locals won’t listen to you right now… But that will change soon. Keep your powder dry.”

It was good advice, and Sloan knew that. But it galled him to see so much unnecessary pain, misery, and conflict.

Their ultimate destination was Indianapolis, where, according to ham-radio operators, patriots from all over the nation were starting to gather. But after their car ran out of gas, they’d been forced to hoof it. A mode of transportation that, along with bicycles, was increasingly popular. Even so, it seemed as if there was an unusually large number of people on the highway that day, with more joining from driveways and side roads.

So when they arrived in Lebanon, Sloan expected to see something… An open market perhaps, or a street fair, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, what he saw was a huge banner that was suspended over Commercial Street. It said WELCOME PRESIDENT SLOAN, and as Sloan drew near, a well-dressed Doyle Besom appeared to grab his elbow. “Right this way, Mr. President,” Besom said. “Everything is ready.”

A cheer went up as a band began to play “Hail to the Chief,” and Sloan felt slightly light-headed. When Besom and Cindy Howell had gone ahead to “Get things ready,” Sloan hadn’t thought to question the ex–PR man about what that meant.

A wooden platform loomed ahead, and the crowd surged in to surround it as Besom preceded Sloan up a flight of stairs. A generator was running nearby, and the jury-rigged PA system was on. Besom jerked Sloan’s left arm up into the air. “Here he is!” Besom shouted into the mike. “ This is the man who, as Secretary of Energy, was trapped in Mexico when the meteors hit, and paddled hundreds of miles to return home! This is the man who was captured, held prisoner, and refused to be a puppet president! This is the man who escaped, made his way north, and walked into this town on foot. His name is President Samuel T. Sloan… And he’s here to put our country back together!”