Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

Sloan felt the same way Lincoln had. And there was reason for concern. Kentucky had been a so-called “red state” for many years, and that meant the population had a lot in common with people who lived in bastions of the South like Texas and Mississippi.

And the problem was more than theoretical. If the locals chose to support General Cox, and she were to cut some sort of deal with Lemaire, then 130 billion dollars’ worth of gold could fall into Confederate hands! All of which made Sloan feel antsy and irritable as the bus suddenly started to slow. “Uh-oh,” Jenkins said, as a sign appeared on the right. “What’s up with that?”

As Sloan peered through the beads of rain, he read the hand-lettered sign: TOLL BRIDGE AHEAD. Then, in smaller type: YOU WILL PAY… NO EXCEPTIONS. And when Sloan peered through the windshield, he could see that traffic was backed up as people waited to cross. The situation was clear. Bandits, or the equivalent thereof, had taken control of a public bridge and were charging a fee to cross it. Just one of the countless problems the new government would have to cope with. “Let’s pay it,” Sloan proclaimed. “I need to reach Fort Knox as quickly as possible.”

“Maybe we will, and maybe we won’t,” Jenkins said, as he pulled over. “I think we should eyeball the situation before going any farther.”

“He’s right,” McKinney agreed. “No way are we going to drive into a shit show we might not be able to get out of.”

Sloan felt frustrated. “That’s bullshit. I’m the president, and what I say goes.”

“Not necessarily,” Jenkins replied. “Not if what you say is stupid and could get my ass blown off. Thanks to Besom and his people, there are thousands of Samuel T. Sloan photos out there… What if the people who control the bridge recognize you? What if they take you prisoner? And sell you to the rebels? Or shoot you in the head? Sit tight. We’ll take a look.”

Once Jenkins and McKinney were gone, all Sloan could do was sit and fume. They were clearly in a hurry when they returned fifteen minutes later. “We’re out of here,” Jenkins said, as he slipped behind the wheel.

“Damned straight,” McKinney agreed. “Those bastards have a Bradley—and it’s armed with an M242 chain gun. That sucker could kill a light tank, never mind a school bus!”

Sloan knew he owed them an apology. “Sorry guys, I’m glad you ignored me.”

“Anytime, Mr. President,” Jenkins said cheerfully. “It was our pleasure.”

The group had to backtrack in order to reach the last turnoff, and follow a lesser road to the northeast, where they crossed the river unimpeded.

Then Jenkins turned south, and it wasn’t long before they arrived in the town of Rosine, where the bus could get on 62. It led them east to Elizabethtown, the city that Confederate General John Hunt Morgan and three thousand of his men had attacked in 1862. Did the locals remember that? Did they care? Sloan hoped so, as Jenkins took the beltway north and turned onto 31 west.

It was almost dark by the time they passed through Radcliff and ran into a roadblock comprised of two Abrams tanks, half a dozen Bradleys, and a company of troops. A hand-lettered sign ordered them to execute a U-turn and head south. There were two vehicles in front of the bus and both chose to turn back as Jenkins pulled forward. “Stay on the bus,” McKinney ordered. “I’ll find out who these people are. Then, if it’s safe, you can get out.”

Sloan chafed at the increasing number of restrictions that were being placed on him, but he knew it was necessary. So he sat and made conversation with Rostov and Besom until the ex-Ranger returned. “They’re ours,” he announced. “And Garrison gave orders for the company commander to watch for you.”

Sloan got up out of the cramped seat, took his pack off the rack above, and made his way forward. “What’s the roadblock for anyway?”

“To prevent rogue army units or Confederate forces from linking up with General Cox,” McKinney replied. “It appears that Colonel Foster has the area surrounded.”

Sloan didn’t know Colonel Foster. But it was nice to know that at least one senior officer was on his side and willing to take action. It was cold outside, and as Sloan stepped down onto the frozen ground, flashes lit the horizon. What followed sounded like thunder. “That’s artillery,” McKinney volunteered. “It looks as if a full-scale battle is under way.”

An army officer materialized out of the surrounding gloom. “I’m Captain Pierce,” he said. “Colonel Foster’s adjutant. Please follow me.”

The presidential party followed Pierce through the roadblock to the Humvees waiting beyond. A short ride took them past a well-protected vehicle park to what looked like a mound of dirt—but was actually the roof of an underground command post.

Sentries stood at attention, and the visitors had to stop as a sergeant stepped out to block the way. “Please leave your weapons here… They’ll be waiting when you exit.”

“General Cox managed to get an assassin into the bunker three days ago,” Pierce explained. “He shot three officers before an MP gunned him down. That’s why no one is allowed to enter the command post carrying a weapon, and that includes me.”

A clatter was heard as a small arsenal of weapons was placed on the table. “What you described sounds like a suicide mission,” Sloan commented. “I assumed Cox’s troops were in it for the gold.”

“Some of them are,” Pierce admitted. “But General Cox is a very charismatic person. And based on what deserters have told us, a lot of her troops believe the story she fed them. They expect the real president to show up any day now.”

Pierce led the group through a metal detector and down a flight of wooden stairs into the command center below. A map of Fort Knox was displayed on a large flat-screen. Sloan could see that the base was much larger than the depository and hung from the other end of what looked like a lopsided barbell. The “bar”-shaped corridor served to connect the two facilities. “Come on,” Pierce said. “Secretary Garrison is down front.”

Pierce led the group past two rows of soldiers all seated in front of glowing screens. They were wearing headsets, and their overlapping conversations combined to create a low-level buzz. “Good evening, Mr. President,” Garrison said, as he stood. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s good to see you, Frank,” Sloan said, as they shook hands. “Where did the Secretary of Defense stuff come from?”

“It’s interim Secretary,” Garrison replied. “Someone had to step in, and I was handy. Or would you prefer to let the military create policy?”

Sloan knew Garrison was right. Someone had to fill the Secretary of Defense role. And, with no other candidate on the horizon, Garrison would do. “You were right,” Sloan agreed. “Thanks for jumping in. This is a critical situation.”

“That’s for sure,” a basso voice agreed. Sloan turned to find himself face-to-face with an army officer. He had short white hair, a square chin, and a steely gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President, I’m Colonel Foster.” They shook hands.

“I want to thank you, Colonel,” Sloan said. “From what I’ve heard, you were trying to retake Fort Knox when Secretary Garrison came along.”

Foster shrugged. “You’re welcome, sir. It seemed like the right thing to do. We’re going to need that gold to support our currency—and it would be an unmitigated disaster if the Confederates got ahold of it. Unfortunately, my attack failed.”

Sloan looked the other man in the eye and was met with an unblinking stare. “I’m going to ask you a tough question, Colonel. But I need to know the answer. Why did that attack fail?”