There was a long moment of silence. Campbell appeared to be ill. “I’ll take option B.”
“An excellent choice!” Sloan said as he raised his glass. “To a short and mutually beneficial relationship! Oh, and by the way, don’t try to communicate with your buddies in Houston. We seized control of your communications an hour ago. That includes the submarine cables that connect you with the Eastern Caribbean Fiber System and the UK. It sucks, doesn’t it? Finish your salad, Al. We have work to do.”
PLAQUEMINE, LOUISIANA
It was the beginning of what was likely to be a long, bloody day, and Mac wondered how it would end. Would she be alive when the dimly seen sun set? Or zipped in a body bag? It could go either way.
After leaving Interstate 10 near Gonzales and traveling west on Highway 30, the convoy entered Plaquemine on Highway 1. It had been a pleasant riverfront town of seven thousand people before the war. Now it was a ghost town filled with deserted buildings, empty streets, and the charred wreckage of a fire that no one had been present to fight.
And the reason for that was apparent. To protect the nearby Bayou Choctaw Strategic Petroleum Reserve, the Confederates had placed thousands of mines in the communities of Plaquemine, Morrisonville, and Crescent. And the strategy had been successful. Before Colonel Walters could proceed, she had to send for mine-clearing vehicles.
Two days passed while the M1 Panther IIs were brought forward. That gave the rebs a lot of time to prepare, but it couldn’t be helped. The brigade was forced to settle in, assume defensive positions, and wait.
Finally, on the third day, the Panthers rolled down off their flatbed trucks. It took most of that afternoon to prepare the machines. The results were anything but pretty. Each vehicle consisted of an M1 tank hull, minus the gun turret, which had been replaced by a low-profile lid.
Rollers were mounted on the arms that extended out in front of each tank. The rollers were designed to rise and fall with the terrain and trigger any mines they encountered. Working side by side, the Panthers could clear a two-lane swath of land at a speed of 15 mph. Assuming that the rebs weren’t able to stop them with artillery, tanks, or rockets.
Each Panther had a two-person crew. They could ride in the vehicle itself, or control it remotely, via a briefcase-sized CCTV system. And that was the way they chose to proceed.
But clearing a path into the mine-free zone that lay beyond the edge of town was only the first step in what promised to be a difficult process. Assuming the brigade managed to get through the minefield, it would still have to face whatever the Confederacy threw their way before they could attack the petroleum reserve. And that wouldn’t be easy.
As the Panthers rolled forward, two Strykers followed along behind them. Both were buttoned up for safety’s sake, and Mac was riding in the DOOBY DO. The Stryker’s other passengers included the tank’s two-person crew and Mac’s RTO, Private Yancy. Sergeant Lang was operating the Panther via the CCTV rig sitting on his lap. Perez was taking a nap.
Earlier, while preparing for the mission, Mac asked Lang to describe how reliable the demining vehicles were. Lang said, “One hundred percent.” But Perez, who had been standing slightly behind him, shook her head. So it could happen.
If the DOOBY ran over an antipersonnel mine, that wouldn’t matter too much because Strykers had good armor. But antitank mines? Like an M-15 or an M-19? Either one could blow a track off a Panther or destroy a Stryker. So if the Panthers failed to detonate a large mine, the workday was going to end early.
Mac didn’t like being cooped up in a steel box but knew it wouldn’t be safe to stand in the forward air-guard hatch, so all she could do was sit and stew while the Confederate mines began to blow. There was a hollow place at the pit of her stomach. “Here we go,” Lang said, as a dull thump was heard. “It’s showtime!” Lang’s remote-control rig consisted of a single joystick, which he pushed forward.
The explosions came in quick succession, and in some cases overlapped each other, as the tanks worked in concert. The STEEL BITCH was following the second Panther and hanging back as far as it could. The Stryker’s truck commander had to remain inside the remote-control system’s 250-foot range, however, or the tank commander would lose control. Metal clanged on metal as shrapnel fell from above.
Stop thinking about that, Mac told herself. Focus on what you’re going to do on the other side of the minefield. That would depend on what the enemy did, of course… But the colonel’s orders were clear. Mac had responsibility for seven Strykers and four Marine Corps LAV-25s. Eleven vehicles in all. And her job was to push the rebs back, and keep them back, so the amtracks could crawl forward. Would that be difficult? The answer was obvious.
Suddenly, a new sound was added to the now-rhythmic thud of exploding mines. “We have incoming artillery,” the truck commander said tightly. “The rebs are aiming for the Panthers—but we’re right behind them.”
For the first time in her military career, Mac found herself hoping that the enemy gunners were good shots. Because if a 155mm artillery shell landed on top of the DOOBY DO, the Stryker would pop like a balloon. Lang must have known that. But the hand on the joystick was rock steady—and Perez had started to snore. Ladylike snores, to be sure, but Mac resented them. She was scared and firmly believed that everyone else should be scared, too. And Yancy was. Mac could see it in his eyes. “Call the colonel,” she told him. “Tell her that we’re taking artillery fire.” Walters knew that, of course, but the message would give Yancy something to do and help steady his nerves.
“Well, that sucks,” Lang said. “Tank two lost a track… We’re on our own now.”
Lang was wearing a headset that allowed him to communicate with his peer in the other Stryker. And he was correct. The loss of tank two meant the amtracks would be forced to proceed single file rather than two abreast, effectively doubling the time required to squeeze the brigade through the minefield. And who was supposed to hold the rebels off while that took place? Her battalion, that’s who. Yancy’s eyes were huge. “Let the colonel know,” Mac ordered. “And tell the Steel Bitch to fall in behind us.”
Yancy made the call, listened to the response, and turned back to her. “The colonel says that the Confederate Strykers are coming out to play.”
Mac nodded and knew that her truck commanders were listening in. “Tell the colonel that we’re going to kick their asses.”
The brave words were meant to make Mac’s crews feel good. Unfortunately, victory was anything but certain. Not once during Mac’s training had any mention been made of how to conduct a Stryker-on-Stryker battle. And there was no reason for it to come up. American forces were the only ones who used Strykers, and since they weren’t going to fight each other, why prepare for a situation that wouldn’t occur?
It wasn’t the first time Mac had considered such a scenario, however. The possibility of such an engagement had occurred to her back in New Orleans during the briefing from Captain Hines. That didn’t mean that her outfit was ready, though… Not by a long shot. Especially since there had been no opportunity to train with the Marine LAV crews. So there was plenty to fear… Including the possibility of failure. Which would cost a lot of lives. Maybe her own. Mac knew her hands were shaking, so she was careful to fold her arms.
“All right,” Lang said as he looked up from the CCTV screen. “I think we’re through. Hey, Perez! Wake up, damn it… We need to inspect the tank. I’m going to be pissed if those bastards dinged my paint.”