Mac was kneeling next to Cowboy, and they were inspecting one of the DOOBY DO’s badly mangled wheels, when Colonel Walters arrived. Engines roared as Marine amtracks churned past them. Walters was forced to shout in order to be heard. “Good job, Major! I watched the whole thing via our drones. What I could see through the smoke, anyway. Strykers on Strykers! That was a battle for the textbooks.”
“My truck commanders were outstanding,” Mac replied. “Take Rogers here… It turns out that he can drive and chew gum at the same time.”
Cowboy had a huge wad of pink gum in his mouth. He blew a bubble, and it popped. “Thanks, Major… I appreciate the feedback.”
Walters laughed. “It looks like your Stryker needs some repairs, Corporal. As for you, Major Macintyre, there’s no rest for the wicked. I want you and any vehicles that are operable to follow the troops in. Major Corvo will show you where to put them. The rebs had lots of time to prepare. Maybe they’ll sit tight, or maybe they’ll come out to play. If so, the weapons mounted on your Strykers could make the difference.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mac replied. “The LAVs did a great job, by the way… Maybe the Marine Corps isn’t so bad after all.”
Walters grinned. “I’m gratified to hear it. I’ll see you later.” And with that, she was gone.
Mac ran a quick check, determined that seven of her vehicles were functional, and ordered them to follow the STEEL BITCH. She had taken some hits, but her TC swore that she was good to go. Mac climbed aboard and rode up top as the Stryker passed between two widely separated houses. The LAVs had left deep track marks in the soil, and so all they had to do was follow them. A large retaining pond blocked their path, forcing the trucks to turn and follow the amtracks north.
That led the vehicles to an access road. Mac brought her binoculars up as the BITCH turned left. Corvo’s amtracks could be seen in the foreground and were splitting into a Y formation that was calculated to envelop the Confederate base.
Beyond the personnel carriers, Mac could see the low-lying oil reserve. Concrete barriers had been set up to slow incoming vehicles, rolls of razor wire had been laid along the bottom of the berm, and a steel gate guarded the entrance. It was going to be a tough nut to crack. Fear began to seep back into her belly again. Fear of dying, fear of failing, and fear of fear.
Planes and or helicopters could have laid waste to the facility in fifteen minutes. But that wasn’t going to happen. The brigade had orders to capture the reserve intact, or mostly intact, so that the Union could access the oil stored there as quickly as possible.
Mac heard a boom, followed by the scream of a ranging shot, and saw a column of dirt leap into the air just short of an amtrack. The second phase of the battle had begun.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
General Bo Macintyre sat slumped in the backseat as the black SUV threaded its way through downtown traffic. His phone vibrated every now and then, but Bo chose to ignore the incoming messages in order to focus on an important problem. Lots of problems, actually… But only one that kept him up at night. And that was what he perceived to be a lack of will on the part of the people who were in charge of the government.
President Lemaire and his backers had been full of piss and vinegar when the war started. But after some setbacks, and a half year of fighting, it felt as if he was going through the motions. Meanwhile, people were dying. But what if Bo was wrong? What if the president and his staff were gung ho?
So Bo was going to have lunch with Orson Selock, who was not only a friend but Secretary of the Army. They’d gone to West Point together. And if anyone could give him the straight scoop, Selock could. But would he?
Selock had been passed over for general, had retired as a colonel, and was working for a government contractor when the war began. Thanks to his military background and a carefully nurtured network of contacts, he’d been named Secretary of the Army.
So what was Selock? A soldier at heart? Or had he gone over to the dark side? By which Bo meant civilians who liked to talk the talk but couldn’t walk the walk.
The SUV pulled in under the formal portico in front of the Four Seasons Hotel. One of Bo’s aides got out to open the door for him. Both were dressed in civilian clothes. “I’ll be a while,” Bo told her. “Grab some lunch. I’ll call when I’m ready to leave.”
The major who opened the door was young for her rank and bore a vague resemblance to Victoria. Had that influenced his decision to select her? No, of course not.
The major said, “Yes, sir,” and closed the door behind him.
Bo had been to Quattro Restaurant on previous occasions and knew the way. The maître d’ welcomed Bo and led him past tall windows and paneled walls to a table located in the back of the dining room. It was large enough to seat four but set for two, and half-hidden by a bushy plant. There was nothing unseemly about the Secretary of the Army having lunch with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. But Bo had no desire to advertise it.
After shaking hands and taking their seats, the men spent some time socializing. Selock congratulated Bo on his upcoming marriage to his longtime secretary and on the successful defense of Tower 26. “You kicked Bunny’s ass fair and square,” Selock proclaimed. “I’ll bet she’s still feeling the pain.”
Then the drinks arrived, and the conversation turned to the crappy weather, Selock’s fading golf game, and his son’s latest DUI. “The boy’s an idiot,” Selock finished bleakly. “He’s in a line outfit. Maybe the Yankees will kill him for me.”
“Or maybe he’ll wise up,” Bo said dutifully. Although he knew that was extremely unlikely.
The food arrived shortly thereafter and, after a bite or two, Bo began to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. He had to be careful, however… If Selock had gone over to the dark side, he might report the conversation to the Secretary of Defense. And while that wouldn’t be fatal, it wouldn’t be helpful, either. “Tell me something,” Bo began. “How would you describe morale?”
“You’ve seen the polls,” Selock replied. “The number of people who approve of the war, and think we’re going to win it, fell off when we lost New Orleans. But the majority of our citizens still support the president and what he’s doing.”
Bo nodded. “Right. But what about higher up? How’s the morale within the administration?”
Selock frowned and put his fork down. “What’s on your mind, Bo? It isn’t like you to weasel word around.”
Bo did his best to appear nonchalant. “I’m not as close to such things as you are, Orson. So there’s a good chance that I’m wrong. But I feel as if the overall sense of urgency has fallen off a bit… Almost as if certain people have given up.”
Selock looked left and right before taking a sip of his drink. “You’re very perceptive, Bo… Of course you always were. That’s one of the reasons you made general.
“Yes, I think our failure to secure a quick victory, followed by our inability to wall the Union off, had a negative impact on executive morale. But the Cayman Island thing put an end to that. The people you’re referring to are all in now, and you’ll feel the difference soon.”
“The Cayman Island thing”? What Cayman Island thing? Bo knew he was onto something, but he had to proceed with care. “Yes,” he lied. “I heard whispers. But nothing specific.”
Selock nodded. “It’s hush-hush, needless to say… But certain officials had substantial sums of money stashed in the Caymans. Escape money, if you will, to use if we lost the war.