But if the rebs were regular rank-and-file soldiers, they would be hesitant to kill civilians. Even if they were ordered to do so. Especially since they’d been members of a unified army six months earlier and been trained to avoid inflicting civilian casualties. And everyone believed that the second proposition was the more likely of the two. But were they correct? Sloan was about to find out.
He signaled for silence and led the platoon down a hall, past a row of empty food stalls, and through a security door. And that was when Sloan saw them. The hostages were an island of humanity sitting in a sea of trash. Airline blankets, empty food containers, and cast-off water bottles were strewn everywhere.
Children were crying, and adults had their hands clasped behind their heads, as two soldiers stood guard. They were armed with assault weapons and looking south, toward the sounds of fighting. What to do? Call on the soldiers to surrender? And run the risk that they would open fire on the prisoners? Or shoot them?
They’re regular soldiers, Sloan reminded himself. Good people in a bad place. They don’t want to commit mass murder. Stick to the plan.
Sloan looked left and right. The platoon was waiting for him to make the first move. He stepped forward. “Union Army! Place your weapons on the floor and take two steps back.”
The rebs raised their rifles as they turned, saw all of the weapons aimed at them, and stopped. “Don’t shoot!” one of the rebs said. “I’m putting my rifle down.”
Sloan heaved a sigh of relief, and was about to move forward, when a hostage stood. She had frowsy hair, a full figure, and was wrapped in a winter coat. She yelled something incomprehensible. That was followed by a loud bang and a flash of light. The woman ceased to exist. The force of the explosion threw Sloan onto his back. And that’s where he was, staring at the ceiling, when a Green Beret bent over him. “Mr. President? Were you hit?”
Sloan ran a quick inventory. “No, I don’t think so. Help me up.”
Once on his feet, Sloan was confronted with the worst carnage he’d ever witnessed, and that included the bloodbath in Richton, Mississippi. A bright red bull’s-eye marked the spot where the woman had been standing. The individuals closest to her had been ripped to shreds. Body parts were strewn everywhere. Many of the people who were farther out from the explosion had been wounded, and Union soldiers were applying first aid. The horror of it stunned him. Sloan saw a hand lying nearby. A child’s hand. His stomach heaved, and he threw up. Once the nausea passed, he straightened up and made use of a sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Why?” Sloan demanded of no one in particular. “Why?”
“Because the people in charge knew the soldiers wouldn’t want to kill the hostages,” Colonel Barkley said as she arrived next to him. “So they planted a fanatic in the crowd. It’s supposed to teach us a lesson.”
Sloan looked at her. “What lesson is that?”
Barkley’s expression was hard. “Even if you win, you lose. That’s what they want us to believe.”
The firing had stopped. The colonel’s radiotelephone operator (RTO) spoke to her. “The airport is secure, ma’am.”
Sloan should have felt a sense of satisfaction. He didn’t. “Even if you win, you lose.” That was a good description of the war, any civil war, and the reality of that threatened to crush him.
BILOXI, MISSISSIPPI
Rest and relaxation. R&R. That was the mission Major Robin Macintyre and 1,326 other members of the military had been sent to the recently “liberated” town of Biloxi, Mississippi, to accomplish. Except the people of Biloxi didn’t believe that they’d been liberated. No, they were pretty sure that they’d been conquered, and the knowledge didn’t sit well. And that was evident in the hotel clerk’s surly manner. “Your room will be ready in an hour or so. Perhaps you’d like to check your bag and take a stroll through town. You own it, after all.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. There was no point in responding to the barb, and she didn’t. “Okay… Who should I give the bag to?”
“Henry will take care of it,” the clerk replied as he brought his hand down on an old-fashioned bell. “Enjoy your stay.”
He didn’t mean that, of course, since the clerk was clearly a loyal Confederate, who hoped that Mac would die and join the rest of her kind in hell. Mac forced a smile. “I will.”
Henry was a wizened old man who might have been in his eighties. Could he be a Union sympathizer? Based on the wink Henry gave her, Mac thought he was. She followed him across the lobby to the bell stand on the far side. Massive columns supported a coffered ceiling, potted plants served to define separate conversation areas, and louvered windows were open to the outside. But even though the room looked as if it had been there for a hundred years, Mac knew the hotel had been built just after Hurricane Katrina, back when real estate was cheap.
After placing Mac’s overnight bag in a storage room, Henry gave her a claim ticket and a card that had his name scrawled on it. “If you want some good gumbo, go to Louie’s,” he said. “Tell the front man that Henry sent you and give him this. The gumbo won’t be any cheaper, but the cook won’t spit in it.”
It was, Mac decided, a valuable lesson in political reality. Even though the North had been able to reclaim New Orleans and establish a foothold in the Deep South, they had a long way to go before winning the hearts and minds of the people who lived there.
Biloxi was untouched by fighting and surrounded by Union troops, so stepping out of the hotel was like entering a bubble, a place where things looked normal even if they weren’t. Most of the people on the street were soldiers, about 70 percent of whom were male and eager to find some female companionship. But outside of the bars and beach casinos, there wasn’t much for them to do other than walk up and down the main drag.
Mac wasn’t interested in the bars. But she did want to do some shopping and was disappointed to discover that items like shampoo, quality underwear, and chocolate bars simply weren’t available. Because of shortages? Perhaps. Or maybe the shop owners didn’t want the Union soldiers to have them. No, Mac thought, that’s silly. But the idea persisted.
Mac was able to buy a top, shorts, and sandals, however… And went back to the hotel to put them on. The third-floor room was large, and a tiny balcony looked down onto the street.
After donning her new clothes, Mac returned to the first floor and left the hotel. She was hungry by then. It took fifteen minutes to find Louie’s. The reception was cool at first. But, after giving Henry’s card to the maître d’, Mac was shown to a nice table that looked out onto the street. Her drink arrived quickly, soon followed by a nice salad and a big bowl of gumbo. Sans spit? She hoped so. And it was a welcome change from the steady diet of Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) that she had grown accustomed to.
After paying an exorbitant bill with a wad of OC (Occupation Currency), Mac exited the restaurant and began the trip back to the hotel. Soldiers hit on her, and one of the street vendors attempted to hang a necklace around her neck. That was when Mac felt the familiar itch between her shoulder blades. It was the same sensation she’d felt in nightclubs when some guy was checking her out, and on the battlefield just before somebody took a shot at her. So she turned to check her six. There was nothing to see other than the constant flow of soldiers.
You’re battle happy, Mac told herself as she made her way up the street. A good night’s sleep will put you right.