There was. A platoon leader stood. “Yes, ma’am… The rebs at this site are cut off. Is that correct?”
Walters nodded. “It is.”
“So,” the lieutenant continued. “Why attack? We could starve them out.”
It was a good question. Walters turned to Hines. “Captain Hines?”
Hines stood. “The people up the chain of command were concerned that it would take too long. Our citizens need the oil stored in those caverns.”
Mac considered that. How high had the decision gone? All the way to Sloan? And, if so, had it been difficult for him? Did Sloan realize that he was going to trade lives for oil? But what choice did he have? The North had some oil wells but not enough… And what did her Strykers run on? Oil by-products, that’s what… Not to mention heating oil for homes and all the rest of it.
There were more questions. And once they’d been answered, Walters thanked Hines before turning back to the audience. “Okay, let’s talk about how to get this job done. The brigade’s table of organization looks like a pig’s breakfast. It includes a battalion of Marines, a battalion of soldiers, a medical unit on loan from the navy, drone operators supplied by the air force, and the civilians who are supposed to operate the reserve once we capture it. And that is the plan… We are supposed to capture the facility, not destroy it. Please keep that in mind during the days ahead.”
Walters was almost six feet tall, lean, and had chosen the Marine Corps over the navy after graduating from Annapolis. Her eyes scanned the room. “Now hear this… Even though we represent different branches of the military, we have a common objective, and we’ve got to function as a team. I will have zero tolerance for interservice-rivalry bullshit. If I see it, hear it, or smell it, you will be sorry. Don’t disappoint me.
“Here’s how it will go down… At 0600, drone operators are going to eyeball both sides of Interstate 10. Major Macintyre’s Strykers will take the point at 0630. The rest of the brigade will follow at 0645. We’ll spend the night near the town of Sorrento, which is about halfway to our goal. So brief your troops, check everything twice, and check it again. That will be all. Battalion commanders will remain. The rest of you can rejoin your units.”
As most of the officers left, Mac made her way to the front of the room, where she joined Walters, Marine Major Joe Corvo, and Marine Captain Misty Giovani. “I’m going to tweak the table of organization,” Walters told them, “so we’ll have as much clarity as possible. Let’s start with you, Joe. You have some LAV-25s. True?”
“Four of them,” Corvo replied.
“Right. Assuming you have no objection, I would like to transfer them to Mac’s Marauders on a temporary basis. I think you’ll agree that it makes sense to put all of our armor under a single officer.”
Mac could tell that Corvo didn’t like it. But what could he say? There was only one possible answer. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mac knew that while the Marine Corps LAV (Light Armored Vehicles) looked like eight-wheeled Strykers, there were some differences, including the fact that the LAVs could “swim” rivers and lakes.
But Mac had been around long enough to know that everything comes at a price. So it was too early to celebrate her good fortune. And sure enough, Walters was turning her way by then. “You have two companies of infantry,” Walters said. “For the purposes of this mission, I’d like to place them under Major Corvo’s command.”
Mac didn’t like it any more than Corvo did. And, like Corvo, she had no choice but to acquiesce. “Yes, ma’am. One thing, though… I need to keep my Stryker crews, techs, and mechanics.”
“Of course,” Walters said as she made a note. “That brings us to you, Captain Giovani. I’m putting all of the support functions under you, and that includes responsibility for the civilians.”
Giovani looked worried, and for good reason. Walters was asking her to integrate the supply and transportation functions of two dissimilar battalions and to accomplish it overnight. She swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”
Walters grinned. “The three of you look like mourners at a funeral! Buck up, it will work. I promise.”
Mac’s Marauders were parked on the first two floors of the five-story parking garage located next to the hotel. That was less than perfect since the rebs could bomb the shit out of the structure, but the garage did keep them out of sight and offered some protection from strafing attacks. Shortly after Mac arrived, she sent for her senior noncoms and officers.
There was a chorus of groans as Mac delivered the news. None of her people wanted to be seconded to the Marines—no matter how temporary the assignment might be. Or, as one sergeant put it, “If I wanted to be a jarhead, I would have joined the fucking Marine Corps.”
Mac felt some sympathy but had to push back. “I understand how you feel, but Colonel Walters is correct. In order to take our objective and minimize casualties, we need a clear chain of command. One in which everyone knows who’s in charge of what.
“Captain Overman, please make sure that our troops are briefed. Once you accomplish that, report to Major Corvo for further instructions. The techs, mechanics, and Stryker crews will remain with me. Are there any questions?
There were lots of questions. Process stuff mainly, most of which had yet to be addressed. And since Mac didn’t have a lot of answers, the best she could do was to take notes and promise to follow up. She could answer one question, however. It was posed by a platoon leader. “Since we won’t be riding in the Strykers, what sort of transportation will we have?”
Mac understood the officer’s concern. If she and her soldiers had to ride in soft-sided trucks, they’d be extremely vulnerable. “That’s a good question,” Mac responded. “You and your troops will ride in Marine Corps AAVs (Assault Amphibious Vehicles). You can expect leather seats, stereo, and a wet bar.”
Most of them laughed because they knew that while the so-called amtracks could hold more troops than a Stryker, they were anything but luxurious. Not only that, but the tracked vehicles were slow compared to the eight-wheeled Strykers, and that could be a problem depending on the situation. Still, the AAVs had good armor and mounted heavy weapons.
“All right,” Mac said. “Make me proud. Let’s get to work. Captain Wu, a moment of your time please.”
Wu was Mac’s supply officer and, more than that, one of the people who had been freed from prison as part of President Sloan’s Military Reintegration Program. And, like all good supply officers, Wu could be very resourceful when she needed to be. Which was most of the time. She was small and intense. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”
“Go for it.”
“Reporting to a Marine sucks.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. There’s something I want you to do for me before you report to Captain Giovani.”
“Which is?”
“Find two dozen multispectral combat beacons for me. The special ops people might have some.”
Wu was clearly curious, but since Mac hadn’t chosen to say why she needed the beacons, the supply officer let it slide. “Yes, ma’am… I’ll see what I can do.”
Mac thought about the coming day. Her Strykers would be on point—the tip of the spear, the first to fall. But damned few of them would if Mac had anything to say about it. She went to work.
SOUTH OF WINSTON-SALEM, NORTH CAROLINA
Confederate Defense Tower 26 was surrounded and under attack. Meanwhile, high above, the cowardly sun was half-hidden behind a screen of striated clouds. The nonstop boom of artillery, the thump of mostly futile mortar rounds, and the occasional crack of a long-range rocket blended together to create a symphony of war sounds.