And had it not been for a strange confluence of events, it would have worked. But no one, Bo included—had been able to anticipate the abduction, the storm, and Sloan’s decision to attack.
I should have thought of it, Bo thought. I underestimated Sloan. And he made me pay. The failure weighed heavily on Bo’s mind. Focus on the future, he told himself. Do what you can do.
Bo opened the pack, removed a thermos, and poured himself a cup of black coffee. Paper rattled as he stuck a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered doughnuts and selected one. “You’ll get fat.” That’s what Kathy would have said. Her absence was a hole that couldn’t be filled.
The doughnut tasted good. A gulp of coffee washed it down. Bo was about to take a second bite when he noticed a flicker of movement south of the cabin. A deer perhaps? He brought the glasses up. No, it wasn’t a deer. A man or a woman, he couldn’t tell which, was kneeling in some scrub glassing the cabin!
Had the government located him? No. They would have arrived in force, thrown a cordon around the area, and locked it down. This person was one of his guests. And a cautious one at that.
Bo finished his doughnut as the person circled the cabin, climbed the stairs that led to the porch, and read the note on the door. Then, after looking around, he or she went inside.
The second guest arrived in a pickup truck with a government logo and a light bar on top. Was it stolen? Probably. And Bo approved. He wanted to hire people who were imaginative and willing to take risks. Like pretending to be a game warden.
The first guest came out to greet the newcomer. They shook hands and went inside. Bo gave an involuntary jerk as something cold nudged the back of his neck. “Good morning, General… Chocolate-covered doughnuts! May I?” The pressure disappeared.
Bo managed to maintain his composure, but just barely. Somehow, the operative had been able to spot him, climb the back slope without making a sound, and get close. Very close. Was he getting old? Or was the op that good? Bo had to admit that both things were true. “Of course,” Bo said as he turned. “Help yourself.”
Bo had never met Corporal Jimmy Gatlin before, but Victoria had been high on him and liked to tell stories about the operative’s exploits. Gatlin was thirtysomething, and not much to look at. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a perpetual grin. As if life were a joke, and he was in on it. “Don’t mind if I do,” Gatlin said as he sat on a rock. Paper rattled as he took a doughnut. “I like the view… Is everyone here? My guess is ‘yes.’”
“What makes you think there are others?”
Gatlin’s eyes narrowed. “Your daughter is dead, your wife is dead, and the Confederacy is dead. Or it will be soon. And you are a survivor. A man with a plan. But you need help. So who you gonna call? The people that Victoria trusted. Am I wrong?”
“No,” Bo allowed. “You’re right. I have a plan, and I need help.”
Gatlin sipped coffee straight from the thermos, wiped a dribble off his chin, and grinned. “I don’t want to die with a bunch of Mexicans. There’s a place in Brazil. A town called Santa Bárbara d’Oeste. After the first Confederacy fell, hundreds of Southerners went there rather than live as Union slaves. And their descendants still control the area. That’s where I plan to go. But I’d like to live in comfort if you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean,” Bo assured him. “Come on… Let’s go down and talk to the others. Maybe they’d like to live in Brazil, too.”
NEW IBERIA, LOUISIANA
The industrial complex located south of New Iberia was home to drilling companies, a shipyard, and a host of related businesses, many of which bordered the shipping channel. It was the same channel the Marines were going to use.
The Marauders were situated in the shipyard across the waterway from a Mexican Army unit. And in order to join them, Mac and her soldiers had to jog west along Earl B. Wilson Road. It was defended by a mobile C-RAM unit that included both a tracking system and a 20mm Gatling gun.
The weapon swiveled, appeared to sniff the air, and fired. There was an ominous buzzing sound as the cannon threw a curtain of shells into the air. Flashes signaled a series of hits as incoming mortar rounds were destroyed. That was comforting, but what lay beyond the C-RAM wasn’t.
Side channels led away from the waterway to serve specific businesses. And once the soldiers reached the end of the road, they were confronted with a badly damaged ribbon bridge. The span had taken a lot of hits during the fighting and was listing to the right. But it led to the peninsula where the Marauders were dug in. That meant Mac and her soldiers had to cross it or swim.
As Mac led her troops across the high side of the bridge, she was conscious of the fact that the enemy drones could be, and probably were, watching from above. And the truth of that assumption became evident as artillery shells began to arc overhead. The C-RAM was able to intercept most of them, but one round got through. It landed twenty yards south of the span and sent a column of muddy water soaring high into the air.
Mac felt a sense of relief as she left the bridge for solid ground. The feeling was short-lived, however, because she could hear the battle raging nearby. The chug, chug, chug of a .50 caliber machine gun could be heard in the distance and served as a counterpoint to the sharp crack of exploding rockets and the persistent bang, bang, bang of rifle fire.
“Hello, Major,” a voice said, as a ragged-looking soldier rose from the protection of a shell crater. “Welcome back.”
Mac stared. “It’s me,” the soldier said. “Private Temo. The captain sent me over to bring you in.”
Mac didn’t remember Temo but pretended that she did. “It’s good to see you, Private… Even if you look like hell.”
Temo laughed. The sound had a slightly hysterical quality. “We all do, ma’am… Please follow me.”
Temo led the column along a pathway, through a badly holed warehouse, and into the shipyard. A large ship had been removed from the channel and was perched at the top of a ramp-like spillway. Its superstructure was riddled with holes.
A brisk firefight was under way as the Marauders fired across the waterway, and the enemy responded in kind. “This is it,” Temo said, as they arrived at an open hatch. “Our HQ is located in the space down below.”
Temo disappeared down an aluminum ladder, and Mac followed. Lights dangled here and there, shadows played across the walls, and screams could be heard. “Sorry about that,” Temo said apologetically, as if Mac might find the sound to be offensive. “The aid station is over there… It gets noisy sometimes. Come on… I’ll take you to the captain.”
The headquarters group was working out of what had been a storage room. Munson stood as Mac entered, and a sergeant yelled, “Atten-hut!”
“As you were,” Mac said as she looked around. “What a shithole… Where’s the bar?”
Munson smiled weakly. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face was smeared with dirt, and he smelled like a goat. “I’m sorry, Major… I’ll submit a requisition for one.”
Mac felt a surge of concern. It didn’t take a degree in medicine to know that Munson was teetering on the edge of exhaustion. And that meant the troops were hurting, too. “Apology accepted,” she said with a grin. “Thanks for keeping the outfit together. Colonel Tompkins said a lot of nice things about you.”
That was a lie, but, judging from Munson’s expression, it was the right lie for the occasion. “That’s good to hear,” Munson said. “But our soldiers deserve all of the credit.”