Bo heard intermittent bursts of gunfire as unspent rounds of ammunition cooked off in the burning vehicles. Tiny figures limped north. Some were carrying stretchers, and Bo wondered if he knew some of them. Probably. Not that it mattered. He turned his back on the scene and walked away. A battle had been won. Others waited to be fought.
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The Strykers left at precisely 0630. There was a hint of light in the east, and Mac could see her breath, as she stood in the DOOBY DO’s forward hatch. Strykers came in a variety of flavors, and the DOOBY was an ESV, which stood for Engineer Squad Vehicle. A tractor-style blade was mounted on the front of the truck. And, based on previous experience, Mac knew the specially equipped vic could be useful for pushing stalled cars out of the way, something that might come up. Ten Strykers were lined up behind the ESV. The rest were at the very tail end of the column, where, should it be necessary, they could turn and fight.
Meanwhile, an air force Predator drone was flying ahead, searching for any signs of a blockage or ambush. Thousands of feet higher, a pair of F-15 Eagles had been assigned to provide air cover. And that was important in case the AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) plane circling to the south detected enemy aircraft. All of which was good. So, Mac asked herself, why am I worried?
Because you’re always worried, her inner voice replied. No one can move a brigade without someone noticing. How will the rebs respond?
The question went unanswered as the ESV threaded its way through narrow streets and followed an on-ramp up onto I-10. It was a squeeze point, and Mac wouldn’t have been surprised to encounter trouble there. But the way was clear, and traffic was light. That made Mac feel optimistic as the DOOBY’s TC drove along the elevated section of I-10 that bordered Lake Pontchartrain on the right.
After ten minutes or so, the freeway veered to the northwest, and Mac turned to look back. The good news was that her Strykers were maintaining the correct intervals. The bad news was that they couldn’t exceed 30 mph without leaving the Marine amtracks behind.
Mac’s thoughts were interrupted by a bright flash of light and a thunderous BOOM. The noise came as a shock. Mac felt a stab of fear and was glad that no one could see her face. Don’t feel, think, Mac told herself.
By some miracle, none of her vehicles were damaged by the blast. It blew a big chunk out of I-10, however, and more explosions followed. One of them was behind her. Mac turned to see that a huge crater was blocking the way. The DOOBY’s truck commander stomped on the brakes, and the ESV jerked to a stop.
There was all sorts of radio chatter by then, but Mac’s attention was elsewhere. Her responsibility was to think before giving a command but to do it quickly. What caused the explosions? IEDs? No, Mac didn’t think so. Because a bomb-disposal team had been sent out to check the highway an hour earlier.
What then? Not aircraft… The AWACS plane would have warned them about that. What remained? Cruise missiles, that’s what… Fired by a Confederate sub somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico!
Okay, but why? Cruise missiles cost more than a million each. So the Confederates had spent more than eight mil attacking the convoy so far. That was a very expensive way to destroy a column of vehicles. Unless there was another purpose. What if the rebs were attempting to chop the brigade up into smaller pieces? So they could defeat it in detail? A variation on the old divide-and-conquer strategy. Mac keyed her radio. “This is Marauder-Six. Prepare to receive infantry attacks from both the left and right flanks. Over.”
No sooner had Mac spoken than mortar rounds began to fall on the road. Each explosion produced a crumping sound, a geyser of asphalt, and a hail of shrapnel. The fire appeared to be coming from the Maurepas Swamp on her right. And as Mac looked back, she saw that the Marine amphibs were under attack as well.
Walters was calling for the Zoomies by then, and Mac hoped the planes were carrying full loads of rockets and bombs. If so, they would be able to suppress the mortar fire in short order.
But Mac had a more immediate problem to deal with as Confederate soldiers began to fire on the column from the tree line on her right. “Cross over to the other side of the freeway!” she ordered. “And turn toward the enemy. Keep your vics low, but make sure your weapons can fire on the woods. Over.”
Wheels spun as the ESV crossed the median and turned. Like most highways, I-10 was higher in the middle so that water would run off and into the ditches that bordered both sides. So once the Strykers had taken up their new positions, all the enemy soldiers could see was the top third of each vehicle. “Hit ’em hard,” Mac ordered. “Over.”
Mac wanted to check on the rest of her command at that point but couldn’t as dozens of rebel soldiers emerged from the tree line, ran forward, and took cover in the newly created craters. Bullets rattled against the DOOBY’s armor as the ESV’s 40mm grenade launcher began to chug. The vic’s gunner could see the enemy on her remote-weapons-system screen and fire without exposing herself. A line of explosions marched along the highway, and the volume of incoming fire began to drop off.
Mac continued to fire short bursts from the pintle-mounted machine gun. It wasn’t bravery so much as a single-minded determination to get the job done. Then something struck the back of Mac’s knees. That caused her legs to buckle, and she fell into the cargo compartment below.
Mac was pissed… And that must have been visible on her face because medic Larry Moody raised a hand. “Don’t give me any shit, Major… This ain’t no movie, and you sure as hell aren’t John Wayne.”
Moody had a tendency to be outspoken at times and occasionally insubordinate. But he was the best medic in Mac’s battalion, and at more than two hundred pounds, a hard man to ignore. “I’m going to court-martial your ass,” Mac told him, as bullets continued to ping the Stryker’s armor.
“It’s too late for that,” Moody replied. “They already did! And you got me out of prison. So I may be a fuckup, but I’m your fuckup. Live with it.”
Mac grinned. “Yeah… Thanks.”
Both of them looked up at the ceiling as the Stryker shook, and a dull boom was heard. It was the F-15s! Providing close ground support.
Mac stuck her head up through the hatch just in time to see black smoke billow up into the sky. A second run followed the first. Then a combined force of Marines and soldiers swept past. The ensuing firefight lasted for fifteen minutes, and by the time it was over, the surviving Confederates had been forced back into the swamp. The drone operators had failed to spot them. Why? Because shit happens, that’s why. Maybe it was negligence. Or maybe the rebs were good at concealment.
Sadly, two Strykers and two Stryker crews had been lost along with an amtrack carrying twenty-one people. Had the Confederates won? Or had they lost? Judging from the number of bodies that lay scattered about, Mac felt sure that the enemy had suffered most of the casualties. But the Union Army had been delayed. And maybe, in rebel minds, that was a victory.
Casualties were loaded onto helicopters for transportation to the navy hospital ship a few minutes away in New Orleans. Then the convoy got under way again. It was midmorning by then, and everyone felt jittery. Mac was no exception. What else did the rebs have up their sleeves?