Thanks to the first sergeant, and the rest of the NCOs, significant progress had been made during the night. And Mac took pride in the fact that their bivouac was well organized even if the surrounding encampment was a gigantic shit show.
The company’s scroungers had been able to steal two dozen pallets somewhere. They’d been used to create an elevated sidewalk that ran between the first-aid station and the HQ tent. “Nice job,” Mac said. “Now I can wear my high heels to work.”
Her voice was intentionally loud so that all of the soldiers working on the project could hear. The line got a laugh, just as it was intended to, and would make the rounds soon. It was easy and made Mac feel guilty.
Ralston was exhausted, and she could see it on his face when he forced a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. We have to show these other outfits how it’s done. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith is an accomplished thief.”
Smith was standing a few feet away. He smiled. “Thanks, Top… I love you, too.”
Mac chuckled. “It’s time for you to grab some shut-eye, Sergeant Ralston, and that’s an order. Sergeant Smith can take charge here. Once I find Sparks, I’m headed for HQ.”
“I’m here,” Munroe announced, and Mac turned to find that the radio operator was standing behind her. Together, they made their way out to the point where their chunk of real estate fronted George S. Patton Avenue. If the stretch of churned-up mud could be dignified as such.
The duty driver was a private named Isley. He was slouched behind the wheel of a Humvee—listening to music through a pair of earbuds. When Isley saw Mac, he made the buds disappear. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning,” Mac replied as she settled into the passenger seat. “Do you know where HQ is?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Take me there.”
As Isley navigated his way through the untidy maze of bivouacs, Mac had a chance to eyeball some of the other units that had been assembled for whatever it was that Sloan had in mind. At one time or another, she saw tanks, a field hospital, com wagons, a wrecker, half a dozen fuel tankers, a clutch of infantry carriers, a pair of medevac vehicles, and a smoke-generator-equipped recon vehicle that was sitting all by its lonely self. The whole thing was FUBAR. Or so it seemed to Mac.
Once they arrived, Mac saw a sign that read: 2ND EXPEDITIONARY FORCE. She got out, told Isley to wait, and followed a lieutenant inside. Then Mac had to trudge from desk to desk, and from corporal to corporal, showing the company’s contract to each one—and answering the same questions over and over. Each stop meant that at least one form had to be filled out, and Munroe offered to pitch in. That was a big help—and cut the process down to an hour and a half.
Finally, after clearing the last desk, Mac was sent into an office with plywood walls. A haggard-looking lieutenant colonel was seated behind a table strewn with paperwork. The hand-printed tent card in front of her read: LT. COL. COLBY.
Colby wore her mostly gray hair in a bun. Her close-set eyes were like chips of obsidian. And she had a cold, judging from how red her long, thin nose was. Mac came to attention, stated her rank followed by the name of her unit. She finished with, “Reporting for duty, ma’am.”
Colby blew her nose with a handkerchief and made a face. “It’s impossible to find Kleenex anymore,” she complained. “And that’s a sure sign that the country is going to hell in a handcart. Macintyre, huh? I used to know a general named Macintyre… Any relation?”
Mac swallowed. “My father, ma’am.”
Colby had overplucked eyebrows. They rose incrementally. “Are you aware that he’s fighting for the Confederacy? In fact, from what I’ve heard, he’s one of their most important generals.”
Mac wasn’t aware. Ever since the visit to the house near Kuna, Idaho, she’d wondered where he was and what he was doing. But the possibility that he might side with the Confederacy hadn’t occurred to her. It should have, though… The New Order’s brand of Darwinian politics would appeal to him. Survival of the fittest. That was the essence of Bo Macintyre’s personal and political perspective. Mac remembered how he had stood, hands on hips, after she took a spill. “Never wait for a helping hand,” he told her. “Take care of yourself.”
“No, ma’am,” Mac said as she stared into coal-black eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, this war is going to divide a lot of families,” Colby predicted. “But enough of that… Let’s get you checked in.”
After skimming Mac’s contract and reviewing the paperwork the multitude of corporals had prepared, Colby signed two identical documents and handed one to Mac. “There you go… Your unit is on the payroll… The next step is to visit Major Renky. He’ll set up a draw for your company.”
“A what?”
“A draw… Meaning an account you can use to draw supplies. Payment is due on the last day of each month. Please remember that if you’re more than thirty days in arrears, the government has the right to seize all of your equipment, including your vehicles. And, since you have a cavalry unit, you won’t be able to fulfill the terms of your contract without them. That would trigger standard clause 32b.”
The air around Mac was chilly, but she was starting to sweat. She’d read the contract and knew that Marauders would have to buy supplies, but clause 32b? No, nothing came to mind. “I’m sorry, ma’am… Please remind me of what’s in clause 32b.”
Colby blew her nose. Her thin lips looked even thinner when she smiled. “Clause 32b states that if a unit loses the means to fulfill the terms of its contract, all members of said unit who were on active duty as of May 1 this year will automatically revert to active status in the branch of the military to which they previously belonged. So if you want to be a mercenary, be sure to pay your bills. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
Mac took notice of the way in which Colby had mentioned her real rank. An indication that the 2nd Expeditionary Force had at least some predisaster personnel records. “Yes, ma’am. Very clear, ma’am.”
“Good. Go see Major Renky… Oh, and one more thing.”
“Ma’am?”
“If you run into your father, shoot him in the face.”
The Marauders spent the next two days performing deferred maintenance on the unit’s vehicles, their bodies, and their uniforms—all of which were filthy. Fortunately, some local entrepreneurs were running an off-base laundry service that offered pickup and delivery.
Mac also held meetings about the need for cost control—and made Smith responsible for staying on budget. Would the supply sergeant send scroungers out to “requisition” “free” parts in the middle of the night? Of course he would. And Mac planned to ignore it.
On the morning of the third day, Mac was sitting in the HQ tent reading the sick-call report when a rain-drenched private entered. “I’m from battalion HQ,” he announced. “I have a message for Captain Macintyre.”
“That would be me,” Mac replied. “Battalion HQ? What battalion?”
“The one you’re part of,” the private answered, as he proffered an envelope. After reading the contents, Mac discovered that not only was she a member of the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion, she was in command of Charlie Company and expected to attend a command briefing that was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes! And she was supposed to bring her XO.
After hurrying to don a clean uniform and telling Private Isley to “Step on it,” Mac and Ralston were still ten minutes late when they entered the large tent. A dozen people were seated on folding chairs, and the major who was standing at the far end of the conference table paused in midsentence. His carefully combed hair was graying, his nose was slightly bent, and his blue eyes were clear. “Well, well… Captain Macintyre, I presume.”