Mac swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“I know you’re a mercenary,” the major said, “but I won’t tolerate slackness. If a meeting is scheduled for 0900, you will arrive on time or be penalized. My name is Granger. Have a seat. Now, where was I? Ah, yes… Our mission.
“The Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion consists of three companies at the moment. That includes a headquarters company under Captain Pearce, a scout company under Captain Olson’s leadership, and a Stryker company commanded by Captain Macintyre. Our job is to find the enemy, identify targets, and assess battle damage. The latter is more important than you might think because of the hazardous flying conditions.
“In addition, we’ll be called upon to participate in search-and-rescue missions, to support special-operations teams, and to assist the military police if that’s necessary.” Granger’s eyes roamed the room. “Do you have any questions?”
Captain Pearce wanted to know if she would get some additional staff, and Mac took the opportunity to sit down. The chair was next to Olson’s. He winked as if to say, “What a load of bullshit.” Olson had slicked-back hair, boyish good looks, and hazel eyes.
“What we need is a combination of speed and muscle,” Granger continued as he went over to an easel. “So let’s review the vehicles we have—and how they can support the overall mission.”
The presentation lasted for more than an hour. The plan was for Olson’s motorcycles, armed rat rods, and M1161 Growler Strike Vehicles to conduct lightning raids into enemy territory. As they pulled back, the Strykers would be there to support them.
That was fine with Mac, who had nothing to prove and no desire for glory. Her goal was to keep her people alive, make some money, and go home.
Over the next week, Mac learned that although Granger was a stickler for detail, he was fair and determined to succeed. To that end, he asked for and was granted permission to take the battalion out of Fort Knox and into the countryside for a series of exercises. Mac knew that the Marauders were in for some long, difficult days. But if the shit hit the fan, the training would pay off. Work began.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Sloan was sitting in the spacious green room backstage at the Arie Crown Theater. The 4,249-seat venue was part of the McCormick Place convention center located adjacent to Lake Michigan. Sloan knew that the room was packed with newly elected congressmen and -women, all of whom had been sworn in earlier in the day. Most were members of the Patriot Party, thank God. But Whigs were present, too… Lots of them. And because Speaker of the House Duncan was working with a thin majority, there would be trouble in the days ahead.
But this is now, Sloan reminded himself. First things first. Did Lemaire and his so-called “board of directors” agree to our offer? If not, the dying is about to begin. The door swung open, and Besom stuck his head in. “Interim Secretary of State Henderson is here, Mr. President.”
Sloan searched the press secretary’s face for any hint of what Henderson was going to tell him. There wasn’t any. So Henderson had chosen to keep the information to himself. “Please show him in.”
Henderson was balding, jowly, and short. Sloan had chosen him as Secretary of State because he was from the South, understood the culture, and had been the Assistant Secretary of State for Western Hemisphere Affairs prior to May 1. Sloan stood as the other man entered and went forward to shake hands with him. “Don’t keep me waiting, George… What did they say?”
The pain in Henderson’s eyes was obvious. “They said, ‘no,’ Mr. President. They claim to control a nation called the Confederacy of American States. And, according to them, the countries of Mexico, Cuba, and Haiti have formally recognized their government. I’m sorry, Mr. President. I know this is the last thing you wanted.”
Sloan looked away, swallowed, and forced his eyes back again. “Thank you, George. They’re waiting for me. I guess I’ll have to give them the news.”
Henderson nodded. “Tell them we tried… Tell them we’ll win.”
“I will,” Sloan promised, and made his way over to the door. Besom was waiting outside. Their eyes met. “Which script do you need, Mr. President? Number one? Or number two?”
“Two,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry, Doyle.”
Besom shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Don’t worry, Mr. President… Congress will back you.”
“They will tonight,” Sloan agreed. “But what about later? When the casualty reports come in? We’ll see.”
Sloan didn’t plan to use the script unless the teleprompter went down but accepted it anyway and followed a stagehand to the point where he could see Congressman Duncan. The Speaker of the House was stalling and thrilled to see Sloan from the corner of his eye. “And here,” Duncan said, “is the man you’ve been waiting for… Samuel T. Sloan, the President of the United States!”
A small band played “Hail to the Chief” as Sloan made his way out onto the stage, shook hands with Duncan, and went over to greet the newly named minority leader as well. That wasn’t necessary, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
The applause was thunderous, and understandably so, because in addition to members of the House, the Senate, and the reconstituted Supreme Court, more than three thousand citizens were present—all selected through a lottery. That was another one of Besom’s ideas—and it was sure to generate coverage in their hometowns. Sloan raised both hands. “Thank you… Thank you, very much… Please be seated.
“First,” Sloan said, as people took their seats, “I would like to congratulate all of our newly elected representatives and senators. Thank you for running… We are going to need your strength and wisdom during the days ahead.
“Second, please join me in a minute of silence as we remember the government workers both elected and unelected who lost their lives during the tragic events of May 1.”
A hush fell over the crowd as Sloan closed his eyes and counted to sixty. Everything seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare. But when he opened his eyes, the audience was still there. “Thank you.” His eyes sought and found the first line on the teleprompter. “I had hoped to bring you good news tonight. Sadly, that isn’t the case. Just before I came onstage, I received word that the so-called Confederacy of American States has chosen to secede from the Union.”
That produced a loud gasp of horror from the audience, a gabble of conversation, and a shout of, “God damn those bastards! We’ll take those states back!” The statement was met with a smattering of applause.
Sloan nodded. “I agree with the gentleman in the second row. To paraphrase the provisions of the Insurrection Act of 1807, as amended in 2006, the President of the United States has the power to suppress, in a state, any insurrection, domestic violence, unlawful combination, or conspiracy. And, ladies and gentlemen, that is precisely what I’m going to do!”
Members of the Patriot Party stood first… Soon followed by the Whigs, who, though less than enthusiastic about the prospect of a civil war, didn’t want to be seen as pro-Confederate. Even though many of them were. The applause lasted for the better part of a minute before Sloan raised his hands, and the politicians took their seats.
“This is not the end of our country’s story,” Sloan told them. “It’s the start of a new chapter… And one that will eventually lead to a happy ending. Tonight, I will instruct all branches of the federal government, including the military, to take all actions necessary to regain control of those states that signed the articles of secession. And I will direct them to do so with an eye to minimizing casualties on both sides.