“My staff will work with leaders from both parties to initiate, review, and pass the legislation required to support the unification effort. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting all the new members of Congress at the reception later this evening. Thank you for your support—and may God bless America.”
The audience stood, and the walls of the theater shook in response to the applause. Sloan waved as he left the stage, hurried past Besom, and entered the men’s room. That was where he threw up. He believed that America would rise again… But he knew that a lot of people would have to die first.
NEAR MILLERSTOWN, KENTUCKY
The unincorporated town of Millerstown, Kentucky, consisted of cleared farmland, mixed with sizeable patches of timber, all separated by a crisscrossing maze of country roads. There were hills, too, along with lots of streams and rivers. That made the area ideal for war games even if the local inhabitants didn’t like to have vehicles churning up their fields and spooking their animals. However, given the extent to which the consistently bad weather had ruined their crops, a timely visit from the battalion’s paymaster went a long way toward easing the pain.
A smear of sunlight was visible through a thin layer of bruised-looking clouds—and a cold breeze caused the pennant flying from one-two’s aerial to snap every now and then. The Stryker was parked on a logging road that ran parallel to the paved road below and was partially screened by trees.
“War games” was a misnomer, of course. That’s what Major Granger said. He preferred the term “military simulation.” And in this case a simulation of what military theorists referred to as “maneuver warfare.” The goal was to defeat the enemy by limiting its ability to make good decisions.
Theoretically, that could be achieved by attacking command and control centers, supply depots, and fire-support assets. Under normal circumstances, airpower would play an important role in accomplishing those objectives. But since foul weather was keeping a lot of fixed-wing aircraft on the ground, the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion would have to fill the gap. Mac’s thoughts were interrupted as Munroe spoke. “Here they come,” the RTO said. “And, according to Bravo-Six, the enemy is catching up.”
Mac was standing near Charlie One-Four’s engine and enjoying the heat it produced. She swiveled her glasses to the south. The highway was empty at first. Then she heard the roar of engines, and three off-road motorcycles appeared. The lead bike, the one that Olson normally rode, performed a wheelie as it went by. That was the sort of thing Mac had come to expect of Bravo Company’s CO. But somehow, in spite of the fact that Mac didn’t like show-offs, the combination of bravado and boyish charm was starting to grow on her. Focus, Mac told herself. Pay attention.
The next vehicles to pass Charlie Company’s position were so-called rat rods which, unlike hot rods, were anything but pretty. Function ruled form, and the function was war. Olson’s crudely modified vehicles were armed with machine guns, grenade launchers, and, in one case, an M252 mortar bolted into the bed of a pickup. They were followed by a squad of army Growlers reminiscent of WWII jeeps.
“This is Six,” Mac said into her mike. “The enemy is coming on fast… Check to ensure that your weapons are clear—and that the safeties are on. Your cameras should be rolling. Over.”
Mac heard a flurry of affirmative clicks as she watched the road. The first “enemy” vehicle to appear was a Humvee. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Let the Humvee pass… Bravo Company will be lying in wait for it up the road. Over.”
The next vehicle was a Bradley. It arrived a full minute after the Humvee was gone. “This is Six,” Mac said. “Hold, hold, hold. Let’s get as many units into the kill zone as we can. All right… Fire!”
None of the Strykers fired. But later, when Granger and the rest of the brass reviewed the video, Charlie Company’s victory would be obvious. Positioned where they were, the cannon-equipped Stryker MGS M128s would have obliterated the Bradleys. Mac turned to Munroe. “Contact the enemy and tell them this: ‘Bang, you’re dead.’”
It was cold in the barn, but the walls offered some respite from the wind, a place for two-two’s mechanics to work on the Stryker’s faulty fuel pump. Mac didn’t know how to make the repair but had decided to learn, much to the amusement of her wrench turners. There was more to it than that, of course. Her presence meant a lot to them.
The repair was nearly complete when Olson entered the barn carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He knew all of the mechanics by name, could tell what they were doing at a glance, and immediately offered to hire them. They ate it up.
That annoyed Mac for two reasons. First, good mechanics were hard to find, and she couldn’t afford to lose any. Second, how did Olson manage to make everything look so effortless? She felt awkward by comparison.
Mac was wiping oil off her hands as Olson ambled over. “Hey, Robin… I brought you some coffee.”
“Robin.” When was the last time she’d heard someone call her that? Back at JBLM, most likely. And why was Olson using her first name? Given that last names were the standard way to address someone in the army? Lighten up, the voice said. It’s no big deal.
“Thanks,” Mac said as she accepted the mug. “Come on… We can sit in my office.” She led Olson to the bench seat that was all that remained of a long-gone truck. It was positioned against a stall.
“Nice,” Olson said as he sat down. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
Mac sat next to him. “Thanks. So what’s on your mind?”
“I was up at the house when Granger got the word. This shit is for real.”
Mac heard herself say, “I’m sorry to hear that.” But was that entirely true? She’d been expecting it. Everyone had. And the sense of foreboding was real. But what about the slight tinge of excitement? Because wrong though it might be—there was part of her that enjoyed combat. A biochemical gift from her father perhaps.
Whatever the reason, Mac didn’t feel as sorry as she should have. She sipped some coffee. It was laced with rum. “How do you feel about that, Ross? Do you want to fight?”
The other officer shrugged. “It’s what the army trained me to do… And it’s what I get paid for.”
“That’s it? You don’t care which side you fight for?”
“I do care,” Olson responded. “I think what the Confederates are doing is wrong. But I’m a mercenary now, and it doesn’t make sense to get emotionally involved.”
That was similar to how Mac felt. She hoped the North would win but had doubts about its capacity to do so and was trying to remain objective. “Yeah,” Mac agreed. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“So,” Olson said, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a barn like this?”
“Is that a come-on?”
“Do you want it to be?”
“No.”
Olson grinned. “Okay… It isn’t.” And with that, he got up and walked away. Mac felt as if an opportunity had been lost. But an opportunity for what? To be Olson’s plaything? Because she was the only eligible woman in the battalion? That was the sort of opportunity she could live without. Mac got up. There was work to do—and lots of it. Mac’s Marauders were going to war.