She raised her assault rifle and was going to shoot Olson, when Munroe did it for her. Buckshot from his shotgun hit Olson’s legs and dumped the mercenary onto the pavement. His weapon skittered away as Mac went forward to stare down at him. Their eyes met. Olson’s face was screwed up in pain. “Robin? Hey, hon, how ’bout some first aid? I’m bleeding to death.”
Mac nodded. “That’s too bad.”
Olson spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re a stone-cold bitch… Just like your sister.”
Mac frowned. “You know Victoria?”
Olson had freed his belt by then—and was wrapping it around a thigh. “Yes, I do. She paid us to come over and double-crossed us when we did.”
Mac smiled thinly. “That sounds like my big sis.”
Olson made a face as he pulled the tourniquet tight. “Give me your belt,” he demanded. “For the other leg.”
“Sorry,” Mac replied. “I need my belt. It’s holding my pants up.”
Olson’s face was contorted with anger. “I screwed your sister.”
Mac nodded as she brought the rifle up. “And she screwed you.”
There was a loud bang, and half of Olson’s face disappeared. “I saw that!” one of the Rats yelled. “You murdered him!”
The blood drained out of the man’s face as the weapon swiveled around to point at him. “Not so,” Mac replied calmly. “My rifle went off by accident.”
“That’s how it looked to me,” Munroe confirmed.
“I’ll have the company armorer look at it,” Poole put in. “Maybe you need a new trigger assembly.” His soldiers chuckled.
Mac waited for the wave of remorse. It never arrived. She felt empty… sad and empty. An engine roared as one of the Strykers pulled up next to her. Sergeant Ralston jumped down. “The prisoners are on the trucks, ma’am. We took two casualties. Doc Obbie says both of them are going to make it.”
“Good. Search the prisoners for weapons and load them up. We need to get out of here pronto.”
Ralston responded, “Roger that,” and went to work. The Apaches continued to circle overhead as Mac returned to MISS WASHINGTON and climbed aboard. Victoria. They would meet one day… And one of them was going to die.
RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI
The President of the United States was sleeping in a ditch six feet away from General Abbot’s unburied corpse. His eyes flew open as cold raindrops hit his face and trickled down his cheeks. A flash of light was followed by a loud boom as something struck the center of the compound. Lightning? Thunder? No. It was an incoming 81mm mortar round. The rebs fired one at the same spot every fifteen minutes. The purpose of the ritual was to prevent the Rangers from sleeping, and the plan was a success.
Sloan eyed his watch. It was 0947 on the fourth day of hell. General Abbott had been killed the day before, leaving Major McKinney in command. All because Sloan had been stupid enough to believe that he could use a shortcut to win the war. General Hern was correct… There was only one way to whip the Confederacy… And that was to push them back foot by bloody foot until they were ass deep in the Gulf of Mexico.
Sloan forced himself to roll over and stand. Sheets of rain were falling by then, and his uniform was covered with mud. He barely noticed as he followed the trench toward the bunker. Sloan heard the crack of a rifle shot as a Union sniper fired—followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire as enemy bullets raked the top of the berm. He was too tired to look back.
A ramp led him down into the stinking hole where the battalion surgeon and his medics were laboring to save as many lives as they could. Everything was in short supply—and that included blood volume expanders, dressings, and painkillers. Sloan heard a man groan as he followed the dangling flashlights past the aid station to the command center beyond. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots as he entered the room. McKinney was sitting on an ammo crate with a handset to his ear. He looked up, nodded, and pointed to a chair. “Yes, sir… Tomorrow by 1500. That sounds good. We’ll save some rebs for the relief force to shoot at. Over.”
And with that, McKinney gave the handset to his RTO. “Good news, Mr. President… Colonel Foster believes the lead element of his relief force will arrive by midafternoon tomorrow.”
Sloan was sitting on a lawn chair with the assault rifle laid across his knees. “He believes? Or he knows?”
McKinney shrugged. “He believes that he knows… How’s that?”
Sloan chuckled. “Can we hold on long enough for that?”
McKinney nodded. “Of course… This is our shit hole, and we’re going to hold it until we’re ready to leave.”
Sloan was reminded of what Abbott had said in response to the same question. He shook his head in mock despair. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”
McKinney grinned. “Look who’s talking, sir.”
A mortar round landed above them, and dirt showered their heads. Both of them laughed.
NEAR MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE
“We broke through. The rebs had to pull back.” That’s what Major Granger told Mac when she returned to the school. Captain Pearce and her staff had finished packing their gear and were loading it onto a truck as the two of them spoke.
“That means we can send a convoy south,” Granger continued. “Except that it isn’t a relief force anymore. General Abbott was killed in action, and there’s no way in hell that her plan will work. So we’re sending an extraction team instead. But the opportunity to pull our people out of Richton won’t last for long. Confederate reinforcements are on the way… And in a day, two at most, they’ll roll over the airhead and erase it. That’s where you and your people come in. I’m sorry to send you out so soon—but Charlie Company is all I have to work with at the moment.”
Mac felt a sense of relief. Granger was all business. If the major knew about Olson’s fate, which he almost certainly did, he’d chosen to ignore it. And that was fine with her. “Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “You can count on us.”
“Good,” Granger replied as he opened a map. “Here’s how it’s going to work. The relief force will rely on speed and brute force to get through. Wheeled vehicles can travel faster—so they’ll take the lead. You’ll have two Buffalo Cougars on point. They’ll trigger any mines or IEDs that have been planted along the highway. Your Strykers will come next, followed by transportation for the Rangers.
“The heavies, including a company of tanks, will bring up the rear. Their job is to protect your line of retreat. But you’ll outrun them pretty quickly. Then you’ll be on your own.”
“Why not bring the president out by air?” Mac inquired.
“For the same reason we can’t resupply the airhead,” Granger answered. “The airport is surrounded by AA batteries. Plus, the president said that if a helo managed to get through, he’d refuse to board it unless all the Rangers come with him.”
“The airborne idea was stupid,” Mac observed, “but he’s staying with the troops. I like that.”
Granger nodded. “The president ain’t perfect, but he’s worth saving, so get your butt in gear.”
That had been four hours earlier. Mac’s temporary command consisted of two Buffalos, six Strykers, a tanker loaded with twenty-five hundred gallons of fuel, and six M35 trucks. Fifteen vehicles in all. Since the convoy’s departure US Route 231 had been “prepped” by A-10s and Apache helicopters. That allowed the quick-moving column to thread its way through a maze of still-smoldering vehicles even as they took sporadic fire from rebel troops.