Rather than give them a target, Mac chose to ride inside one-three’s mostly empty cargo bay. She could hear occasional pings as bullets flattened themselves on the Stryker’s armor. That didn’t bother her but would scare the crap out the people in the unarmored tanker and the M35s. It couldn’t be helped, however… All she could do was hope for the best.
Even though the truck commander swore that they were doing a steady 50 mph, which was damned good given the conditions, Mac wanted to go even faster… And it took a lot of self-discipline to keep from checking on the convoy’s position every five minutes. So it came as a relief when the TC announced that Shelbyville lay just ahead.
Mac ordered the fueler to the front of the column before telling all the other drivers to pull over. “Top off your tanks,” she instructed, “and pull forward. Make sure that at least one weapon in every vehicle is manned,” she told them. “Pee if you need to, but don’t go more than twenty feet off the highway to do it. And pee quickly… We won’t be here for long. Sergeant Poole, meet me at one-three, and let’s get to work.”
Mac had the footlocker open by the time the ramp went down, and Poole arrived with two privates. “Grab some spray paint and flags,” Mac told them. “It’s time to redecorate.”
The idea had occurred to Mac when she saw Pearce’s people stuffing trophy flags into a garbage bag. By covering all of the Union designators with beige paint and flying Confederate flags from every antenna, they might be able to convince the rebs that the convoy belonged to them. And why not? Both sides were using the same kinds of vehicles and were dressed in nearly identical uniforms.
Once the changes were made, Mac ordered everyone to “mount up,” and the convoy got under way. Shelbyville had a population of sixteen thousand people. And as the “Confederate” military vehicles rolled through, the locals came out to wave. “Smile at them,” Mac said over the radio, “and honk your horns.”
They did, and the column of vehicles was able pass through town without being shot at. The good luck held as the convoy snaked through Fayetteville and across the border into Alabama. Then, in order to avoid Huntsville and the Redstone Arsenal located nearby, Mac ordered the lead Buffalo to turn west. The extraction team rolled onto I-65 south with flags flying.
Meanwhile, based on the reports that Munroe was receiving, the heavies had been able to establish a firebase just north of the state line. But tanks and the soldiers sent to protect them were attracting so many rebs that they might have to pull back. If that occurred, Mac’s line of retreat would vanish.
Mac forced herself to ignore that possibility as the blood-red sun arced across the sky, and the column continued south. Everything went smoothly until Munroe received a message from HQ. Based on video captured by the Predator drone that was scouting ahead of them—a Confederate roadblock was blocking the freeway north of Birmingham. Perhaps it was a routine affair—or maybe it had been set up to stop the convoy. The reason didn’t matter.
What did matter was the need to break through, and the fact that if they managed to do so, their disguise wouldn’t work anymore. But all good things must come to an end, Mac told herself, as she stuck her head and shoulders up through the hatch. It had to happen. “This is Six actual,” she said, over the radio. “Shoot anyone who fires at you. Over.”
The checkpoint was a well-organized affair, with two lanes for civilians and an express lane for military vehicles. On orders from Mac, the first Buffalo began to accelerate as Confederate MPs sought to flag them down. The fifty-six-thousand-pound truck collided with the back end of a Humvee and sent the vehicle flying end over end. It landed on its roof, and sparks flew as it screeched to a stop. The Buf blew past. Rebel troops opened up on the rest of the vehicles as they followed. Mac and the rest of the gunners fired back. The engagement was over less than a minute later.
Mac knew what would happen next. The rebs would pull out all of the stops to block the convoy. And, since they were still 230 miles away from Richton, it was going to get hairy. A knot formed in her stomach.
They were doing 60 mph as they left Birmingham on I-20/59. Mac eyed the lead-gray sky. They had no air cover other than the Predator. And she was well aware of the fact that a single A-10 could grease her tiny command in a matter of minutes. But the ceiling was low, and that might keep planes on the ground. Luck would play a big role in what happened next.
Fifteen minutes later, word came in that two tanks and a whole lot of infantry were waiting for them in Tuscaloosa. And there was no speedy way to bypass the city. “I have two Hellfire missiles hanging on my Pred,” the drone operator told her. “I’ll take care of the big stuff. The rest of it belongs to you.”
As they entered town, Mac saw thick columns of black smoke ahead and knew the pilot had kept his promise. After passing the burning hulks, the convoy came under small-arms fire. What sounded like hail rattled against the Stryker’s hull as Mac fired back. Empty brass flew sideways, bounced, and hit the road.
But the rebs had something more serious up their sleeves. The officer in charge had placed AT4 teams on overpasses, where they could fire down on the Union vehicles! Mac swore as a rocket struck the lead Buffalo’s windshield and exploded. With no hands on the wheel, the enormous vehicle careened across the freeway and slammed into a concrete embankment. Fuel spilled and went up in flames. Mac shouted into her mike. “Those are unguided missiles! Take evasive action!”
MISS WASHINGTON swerved left and right, a rocket flew past, and Mac heard rather than saw the resulting explosion. There was no time to think about it as six motorcycles entered the freeway. Each bike carried two riders. A driver and a gunner. The gunners were armed with stubby M320 grenade launchers. They were single-shot weapons—but one hit from a high-explosive round could destroy the fueler.
“Protect the tanker!” Mac ordered. Working as a team, two Strykers pulled forward to shield both sides of the vulnerable fueler. Grenades exploded as they struck the birdcages that protected the trucks. The motorcyclists paid a heavy price as the convoy’s gunners fired on them. Mac saw a bike tip over, slide, and block another machine, which did a complete somersault. The driver landed on his head.
Then, as quickly as they’d entered the trap, the Union soldiers broke free of it. Mac’s thoughts were on the soldiers in Buf one, and their families in Arizona. How many of her Marauders were going to die? It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Sparks… Get Richton on the horn. Tell them that we’re three hours out—and to package the worst casualties for transport in the Strykers. The rest of the Rangers will ride in the trucks. They can bring medical gear, personal weapons, and ammo. Nothing more. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Munroe answered. And as he went to work, Mac’s thoughts turned to the task ahead. The airport was surrounded… How could she break through the Confederates? And do so quickly? What she needed was a club. A big club… But what? Then the answer came to her… Would the brass authorize it for her? No, probably not. But would they do it for the President of the United States? Hell yes, they would. Mac smiled.
CHAPTER 12
No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.
RICHTON, MISSISSIPPI
Sloan and those who still had strength enough were enlarging the bunker by hand. It was a team effort. One Ranger would use a pick to break chunks of mud off a wall, another would load them onto a shelter half, and a third would drag the load up the ramp for disposal. There were four teams, and it was hard for them to stay out of each other’s way.