Meanwhile, the rebs continued to probe various sections of the perimeter and drop mortar rounds into the compound. Sloan didn’t wonder if he was going to die in Richton. The question was when. And the sooner, the better. He was swinging a pick when the order went out: “Pull back from the berm! Get into the bunker! Cover your heads!”
Sloan didn’t have to enter the bunker since he was already in it. He turned his back to the wall and sat in the mud. Men crowded in around him as McKinney and his officers sought to pack everyone into the underground retreat. A lieutenant called out a number as each person entered. That was followed by a crisp, “Everyone is present or accounted for, sir!”
“Roger that,” McKinney said, from somewhere nearby. “Incoming! Cover your heads!”
Nothing happened. Ten long seconds dragged by. The chaplain was praying. “‘Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we fear no eviclass="underline" for thou art with us; thy rod and thy staff they comfort us.’” What was happening up above? Were rebs preparing to enter the compound? Sloan hoped so.
Sloan felt the earth move as the first of what was to be six submarine-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles landed outside the berm. All Sloan could hear was a muted thump as the thousand-pound warhead detonated.
The bunker’s roof consisted of wood salvaged from an outbuilding and covered with two feet of dirt. Some of that soil filtered down to dust the tops of their heads as more missiles left their tubes out in the Gulf of Mexico, arched high into the sky, and fell at a steep angle.
Taken together, the resulting explosions were calculated to create a 360-degree swath of destruction around the firebase, thereby opening a hole for the extraction team. A cheer went up with each additional strike, and after the last impact, McKinney spoke. “Let’s hear it, Rangers! Three cheers for the United States Navy!”
The response was a heartfelt, if not entirely respectfuclass="underline" “Swabbies! Swabbies! Swabbies!”
“All right,” McKinney told them, “the first platoon will go up and reestablish the perimeter. The second platoon will stand by to load casualties. The extraction team is due to arrive five from now. Go!”
Sloan followed a Ranger up onto the surface, where he paused to inhale some moist air. It was pitch-black, so he couldn’t see the destruction the missiles had inflicted, but there was no incoming fire. Not a single shot. That spoke for itself. A distant voice could be heard calling for a medic… And that meant some of the rebs were still alive.
“Here they come!” someone yelled, and Sloan saw headlights approaching from the west. They were taped, to reduce the amount of light they threw, and seemed to wander as the column made its way through what resembled a moonscape. A spotlight came on as a vehicle with a dozer blade hit the berm and pushed its way into the compound. The evacuation had begun.
Sloan took one end of a stretcher and helped carry a badly wounded Ranger toward a large vehicle with eight wheels. A female army captain was directing traffic, and when Sloan tripped, she moved in to support him. “Careful, Private… Watch where you step.”
That was when McKinney appeared out of the gloom. “The private is the President of the United States, Captain Macintyre.”
“Sorry, Mr. President,” the captain said. “But watch where you step.”
Sloan grinned as Macintyre helped load the patient onto GLORY BOY. Once the task was accomplished, they stepped aside to let another stretcher pass. The wash from a cargo light fell across her face. And as Sloan looked at Macintyre, he was struck by the thick mop of brown hair, the officer’s steady eyes, and her softly rounded features. She didn’t look like a warrior—not to him anyway. But her name had been mentioned more than once during the last twenty-four hours, and Sloan realized that he was face-to-face with the officer in command of the extraction team. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” Macintyre responded. “I hear they call you ‘the fighting president.’ That’s good, because we’ll have to kick some ass in order to make it home.” And with that, she was gone.
The evacuation was supposed to take thirty minutes, but the better part of an hour had elapsed by the time the last Rangers were pulled back off the berm and loaded into trucks. Mac was standing near the back end of an M35, talking to Sergeant Ralston, when Major McKinney appeared. A taillight threw a reddish glow across McKinney’s face. “There you are,” he said. “I have orders for you.”
Mac felt mixed emotions. She liked being on her own in many ways. And orders, any orders, would limit her freedom. Of course, orders could protect her as well. Especially when the shit hit the fan. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” McKinney said. “Shortly after the column departs, it will split into three elements. Here’s a list of the vehicles in each element—and the routes they’re supposed to follow.
“You’ll be in charge of Element Alpha,” McKinney said, as he gave Ralston a piece of paper. “Your orders are to go back the way you came, hook up with the heavies, and accompany them back to our lines.
“I will lead Element Bravo up Highway 15,” McKinney added, as he turned to Macintyre, “while you take the president north on Highway 45.”
Mac frowned. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Go for it.”
“Does dividing our force by three make sense? Wouldn’t it be better to keep everyone together?”
“Normally, I would say, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “But there’s nothing normal about this situation. Our most important objective is to get the president home in one piece.”
Mac felt a rising sense of anger. “So you’re going to use the Rangers, and most of my command, as decoys.”
“In a word, ‘yes,’” McKinney replied. “We’re at war, Captain… And the president’s life is worth more than mine, yours, or Sergeant Ralston’s.”
Mac looked at Ralston. She knew his wife and his children. He nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Mac felt a lump form in her throat and struggled to swallow it. “And the president? What does he think of your plan?”
“He doesn’t know about it,” McKinney answered evenly. “And that’s the way it’s going to remain until the elements part company. Then, when you think the time is right, you can tell him.”
“Excuse me, but that’s going to be a problem, sir… According to what I heard, Sloan prides himself on being with the troops. He’ll have you court-martialed.”
McKinney frowned. “Do you think I give a shit? I left the army, and I came back to serve my country. It needs Sloan. Yes, following General Abbott’s advice was a mistake. But that’s how it goes. Lincoln placed his trust in McClellan, and we know how that turned out. Lincoln won the war, though… Besides, who among us hasn’t been fooled by someone?”
Mac thought about Olson. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. You have a talent for war, Macintyre. The fact that you’re here proves that. So I’m counting on you to get Sloan home. For our country. Do you read me?”
Mac was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. “Yes, sir. Five by five.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you up north. And you, too, Sergeant Ralston. I’ll buy the beer.”
They parted company at that point. According to the orders Mac had been given, she was to command MISS WASHINGTON and the BETSY ROSS. And sure enough… She returned to find that neither truck was carrying casualties, their tanks had been topped off, and the President of the United States was chatting with Munroe. It seemed that both of them were worried about the impact the war would have on professional baseball.