Into the Guns (18 page)

Lester Jenkins was AWOL from his job as a deputy sheriff. The combination of brown skin and light blue eyes made his face memorable—and Sloan marked him down as a man who would be useful in a fight.

Sam McKinney was the strong, silent type, who, according to Allston, had spent eight years in the army and left it to care for his gravely ill wife. It wasn't clear what happened thereafter—but his presence seemed to speak volumes.

Doyle Besom was fortysomething, at least twenty pounds overweight, and wore his hair Ben Franklin–style. He'd been a public-relations manager before leaving his job to join the patriots.

Finally, there was Marsha Rostov who introduced herself as Deputy Commissioner of the IRS. She was short, dumpy, and had eyes like lasers. Sloan knew the type. He figured Rostov for a professional bureaucrat who, thanks to hard work and political acumen, had risen as high as one could go without being a political appointee.

And while it was tempting to dismiss her based on appearances, Sloan knew that could be a costly mistake. It was reasonable to assume that Rostov knew everything there was to know about collecting taxes, and the government was going to need money. Where was the commissioner anyway? Dead or alive? Sloan did his best to turn on the charm. “Ms. Rostov! This
is
a pleasure. I know the commissioner . . . Did she survive the strike on D.C.?”

“It's hard to be sure,” Rostov replied cautiously, “but there hasn't been any word of her. Have we met? You look familiar.”

“And that brings me to Sam's status,” Allston interjected smoothly. “I forgot to mention the fact that he was the Secretary of Energy back on May 1. And, in the wake of President Wainwright's death, that makes him President of the United States.”

Rostov blinked. “Holy shit . . . Really?”

“Really,” Allston replied. “It seems safe to assume that if a more senior official had survived, he or she would have come forward by now.”

That led to a spirited discussion, in which Besom took the role of cynic. “We need a new president, that's for sure,” he said. “But how do we know this man is who he claims to be?” Besom turned to Sloan. “No offense . . . But have you got a driver's license or something?”

“I was in Mexico when the meteorites struck,” Sloan said. “And I lost my ID during the trip north.”

“How unfortunate,” Besom said.

“I suggest that you take a look at this,” Allston said, as he removed a piece of paper from a coat pocket. There was a rustling noise as he held it up for people to look at. Jenkins made the article readable by aiming a flashlight at it. Then he read the headline out loud. “‘New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.'”

“That's where I saw him!” Rostov exclaimed. “On TV! Testifying in front of Congress.”

All eyes turned to Sloan. McKinney was the first to speak. “Congratulations, Mr. President. The job won't be easy.”

Sloan felt the full weight of the presidency settle onto his shoulders. “Thank you . . . And no, it won't. The people down south have a big head start.”

“That's for sure,” Jenkins agreed. “Take the defense towers for example. Once they're complete, a curtain of steel will divide North from South.”

Sloan frowned. “Defense towers? Tell me more.”

So Jenkins told him. The rebels were building what amounted to a high-tech Maginot Line that was going to run east–west between the northwest corner of Texas and Norfolk, Virginia. And according to patriot sympathizers who were working on the project, the towers would be connected by fiber-optic cable, topped with landing pads for helicopters, and armed with missile batteries. The idea being to wall the South off from what the New Order stalwarts called “the takers.”

“But there's more to it than that,” Jenkins added. “According to the New Order's propaganda machine, the profligate Yankees will run out of fuel soon. And once they do, their cities will go dark. That's when the barbarian horde will head south in an effort
to seize control of the so-called Confederacy's oil reserves. Except they aren't the Confederacy's oil reserves, they're
our
oil reserves since they belong to all of us.”

Sloan felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach. Of course! He should have thought of it.
Would
have thought of it if he hadn't been so busy struggling to survive. The Strategic Petroleum Reserve fell under
him
. Or it had in his role as Secretary of Energy. And the last time he'd seen a report, there'd been something like 700 million barrels of oil stored in five locations, all of which were located down south! That equated to roughly forty days' worth of oil for the predisaster United States. Of course, that period of time could be greatly extended through conservation measures and by dividing the country in half!

Especially since the Southern states were producing energy using a variety of technologies including solar and wind. In fact, despite its reputation for relying too heavily on an oil-based economy, Texas was producing a lot of energy via wind and solar. So much so that they might be able to get along without the petroleum reserves as long as they didn't have to share with the North. What did that imply? Were Huxton and his cronies planning to keep some of the oil for emergencies and sell the rest? Taking the money for themselves? Sloan wouldn't put it past them. “I want to see one of the defense towers firsthand,” he said. “And I need to go north.”

McKinney nodded. “Yes, sir . . . We'll leave first thing in the morning.” The war had begun.

The mercenary captains are either capable men or they are not; if they are, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own greatness, either by oppressing you, who are their master, or others contrary to your intentions; but if the captain is not skillful, you are ruined in the usual way.

—NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI

BOISE, IDAHO

Mac was standing in the Stryker's air-guard hatch looking back as the convoy rounded a curve. The column consisted of a Ford pickup with a fifty in back, the Humvee with the UAV launcher in tow, a Stryker, two fuelers, a six-by-six loaded with dependents, a moving van carrying their possessions, a second Stryker, a fueler filled with JP8, a U-Haul loaded with supplies, a second armed pickup, and another U-Haul. A Stryker brought up the rear. Each vehicle had a number, a radio, and two qualified drivers. Radio procedure wasn't perfect, but it was improving, and Mac figured the entire group would have it down before long.

The unit was just north of Boise.
Why?
Because the city was on the way to Arizona, that's why . . . Although Mac had a secondary motivation, which was to visit the family farm even if that wasn't fair to the others since they couldn't direct the column to
their
homes.

The Macintyres hadn't lived there full-time. Not during Mac's lifetime. But her father had been raised on the farm and kept the place after his mother's death. Most of the land had been sold off by the time he inherited it. But ten acres remained, including the four-bedroom farmhouse that sat perched on a rise. And that's where most of Mac's summer vacations were spent.

Her father hadn't been there much. That bothered her sister but was fine with Mac, who came to dread his unannounced visits. Bo Macintyre liked to sponsor competitions. There were shooting contests, family fishing derbies, and long-distance runs. And, since Victoria won most of them, Mac grew tired of competing. Not just for whatever silly prize her father offered, but for his affection.

Nothing was said. Colonel, and then
General
, Macintyre was too disciplined for that. But everyone knew. Victoria was his favorite. So Mac formed a close bond with her mother. And that had a downside because Margaret Macintyre had grown tired of military life, and longed for stability. That put pressure on her marriage to Bo. The result was a chasm, with Victoria and her father on one side—and Mac and her mother on the other.

Yet Mac still cared about her father, and her sister, too, for that matter. So if one or both of them were at the farm, she wanted to stop by. Even if it meant granting herself a privilege not available to others. Mac's thoughts were interrupted by a voice in her ear. “Roller-One to Roller-Six.”

“Roller” was the name Mac had given to the convoy—and “One” was the number assigned to the first vehicle in the column. It was an armed pickup driven by Corporal Garcia. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “Go. Over.”

“There's a roadblock up ahead and no obvious way around it. Over.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied. “Hit the brakes. Six to all Roller
units . . . Pull over, but keep your eyes peeled and your engines running. I'm going forward. Over.”

Mac was riding in the Stryker designated as Roller-Three. It pulled out and around the Humvee before coming to a stop next to the pickup. Mac climbed up on top of the Stryker to get a better view. A large construction site was visible in the distance, and her binoculars brought everything closer. Lots of heavy equipment could be seen. What were the locals doing? Working on a highway? No, they were building a wall! A defensive wall, like the ones used to protect ancient cities. Had they been attacked? Or were they preparing for the possibility of an attack?

Mac's thoughts were interrupted as two A-10 Thunderbolts roared overhead and circled the city. So much for her dreams of capturing the Air National Guard assets stationed at Gowen Field. The unit's aircraft and their supplies were already under someone's control. She moved to make room for Sparks Munroe. “Get Peters on the horn,” she instructed. “Tell him to lie low . . . Tell him that a couple of Hogs are circling the city.” Sparks nodded and went to work.

“A delegation is coming out to meet with us,” Garcia announced as he peered up at her.

Mac could see them through the glasses. She nodded before climbing down. Sparks followed. Once on the ground, Mac said, “Okay, time for a chat. But be ready just in case.” Both men checked their weapons.

It was a typical postimpact day, which was to say gray, cold, and windy. Pieces of litter skittered across the highway as Mac and her soldiers went forward to meet the townsfolk. The local delegation included two men armed with AR-16s, and a woman decked out in a white fur coat. That would have been politically incorrect months earlier, but things had changed since then. Staying warm
had priority now—and to hell with how a person went about it. A pair of shiny, knee-high boots completed the look. Mac felt dowdy by comparison.

“Good morning,” the woman said, as both groups came to a halt. “My name is Pam Scheemer—and I'm the mayor of Boise.” Scheemer had well-plucked brows and rosy cheeks.

“I'm Lieutenant Robin Macintyre,” Mac replied. “It looks like you're building a wall. Were you attacked?”

“No,” Scheemer replied. “Not yet. But, with no one to protect us, it's just a matter of time.”

Mac looked up as one of the A-10s circled to the south. “No one to protect you?”

“We have our local guard unit,” Scheemer acknowledged. “But they live here. Where's the rest of the military?”

“I'm sorry about the lack of support,” Mac replied. “I wish we could help . . . But we were cut off from our unit. And the ham operators claim that President Wainwright is dead. So we're traveling to Arizona.”

Scheemer frowned. “On orders from the army? Or to suit yourselves?”

Mac was formulating a response when Sparks Munroe stepped in. “We call ourselves Mac's Marauders, ma'am. And we plan to fight for those who need help.”

“For money,” Scheemer said contemptuously.

“To survive,” Mac replied. “You have homes, and we don't, so we're looking for a place to live. If you'll let us through, we'll be on our way. It's as simple as that.”

Scheemer was silent for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “But keep your word. The A-10s will eat you for lunch if you don't.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mac replied. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Scheemer nodded and tugged her fur collar up around her face.
“I think it's going to snow,” she said to no one in particular. Then she turned and walked away. Mac looked up, and sure enough, snowflakes were beginning to fall.

The roadblock consisted of two semi-tractor-trailer rigs parked trailer to trailer. Diesel engines rattled, and black smoke jetted up from chromed stacks, as the trucks pulled away from each other. About two dozen locals were there to watch the convoy pass through the resulting gap. A Humvee was stationed on the other side. The
FOLLOW ME
attached to the back end said it all.

In spite of the agreement with the mayor, Mac knew they might be entering a trap. And since she couldn't call on the Apache for help, she was blind. Or thought she was until a familiar voice came over her headset. “Roller-Two-One to Roller-Six. The Raven is up and feeding video. The route is clear. Over.”

Mac was standing in the back of Roller-One at that point just forward of the fifty. Sparks was at her side. Even though Esco hadn't been ordered to launch a drone, he had taken it upon himself to do so. “Well done, Two-One. Over.”

Mac turned to Sparks. “Tell Peters to take off, circle west, and approach the town of Kuna from the south.”

Mac watched the A-10s circle the town one last time before lining up on the airport. Chances were they'd been ordered to land to conserve fuel. “Peters is airborne,” Sparks told her.

“Good. By the way . . . Where did the Mac's Marauders stuff come from?”

“That's what we call ourselves.”

“I didn't get the memo.”

Munroe grinned. “No, ma'am. You didn't.”

Both of them laughed.

The pilot vehicle left them half a mile farther on, and once the convoy was south of Boise, Mac ordered Garcia to take a right and
head for the town of Kuna. It had been little more than a railroad stop back in the old days. But because of Boise's growth, Kuna had become a bedroom community.

However, since Kuna was located outside of the new defensive wall, it was certain to be looted and used as a staging area by any force that hoped to conquer Boise. And judging from what looked like dozens of vacant buildings, people understood that.

After entering Kuna, Mac directed Garcia to lead the column east—into the area located just north of the Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area. What would become of the nation's parks? she wondered. Would people move in, log the trees, and hunt the animals into extinction? There was nothing she could do about it, so Mac pushed the thought away.

She was standing by then, peering over the truck's cab, as cold air buffeted her face. Everything looked the way it had two years earlier. Her sister had been overseas, but her father was in residence, and Mac had been hoping for some sort of reconciliation.

But Bo Macintyre wanted his younger daughter to attend West Point just as her sister had. And the fact that Mac had been accepted into Officer Candidate School and graduated at the top of her class meant nothing to him. OCS was for second-raters, in Bo Macintyre's opinion . . . And being father to the best of the second-raters was nothing to brag about. The long weekend was punctuated by periods of silence—and poisoned by things unsaid.

When Mac left, it was with the conviction that she'd never return. Yet there she was, turning off the blacktop to follow the driveway up and around the farmhouse to park in back. Brown swiveled the fifty around, searching for targets, but there weren't any.

Everything appeared to be normal at first. But, as Garcia killed the engine, Mac realized that she was wrong. On closer examination she saw that some of the ground-floor windows were shattered,
and the back door had been left ajar. So what lay within? Had her father been there when the meteors struck? And if so, was he all right?

There weren't any vehicles to be seen, but that didn't mean the house was empty. Mac ordered Sergeant Poole to take his squad in and clear the residence. Once that effort was under way, Mac turned her attention to setting up a defensive perimeter, bringing the Apache in next to the barn, and digging latrines.

That was when Staff Sergeant Emilio Evans approached her. He was second-in-command and, since her platoon had evolved into a company, she should promote him. But how? The army had a process for such things, but that was gone. Mac forced herself to focus on the situation at hand. “Hey, Evans . . . How's it going?”

“So far, so good,” he replied. “How did you know about this place?”

Mac felt a pang of guilt. “It belongs to my father.”

Evans looked at her. She had put herself first, and he knew it. All she could do was stare back. “Do you have a question, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Evans answered formally. “It's about the latrines. Rather than dig them by hand each day, how 'bout we look for one of those mini backhoes? Some of them can be towed. Or maybe we can find a trailer.”

“A backhoe would be one more machine to maintain,” Mac cautioned. “And it would make the column that much longer.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Evans acknowledged. “But it would save time and improve morale.”

Mac nodded. “That makes sense. Let's be on the lookout for one.”

Evans broke the ensuing moment of silence. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Always.”

“The house is clear. Go in and take a look around. I'll handle things out here.”

Mac looked away and back again. “Thanks, Emilio. I will.”

Evans nodded, executed a perfect about-face, and walked away.

It felt strange to pull the back door open and hear the usual screech of protest. Where was Mom? She should have been in the kitchen watching CNN as she fixed dinner. Traces of Margaret were still there, however. The walls were a cheerful yellow—and her apron was hanging from a peg. Not even Bo Macintyre had been willing to take it down.

The rest wasn't pretty. Dishes had been smashed, a swearword was spray-painted on a wall, and the sink was full of trash. Where was Mr. Larson? Mac wondered. Was the part-time caretaker okay? So many people had been displaced. Perhaps he was among them.

When Mac left the kitchen, she entered her father's part of the house. A Confederate battle flag occupied most of one wall. Pictures of Cadet Bo Macintyre, Lieutenant Bo Macintyre, and Captain Bo Macintyre were everywhere. Sometimes he stood all by himself. But more often than not he was with a group of soldiers. All of the images had one thing in common though—and that was an implacable stare directed at the camera. Or at a little girl should she be so foolish as to make a mistake.