Into the Guns (22 page)

“That's ‘what will you give me,
ma'am
,'” Evans put in. “As for what we'll give you, how about a bullet?”

Vickers turned to Mac. “Like I said,
ma'am
, what's in it for me?”

Evans was playing bad cop, which left Mac free to be the good cop. “That depends,” she said. “
If
you cooperate, and
if
you want a future, there might be a place for you in our unit. Not as an NCO, however. Not yet. You'd have to earn that.”

Vickers glanced at Evans, then back. He shrugged. “Okay, but understand this . . . Some bad shit went down on base . . . I didn't
lead it, but I was there, and if you plan to go army on me, let's finish it now. Shoot me in the face. I want to see it coming.”

Mac felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. “Some bad shit went down.” What did that mean? It wasn't her job to play judge and jury, however. “You have my word,” Mac assured him. “Tell us what you know. And so long as you tell the truth, you can join or take a walk.”

It didn't take much to make Vickers talk. He
wanted
to get some things off his chest. And they weren't pretty. The problems began shortly after what Vickers called “the big hit.” It wasn't long before some of the unit's junior officers went AWOL, or were MIA, depending on what a person chose to believe.

Meanwhile, one of Flagstaff's city council members tried to take control of the government, one of his peers shot him six times, and the rest of the survivors divided the city into small fiefdoms. Each neighborhood had its own militia—and each was intent on garnering support from the local Guard unit. Because if a council member could secure
that
—they'd be able to seize control of Flagstaff.

The XO wanted the company to align itself with the area she lived in, and roughly half of the soldiers agreed. But after the CO refused to go along, he was found dead of what might or might not have been a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. That put the XO in charge.

Her reign came to an abrupt end when troops loyal to the CO shot her and sealed themselves inside a heavily fortified maintenance facility where, according to Vickers, they still were. “So which faction did you belong to?” Mac inquired.

“The CO was a good man,” Vickers replied.

“So what's with the long hair and all that crap?” Evans demanded.

Vickers shrugged. “Things went tribal. The XO's people began to dress like cowboys. So we called ourselves the Indians. We let our hair grow, took new names, and went on the warpath every now and then. Some people wanted to leave but had no place to go. Flagstaff is fucked-up, and so is the rest of the country, according to what the ham-radio guys say.”

“But you decided to leave anyway?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” Vickers replied. “There have been a lot of fights lately, conditions are getting worse, and I was sick of it.”

Once the interrogation was over, Vickers was placed under guard, and Mac called her officers and noncoms into the office. After briefing them on the situation at Camp Navajo, she presented her plan. “Based on what Vickers told us, the troops inside the base no longer have unit cohesion, are largely leaderless, and at a low state of readiness. I think we should strike immediately since it's hard to imagine how the situation could improve.

“Rather than do battle with them, I plan to minimize casualties by pinning both groups down. Then, once they're under control, we'll take everything that isn't nailed down! And if some of these folks want to join, then so much the better, so long as it's a number we can handle without compromising security.”

Mac's eyes scanned the faces in front of her. “In order take full advantage of what we find, I'll ask our civilians to pitch in as loaders and drivers. The children will be left in the care of two adults, with five soldiers to protect them. That's the plan in a nutshell. Are there any questions, suggestions, or comments?”

There were, but none of them were deal breakers, and after making the necessary adjustments, Mac dismissed the group. There was a lot of work to do before the attack element could depart at 0300, and only four hours to do it in. But, thanks to the processes already in place, they managed to finish on time. The Strykers led the way.

It was snowing heavily by then, which Mac saw as a plus since the white stuff would serve to limit visibility and muffle the sound of the convoy's engines. Because Kho had traveled through the area earlier, she was able to direct the convoy along back roads to the well-fortified main gate. “There's a good point of entry west of here,” she told Mac.

And that prediction was borne out. The women were standing in hatches aboard the ESV truck as Kho ordered the driver to stop. “Look to the right,” she told him. “See the fence? Can you break through it?”

“Can a bear shit in the woods?” Lamm replied. “Hang on . . . We're going in.”

After backing away a bit, Lamm put his foot to the floor. The dozer blade was raised, and Mac felt nothing more than a slight hesitation as steel sliced through the wire mesh. The vic bucked wildly as it passed over a mound of earth and plowed ahead. At that point, they were inside the base, and not a shot had been fired.

Vickers was riding in the three truck and helped to guide them through a maze of low-lying buildings, vehicle parks, and other obstacles. And it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived at the building where his group was holed up. Mac saw snow-filled craters out front, empty fighting positions, and a façade that was pockmarked with bullet holes. It wasn't long before automatic weapons began to chatter, and bullets hit the vics.

That was Vickers's cue to address the defenders over his Stryker's PA system. “Hey, shitheads, this is Vick . . . Stop shooting! We aren't firing on you, but we can . . . I hooked up with a company-sized force that includes three Strykers and plenty of heavy weapons. You can remain where you are, or you can come out. It's up to you. And, if you want to join this unit, the CO is looking for
some good people. But if you continue to fire, we'll grease you. You have five seconds to stop.”

There were more shots, but not many, and it wasn't long before a dozen soldiers came out with their hands over their heads. A squad was sent forward to search and secure them while Mac, Vickers, and two Strykers departed for building two. It belonged to the people who'd been loyal to the XO—and they saw Vickers as a traitor
and
an enemy combatant.

So Mac spoke to the cowboys over the PA, ordered them to hold their fire, and to remain where they were. It didn't work as first. But they stopped firing once the Strykers opened up on them.

Despite the fact that she could use more troops, Mac knew it would be dangerous to try to integrate potentially unstable soldiers into the unit, because of how much trouble they could cause. Plus, even if the cowboys were able to get along with the Marauders, it seemed unlikely that they'd manage to make peace with the ex-Indians. So the Strykers remained on station while the rest of the Marauders went to work.

As the snow stopped, and the sickly-looking sun rose in the east, it soon became apparent that the amount of material available to the Marauders was beyond Mac's wildest dreams. Weapons, ammo, food, fuel, clothing, and much-needed medical supplies were all sitting on pallets waiting to be taken. That was good. But there was more! The haul included four Strykers, two M35 trucks, and half a dozen other vehicles. Not to mention some additional UAVs for Esco.

But wonderful though the wealth of supplies was, they presented a problem as well. That stemmed from the need to distribute critical materials throughout the convoy lest all of a particular item be lost when or if a vehicle was destroyed. Ammo was an excellent example of that. Fortunately, Sergeant Smith was up to the job and was
using a laptop to track everything. Still, it took time to bar-code and load the incoming material, which meant that the Marauders would have to stay in Camp Navajo for a couple of days.

Mac made use of the time by setting up a panel of people to interview the ex-Indians. The committee included her, Dr. Hoskins, and Corporal Cassidy. Their job was to determine if the volunteers would be a good fit or not. In the end, nine of the volunteers were accepted—while the rest were placed in temporary detention. “You'll be freed when we leave,” Mac assured them. “And at that point, you can do whatever you choose.”

By dawn of the third day, the children and their caretakers had been reunited with the rest of the unit, all of the new vehicles had been integrated into the column, and the supplies had been properly allocated. The convoy was longer now—and would be more difficult to protect. But it was also stronger . . . And better able to defend itself from most criminal gangs.

Mac felt good about that as she stood in the forward air-guard hatch on the lead Stryker and looked back at the convoy. Mac's Marauders had everything they needed now except for one thing, and that was a home.

It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL

THE NEW MASON-DIXON LINE

It was just after five in the morning when the rain stopped and a cold fog appeared. It hovered just above the ground and shivered as a breeze nudged it. The patriots froze as Sam McKinney raised a fist. It had been three days and four hundred miles since they'd departed the relative safety of the Ouachita National Forest. The group had traveled by car at first. And now, as they neared the Mason-Dixon line, they were on foot.

Sloan saw McKinney push his hand down and knew that was his cue to take a knee. He heard voices as the ground fog rose to envelop him—and his right hand went to the pistol that was holstered under his left arm. A man laughed as dimly seen figures passed off to the right. Sloan counted six of them. “You've got to be kidding,” a voice said. “What did you say?”

The patrol was gone before Sloan could learn the answer. He
allowed himself to exhale and saw his breath fog the air. Sloan wanted to stand but knew that would be a mistake. McKinney was an ex-Ranger and a harsh taskmaster. He had a sharp tongue and spared no one. “Your
other
right, Mr. President,” McKinney liked to say, along with “Keep your butt below the skyline, Howell,” and “What the hell's wrong with you, Allston? My grandmother can shoot better than that.” But painful though the process was, Sloan felt grateful. Like the others, he had no military training and understood the need to learn.

When McKinney stood, that meant the rest of them could as well. And as Sloan looked back over his shoulder, he could see Howell, Allston, and Jenkins in that order. The latter was an ex–deputy sheriff and McKinney's star pupil.

Sloan turned back to discover that McKinney was already disappearing into the ectoplasm-like fog. He hurried to catch up and position himself fifteen feet behind the ex-soldier. Intervals were important, he knew that now, and didn't want to be on the receiving end of another cutting comment.

Even as Sloan sought to maintain the “situational awareness” that McKinney liked to harp on, he couldn't help but think about where they were, which was just south of the imaginary boundary separating North from South. Except it wouldn't be imaginary for long. Huxton and his cronies were building a picket fence–like barrier designed to keep what they called “the takers” from flooding the South and laying waste to it. Nothing of that sort had occurred, but a constant flow of propaganda assured Southerners that it could, unless they threw their support behind the “New Order.”

The ground began to slope up at that point, forcing Sloan to watch his footing. There was a lot of loose rock, and when one of
Sloan's boots sent a chunk bounding downhill, he found himself on the receiving end of a frown from McKinney. Fortunately, the ex-Ranger couldn't say anything without breaking one of his own rules.

Sloan managed to complete the climb without committing any additional errors. As they approached the top, he knew it was time to get down and crawl. After elbowing his way onto the ridge, Sloan heard the sound of a helicopter engine approaching from behind. He was careful to lie perfectly still as the aircraft passed overhead.

As the Apache continued to descend, Sloan could see where it was going. He'd seen pictures of defense towers by then, but always from a long ways off and in the early stages of construction. This one was different. Though not an expert, Sloan could tell that the roughly three-hundred-foot-tall structure was nearing completion. The central column was thick enough to house a cluster of elevators, including one large enough to accommodate the Apache.

The helicopter flared and put down on one of four circular pads clustered around the central “trunk.” Once the rotors stopped turning, a tractor towed the helo into the column, where an elevator would be waiting. Then the aircraft would be lowered into an underground maintenance facility.

It stood to reason that a lot of dirt had been removed to make the underground complex possible, and Sloan could see that it had been used to create the berm that surrounded the base of the tower. As Sloan raised his binoculars, he could see that gun positions were embedded in the wall.

“Those are Vulcan Air Defense System guns,” McKinney said, as if capable of reading the other man's mind. “They were designed to fire on aircraft but can be used against ground targets as well.
They're no longer state-of-the-art, but each one can pump out a whole lot of 20mm projectiles in a very short period of time.”

Sloan tried to imagine participating in an infantry assault on such a well-defended wall and couldn't. “But they
can't
fire on aircraft,” he observed. “Not from where they are.”

“That's true,” McKinney agreed. “But look at the topmost platforms. Those weapons
can
fire on planes.”

“What's that boxy thing?” Sloan wanted to know.

“That's a C-RAM,” McKinney replied. “It's designed to throw a wall of metal into the air to destroy incoming rockets and mortar rounds before they can hit the tower. The next pod over is a surface-to-surface-missile battery.”

Sloan considered that as he turned the binoculars to the right. The sun had risen by then and was peeking through broken clouds. Only a few wisps of fog still remained. Off to the east, Sloan could make out the faint outline of another tower. “What do you think?” he inquired. “Could a strike force slide in between the towers and break through?”

McKinney looked at Sloan with a look of newfound respect. “Very good! You're thinking like a soldier . . . I don't know. It would depend on the range of the defensive missiles, how good their targeting systems are, and whether the Confederates have been laying mines to prevent such an attack. But never say never.”

Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Major.”

“I was a captain.”

Sloan lowered the binoculars. “Not anymore. You're a major now, and my military attaché.”

McKinney stared at him. “No offense, Mr. President . . . But I have no desire to be an REMF.”

“And what,” Sloan inquired, “is an REMF?”

“A rear echelon motherfucker, sir.”

Sloan laughed. “I get that. But consider this . . . Assuming we succeed in rebuilding the army, I'll be surrounded by REMFs . . . Some of them will try to blow smoke up my ass. How will I sort them out without your sage advice?”

McKinney was silent for a moment. Then he produced one of his rare smiles. “That would be me, sir . . . Major McKinney, smoke detector extraordinaire.”

Both men laughed, pushed themselves away from the ridge, and began the trip down. It was the beginning of a much longer journey that took them up through Branson, Ozark, Springfield, and into the town of Marshfield, Missouri.

After spending some time in the South, Sloan was eager to see how things were going up north. The answer wasn't good. In a marked contrast with cities like Shreveport, Louisiana, the people who lived above the Mason-Dixon line had to deal with frequent power outages. Or no electricity at all. And while there were places where local governments had stepped up to provide local citizens with a modicum of security, the coordination normally provided at the state level had all but vanished, never mind the federal government—which was MIA.

The result was a patchwork quilt of hamlets, towns, and cities, many of which had to compete with each other for scarce resources. All too often, they had fallen under the control of a strongman or -woman who was more interested in taking care of themselves than the population at large. Other communities were under the sway of a single religion. Never mind the legal strictures regarding the separation of church and state or the wishes of nonbelievers.

Each time Sloan became aware of such a situation, he felt a strong desire to wade in and set it right. But the others held him back. “It's too early for that,” Allston insisted. “The locals won't listen to you right now . . . But that will change soon. Keep your powder dry.”

It was good advice, and Sloan knew that. But it galled him to see so much unnecessary pain, misery, and conflict.

Their ultimate destination was Indianapolis, where, according to ham-radio operators, patriots from all over the nation were starting to gather. But after their car ran out of gas, they'd been forced to hoof it. A mode of transportation that, along with bicycles, was increasingly popular. Even so, it seemed as if there was an unusually large number of people on the highway that day, with more joining from driveways and side roads.

So when they arrived in Lebanon, Sloan expected to see something . . . An open market perhaps, or a street fair, but that wasn't the case. Instead, what he saw was a huge banner that was suspended over Commercial Street. It said
WELCOME PRESIDENT SLOAN
, and as Sloan drew near, a well-dressed Doyle Besom appeared to grab his elbow. “Right this way, Mr. President,” Besom said. “Everything is ready.”

A cheer went up as a band began to play “Hail to the Chief,” and Sloan felt slightly light-headed. When Besom and Cindy Howell had gone ahead to “Get things ready,” Sloan hadn't thought to question the ex–PR man about what that meant.

A wooden platform loomed ahead, and the crowd surged in to surround it as Besom preceded Sloan up a flight of stairs. A generator was running nearby, and the jury-rigged PA system was on. Besom jerked Sloan's left arm up into the air. “Here he is!” Besom shouted into the mike. “
This
is the man who, as Secretary of Energy, was trapped in Mexico when the meteors hit, and paddled hundreds of miles to return home!
This
is the man who was captured, held prisoner, and refused to be a puppet president!
This
is the man who escaped, made his way north, and walked into this town on foot. His name is President Samuel T. Sloan . . . And he's here to put our country back together!”

At least a thousand people were gathered around the platform, with more arriving every second. As they clapped, and Sloan accepted the mike, he struggled to organize his thoughts. “My fellow Americans,” Sloan began, as the applause died away, “a swarm of meteorites struck Earth, killed millions of people, and brought our great country to its knees.

“But America has been dealt such blows before and never kneels for long. I am passing through Lebanon on my way to Indianapolis, where a new Continental Congress is going to convene. Once that occurs, we will stand, and not just stand, but stand together.

“Meanwhile, the clouds of war have begun to gather. I have been in the South, I have heard the propaganda, and I have seen the military convoys that are rolling north. More than that, I've seen the defense towers that are being built to keep us from crossing the New Mason-Dixon Line.
Why?
Oil, that's why. Those who control the South have taken control of the oil reserves that rightfully belong to
all
Americans.”

That produced a chorus of boos, and Sloan nodded. “As the ex–Secretary of Energy, I can tell you that there are approximately 700 million barrels of oil stored in those reserves. That's enough fuel to run our country for more than two months at pre–May Day levels. Or even longer, assuming we use it wisely. What would that mean? It would mean a jump start while we get shale-oil and natural-gas production back up and running . . . And that, along with wind power, can put us back on the path to prosperity in spite of the persistent bad weather. But there's even more to fight for,” Sloan added. “The so-called New Confederacy stole part of our country . . .
And we want it back!
”

The resulting roar of approval echoed between the surrounding buildings. Sloan raised both hands in an effort to quiet the crowd. “I hear you . . . And thank you for your support. But know this . . .
What's coming is nothing less than a second civil war. Brother will fight brother . . . Sister will fight sister . . . And rivers of tears will flow.

“But after the last shot has been fired, and the last body has been buried, our country will rise again. And I want you to be there, standing at my side, as we bear witness to that glorious day. Thank you! And God bless America!”

There was an explosion of applause, which went on and on. Besom had to shout in order to be heard. “Where the hell did
that
come from?”

Sloan waved to the crowd. “Was it okay?”

“
Okay?
It was great! I want you to give the same speech in the next town, and the one after that. Word will spread. There
is
a president—and he has a plan. Now get down there, shake hands, and kiss babies.”

It took hours to get out of town, and Sloan was exhausted by then. He remembered the
real
president, the one who had died in Washington, D.C., and how good he'd been at pressing the flesh. “The people's president.” That's what sympathetic members of the press called him, and Sloan thought it was true.