Into the Guns (38 page)

Fully half of the enemy soldiers were down by that time, but the survivors were desperate and continued to elbow their way forward. They were getting close, and Mac was about to run out of ammo when some red smoke drifted past the door.

“Don't fire on the helicopter!” Munroe shouted, and Mac was about to ask, “
What
helicopter?” when the Black Hawk swooped in and began to circle. Mac gave thanks when she saw the Union markings on the aircraft's fuselage.

Most of the surviving rebs had taken cover in shell craters. But
the helicopter crew could see them—and the door gunners opened fire. A brave reb stood, aimed an AT4 at the helo, and staggered as a stream of heavy bullets put him down.

The Black Hawk circled the area one more time, failed to draw fire, and swooped in for a landing. The rotors continued to turn as black-clad troops jumped out and came rushing forward. “President Sloan!” one of them shouted. “Identify yourself!”

Mac watched Sloan go out to meet them. He was hustled toward the aircraft as six of the heavily armed rescuers stood ready to shoot Mac's team. “Back away from the machine gun!” one of them ordered. “Place your hands on your head!”

Mac did as she was told while Sloan turned, or tried to, only to be stripped of his carbine and hustled away. Once Sloan was inside the helo, the rest of the rescue team returned to the Black Hawk.

Mac lowered her arms as the engines spooled up, and Army One took to the air. The engine noise began to fade as the Black Hawk flew north. Munroe appeared in the doorway. “I got through,” he said.

“Yeah,” Mac said dryly. “I noticed that. Good job.”

“So what now?” the RTO wanted to know.

“We'll do what we can for the wounded,” Mac answered. “Put out another call . . . Maybe we can get some medics in here. And a Mortuary Affairs team as well.”

Munroe nodded, and Mac began to tremble. The mission was over—and she was alive.

As the Black Hawk took off, Sloan ordered the crew to turn around and retrieve the others. “Sorry, Mr. President,” one of the operators said. “Our orders are to bring you back as quickly as possible. Not to mention the fact that there isn't enough room for them.”

Sloan aimed a cold stare at him. “Give me my rifle.”

The man made no effort to obey. Sloan pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man's face. “Give me my rifle, or I will blow your fucking brains out!”

“Give the president his rifle,” a familiar voice said. “I taught him to never part with it. And he's been through a lot.”

Sloan turned to find himself eyeball to eyeball with McKinney. The soldier nodded. “Welcome back, Mr. President . . . Don't worry about Captain Macintyre. A second bird is on the way to pick her up.”

Sloan put the pistol away, slumped back in his seat, and accepted the rifle. It was part of him by then—something he could trust. “Good. Captain Macintyre is an amazing woman.”

McKinney raised an eyebrow. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Army One crossed the New Mason-Dixon Line shortly thereafter, and two dozen reporters were waiting when it landed. The attack on Richton had been a monumental failure. But, thanks to Doyle Besom's efforts, it was being portrayed as a magnificent initiative gone tragically wrong. Or what Besom referred to as, “Part of the brave journey.”

And photos of a dirty, disheveled, but combat-ready president getting off a Black Hawk were worth a thousand words. Maybe the assault had gone poorly . . . But the battle for the hearts and minds of America's voters was going well.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

After being flown to a rest area outside Martin, Mac and her soldiers were loaded onto a school bus, which took them to a small town named Union City. It had been the site of a minor battle
during the first civil war—and was home to a graveyard full of unknown soldiers.

Forward Operating Base Cleveland occupied about a hundred acres of farmland and included landing pads, a field hospital, and a supply dump. The bus dropped Mac and her people off in front of a tent marked
PROCESSING CENTER
, and spewed black smoke as it roared away. Thus began three days spent trying to find out where the Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion was quartered. But it was an opportunity for them to take hot showers, draw new uniforms, and get some sleep.

Once contact was established, and their orders came through, the group managed to hitch a ride on a southbound helo that took them to a base near Murfreesboro, where the mission had begun. The battalion was headquartered on the grounds of a defunct warehouse complex by then—and Granger was there to meet them as the Chinook landed. “It's good to have you back,” Granger said warmly as he shook hands with each person.

That was followed by an awkward moment as Granger cleared his throat and looked away. When he turned back to them, his expression was grave. “I have some bad news to share . . . I'm sorry to say that Element Alpha, the one led by Sergeant Ralston, was attacked by enemy aircraft. There's the possibility that some of our people survived and were taken prisoner, but there's been no confirmation of that.”

There were expressions of grief all around, and Roper began to cry. As many as nine of Mac's people had been killed—along with what? Two dozen Rangers? Probably.

In keeping with the contract the Marauders had with the government, a large payment would be made to each soldier's family . . . But nothing could make up for the loss of a husband, father, or lover. “And Element Bravo?” Mac inquired.

“They got lucky,” Granger replied. “They were halfway home when a Chinook swooped in to pick them up.”

“Good,” Mac said. “What about the Strykers?”

“They were destroyed,” Granger replied. “So the enemy couldn't use them. That's the bad news.”

“There's good news?”

“Yes,” Granger replied. “I think so . . . The government decided to cancel the mercenary program and buy out the balance of your contract. And that means you'll receive a large lump sum. But,” Granger continued, “another decision was made as well. Effective 1200 hours yesterday, every single one of you was reactivated at your previous ranks. Except for
you
, Macintyre . . . Your captaincy was confirmed. Congratulations.”

Mac wasn't surprised. The mercenary thing had been a stopgap measure . . . a way to protect what remained of the Union while the federal government got back on its feet. And, after meeting Sloan, she felt glad. He was a good man. And if anyone could put the country back together again, he could. “Thanks, I guess,” Mac said. “So here we are . . . We have a headquarters company but very little else.”

“True,” Granger agreed. “But not for long . . . New vehicles are on the way. They're supposed to arrive in a week or so.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Mac replied. “But I hope you're right. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Granger replied. “Follow me to my office. I have something for you.”

Mac accompanied Granger across what had been an employee parking lot, to a small outbuilding. The hand-printed sign read,
BAT. SCOUT & RECON, HQ
.

Mac said, “Hello,” to the unfamiliar sergeant seated behind the reception desk and followed Granger into his office. He closed the
door. “The things I'm about to share will be announced tomorrow. First, I'm going to name you as the battalion's executive officer
and
Bravo Company's commanding officer.”

Mac was both surprised and pleased. That in spite of the fact that the XO slot would come with lots of extra work. “Thank you, sir . . . I'll do my best.”

Granger smiled. “I know that. And, there's this.”

Mac accepted a manila envelope, opened the flap, and removed the sheet of paper within. According to the title at the top it was a Presidential Unit Citation for Charlie Company, First Scout and Reconnaissance Battalion, 150th Infantry. Which was to say,
her
company.

“It's rare for a unit smaller than a battalion to receive such an honor,” Granger informed her. “But it seems that the president wants to recognize Charlie Company, and I agree with that decision. And there's something more as well.”

Granger offered her a burgundy-colored case. And when Mac opened it, she saw a Silver Star nestled within. Mac knew it was the country's third highest decoration for valor . . . What would General Bo Macintyre think of that? Would he be proud? Of course not . . . Not so long as she was fighting for the wrong side.

There was something else in the case as well . . . It was a much-folded piece of paper that, when opened, proved to be a handwritten note.

Dear Mac . . . That's what the troops call you behind your back, and having been part of your command, I feel that I rate that privilege, too. I wish I could pin this medal on you myself. But things are a bit harried at the moment. So, rather than wait, I ordered the Secretary of Defense to make sure that you receive it now.

Mac could read between the lines. The president was afraid that one or both of them would be killed. She continued to read.

I guess that's all, except to say that I will never forget your intelligence, bravery, and foul mouth.

Respectfully yours,

Samuel T. Sloan
President of the United States

Mac could see that Granger was curious, but she chose to tuck the note into her breast pocket without sharing it. “Thank you, sir.”

Granger nodded. “You'll receive the medal tomorrow. Dismissed.”

The sun threw light but no warmth as Mac left the shack. Her right hand went up as if to touch the note before falling to her side. It was cold, but Mac felt warm, and there were things to hope for.