Bo eyed the scene in front of him. Forces under Victoria’s command had destroyed the B&M Bridge so that a Mexican drug lord couldn’t use it. Now, ironically enough, Bo was in charge of the effort to repair it. Cranes had been brought up the Rio Grande on barges. And as Bo looked on, people from both sides of the border were working to drop a new support beam into place.
The Confederacy had delivered a ton of gold to Mexico City a few days earlier. And that meant all three of the bridges that crossed the river between Matamoros and Brownsville would be required as sixty thousand Mexican soldiers traveled north. By crossing at that point, the allied troops could enter Texas and pivot to the east without encountering the sort of resistance they would have confronted in New Mexico and Arizona.
Bo’s train of thought was interrupted as a helicopter clattered overhead, circled the construction site, and came in for a landing. One of Bo’s aides was a burly major named Ted Caskins. He arrived as the helo touched down. “The polo team has landed.”
Bo made a face. Among other things, Major General Matias Ramos was one of Salazar’s nephews, a graduate of the Citadel in South Carolina, and a well-known polo player. And, since Ramos liked to surround himself with other polo players, most of the people on his staff were better suited for a commission in a seventeenth-century cavalry regiment instead of a modern infantry division. “Here’s hoping Ramos is on a sightseeing tour,” Bo said darkly. “God help us if he wants to get involved.” Caskins laughed.
Fortunately, Ramos didn’t need to be competent in order to play his part in defeating the North. Bo planned to use the Mexican divisions as cannon fodder. If they fought well, then so much the better. And if they didn’t? No problem. Bo saw Ramos and his peers as linemen in a football game. Meaning people the North would have to circumvent or run over in order to score. That would free Bo’s forces to sack the quarterback, intercept passes, and do an end run on the enemy’s defenses. So if Bo had to put up with the polo team, he would.
Ramos was still twenty feet away when Bo plastered a smile on his face and went forward to shake hands. “Matias! What an unexpected pleasure… I hope you have time for lunch.”
“Of course, amigo,” Ramos replied. “But first the bridge. I would like a tour.”
It was going to be a long afternoon.
BASTROP, LOUISIANA
Tiny Morehouse Memorial Airport was located in Bastrop, Louisiana, and had been chosen for a number of reasons. It was well inside territory controlled by the North and, because the single runway had been employed by both sides, local citizens were used to all manner of military comings and goings. A fact that might put rebel agents to sleep. But, even if the rebs were watching the training exercises, it would be difficult to discern what the North was up to.
Mac was standing on the west side of the field, looking east, as the four-engined cargo plane dropped down to fly just fifty feet above the runway. Once the C-150 was lined up, an extraction parachute shot out through the rear hatch and jerked a Stryker out of the plane’s hold. Cargo parachutes acted to slow the weighty package as it fell toward the ground.
Except that “slow” was a relative term. The platform the vic was strapped to hit hard. And having logged three such drops herself, Mac knew she would never forget the spine-jarring impact. As the platform skidded to a halt, six soldiers boiled up out of the cargo compartment. Then they jumped to the ground and hurried to release the tie-downs.
That was when Company Sergeant Bader popped up out of a firing position and opened fire on them with an LMG. The machine gun was loaded with blanks, and the soldiers knew that. But what they didn’t know, or had forgotten, was what to do. Should they fire back? Or free the tie-downs?
Mac had a bullhorn, which she brought up to her lips. “Cease fire. Two of you are supposed to remain aboard and provide covering fire, while the others release the tie-downs. Remember… we’re going to land on a two-lane highway. Once your vehicle is down, and freed from the pallet, you must clear the LZ quickly so that the next Herc can drop its load.
“Twenty-seven Strykers. Plus three trailers loaded with supplies. That’s how much stuff we have to insert. We’ll have the advantage of surprise at first… But that won’t last long. Clear the runway.”
They did it over and over again, day after day, until everyone was pissed. The long days were concluded with flights back to the Joint Reserve Base in New Orleans. Then, after a hurried meal, it was time to pack. Each container had to contain a little bit of everything. That way, if one box was lost, it wouldn’t mean that all of their food, ammo, or medical supplies were gone.
Finally, after nearly two weeks of hard work, graduation day arrived—and Commander Trenton was on hand to witness the full run-through. The demonstration began with a series of successful drops. That meant all of Alpha Company’s first platoon was on the ground when disaster struck.
The battalion had been able to carry out more than 135 drops without suffering anything more serious than a sprained ankle until then. But as the fifth Herc roared in, and the extraction chute popped, something went wrong. The Stryker and its platform slumped to the right and hit the runway hard. Sparks flew as the vic skidded on its side, screeched to a stop, and caught on fire.
Mac’s RTO, Larry Duke, was standing next to her. Her voice was level. “Tell the ETV driver to push the wreckage off the runway. Clear the next C-130 to make its approach.”
Part of the landing plan called for each company to drop a dozer-blade-equipped ETV first—so that it could clear wreckage. That hadn’t been necessary before. Now it was, and the flaming vehicle was barely clear of the runway when the next Stryker landed.
A pre-positioned crash truck rushed in to put the flames out. It was a luxury the team wouldn’t have at Hackberry. It soon became clear that while some of the soldiers in the damaged vic were okay, the rest hadn’t been so fortunate. Air-evac helicopters were called in to take them out. They’re the lucky ones, Mac thought to herself. They’ll come to realize that eventually.
Mac glanced at Trenton. The navy officer’s expression hadn’t changed one iota. The demonstration continued. Finally, once it was over, Trenton turned to face Mac. “That was acceptable,” Trenton said. “Carry on.” And with that, the navy officer boarded a Black Hawk and left for New Orleans.
Mac felt a momentary sense of disappointment. Some sort of attagirl would have been nice. But, given Trenton’s persona, perhaps “acceptable” qualified as high praise. Besides, it doesn’t matter what Trenton thinks of you, Mac told herself. What matters is whether the battalion is ready for combat. Or as ready as it can be under the circumstances.
The battalion’s vehicles had been kept at the Morehouse airstrip during the training period. Now it was time to transport them back to NAS/JRB for two days of maintenance and a final loadout prior to the attack on Hackberry. That necessitated dozens of flights during a six-hour period.
But finally, once the entire battalion was back in New Orleans, Mac threw the party she had promised. There was plenty of beer, endless buckets of crawfish, and plenty of side dishes. All of which were well received.