Fearing that the Japanese would return with reinforcements, the Mongols retreated to their ships. A typhoon struck that night, destroying most of the ships and killing thousands of Mongol warriors. That battle was over, but the Mongols were still determined to conquer Japan.
During the next seven years, the Japanese built high walls to protect themselves from future attacks. And a good thing, too. Because when the Mongols returned, they had forty-four hundred ships and as many as 140,000 soldiers.
But thanks to the recently constructed walls, the Mongols couldn’t land where they wanted to and spent months on their ships—before deciding to go ashore. But on August 15, as the Mongols prepared to attack, a powerful typhoon struck, saving the Japanese yet again! A divine wind indeed.
Sloan stood and took another look around. General Jones was nowhere to be seen. Major McKinney was present, however. “Sam, find General Jones. Tell him to get ready. The moment the storm hits, we’re going to attack.”
McKinney’s eyebrows shot upwards. “You’re joking.”
“No,” Sloan replied. “I’m serious. The Mexicans won’t expect it, and neither will the rebs. Mother Nature can be a bitch, but she’ll be on our side, and we’re going to win.” McKinney reached for a phone.
Sloan looked up at the main monitor. A computer-generated image of Whitney filled most of it. Come on honey, Sloan thought. We need you.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Bo had been taken to Houston in a Learjet, transported to the command and control center in a helicopter, and escorted to the room that Stickley was using as an office. And now, as Bo looked across the table at her, he could see the anger in the president’s eyes. “So let me see if I understand,” Stickley said. “You tucked General Ramos into bed with some slut, went beddy-bye next door, and awoke to discover that the stupid bastard had been abducted.”
Bo didn’t like the sarcastic tone or the implied criticism. But the account was essentially correct. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you issued the order to have Ramos killed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But he wasn’t killed.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And the Union is draining him dry.”
“Probably,” Bo allowed. “We don’t know for sure.”
“I think we can assume that they are,” Stickley replied. “Just as we can be sure that Ramos will trade what he knows for better treatment.”
“If you say so,” Bo agreed reluctantly.
“I do,” Stickley said. “And the information he gives them will result in a fucking disaster. You are relieved of your duties, General. And you are hereby restricted to the city of Houston. In order to go anywhere else, you will need permission from me. Do you understand?”
Bo knew his face was flushed, and he could barely contain his rage. Victoria and Kathy had been sacrificed to the cause. And now it was his turn. All because of Robin and Samuel T. Sloan. “Yes, I understand.”
And with that, Bo left. He had no office, no home, and no place to stay. And once his situation was made public, he would be a pariah. What could he do? Who could he turn to? The answer, when it occurred to him, made Bo smile.
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The wind was blowing, and sheets of rain were falling by the time the team left the truck stop and made their way over to the Humvee. All of them were wasted, including Carter. The woman shouldn’t be allowed to drive, Mac thought to herself. And then she passed out.
When Mac awoke, it was to find that it was light outside, and Carter was touching her shoulder. “Wake up, Major… We’re at NAS/JRB.”
Mac could hear a continuous rattle as rain hit the Humvee’s roof. She sat up straight. “Thanks for getting us here, Carter. I’m going to put you in for the army’s drunk-driving medal.”
“I’ll wear it with pride,” Carter replied. “Are you okay? Can you make it inside?”
Mac looked out through rain-streaked glass. The wind was tearing at a trio of oak trees. They swayed alarmingly. A piece of aluminum siding sailed past. “Yes, thanks.”
Mac turned to look at the others. Hunt was asleep, with her head on Wynn’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” Carter told her. “I’ll get them home.”
Mac thanked the TC, battled to push the door open, and got out. The wind tried to bowl her over—and Mac was soaked by the time she entered the BOQ. Her room was on the second floor. And when Mac opened the door, it was to discover that her roommate wasn’t there. Was she on duty? Probably.
Mac put the HK on the floor, shrugged her vest off, and went facedown on the bed. Rain tapped against the window, and sleep took her down.
When Mac woke four hours later, it was in response to someone pounding on the door. “Major Macintyre? Are you in there?”
Mac swore, rolled off the bed, and clumped over to the door. I went to bed with my boots on, Mac observed. And I need a shower. She opened the door. A corporal was standing there with a fist raised, ready to knock again. “Yes?”
Mac saw the soldier’s eyes widen—and knew she looked like hell. “Spit it out,” Mac said. “What do you want?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Prevus wants to speak with you, ma’am. He’s on the phone.”
Mac didn’t bother to ask who Prevus was because she felt sure that the corporal didn’t know. “Okay, thanks.”
Mac followed the soldier down to the reception desk and was surprised to see how dark it was outside. She lifted the phone. “This is Major Macintyre.”
“My name is Prevus,” a male voice replied. “I’m the division’s supply officer. Most of the 32nd pulled out at 0600 this morning, and that includes your battalion, under Captain Munson’s command. So the CO handed you off to me. And I have a job for you.”
Mac was mystified. “The 32nd left? To go where?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Prevus demanded crossly. “Some idiot decided to launch a full-on counterattack in the middle of the goddamned storm! And I have supplies to move. So get your butt down here.”
“Sir, yes, sir. Where are you?”
“Jesus H. Christ, don’t you know anything?”
Mac scribbled as Prevus gave her the address. “Got it.”
“Good,” Prevus said, before slamming the phone down.
Mac returned to her room and took a hot shower. And just in time, too… Because the power went down ten minutes later.
After donning a fresh uniform and shoving some personals into an AWOL bag, Mac put her combat gear on. Then, with the MP7 in hand, she made her way down to the empty lobby. What she needed was some transportation—and the corporal didn’t know where to get any. “Everyone left,” he said forlornly. “Some of the officers drove their own cars.”
For some reason that, more than anything Prevus had told her, served to communicate the true scope of the effort that was under way. It looked as if Sloan was risking everything he had on what Kipling would have called “one turn of pitch-and-toss.”
Would the strategy work better than the disastrous airborne attack on the Richton Oil Reserve had? Mac hoped so. And, in order to do her part, Mac needed to join Prevus. She made her way over to the window. Heavy rain lashed the parking lot beyond. And there, parked all by itself, was a navy-gray bus.
Mac turned to the corporal. “Who has the keys to the bus?”
“I do,” he admitted. “But you can’t…”