Battle Hymn

Book 3: America Rising

by William C. Dietz

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alternative History sci-fi; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of the Legion of the Damned® novels comes the final volume in the postapocalyptic military science fiction trilogy about America warring with itself and the people trying to keep it together...

The Second Civil War continues to rage as Union president Samuel T. Sloan battles to keep America whole and, more than that, to restore the country to its former greatness.

"Wanted Dead or Alive." Following a fateful battle between Union Army major Robin "Mac" Macintyre and her sister, the New Confederacy places a price on Mac's head, and bounty hunters are on her trail.

But there's work to be done, and Mac is determined to help Sloan reunify the country by freeing hundreds of Union POWs from appalling conditions in Mexico and capturing a strategic oil reserve that lies deep inside Confederate territory.

However, to truly have peace it will be necessary to capture or kill the New Confederacy's leadership, and that includes Mac's father, General Bo Macintyre.

Release date: February 20, 2018

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1

You take the front line when there is danger. Then people will appreciate your leadership.

-Nelson Mandela

East of Albuquerque, New Mexico

It was three in the morning. The past two days had been spent infiltrating troops into the hills east of Albuquerque, New Mexico. It would have been impossible without the snowstorm. But, thanks to the poor visibility, Union forces had been able to enter the area without being spotted. And one of those soldiers was the President of what had once been the United States of America.

However, even though Samuel T. Sloan was commander in chief of all armed forces, Captain Nick Black was in command of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Infantry Brigade from Fort Carson, Colorado. Because, as Sloan's military attachŽ put it, "You aren't qualified to lead a squad, much less a company." And Sloan knew it was true.

So why was he there? Crouched under a tree? Waiting for the signal to attack rebel-held Albuquerque? Because it was important to walk the walk, that's why. He was popularly known as the "Fighting President," even though he could just as easily be called "the accidental president" since he had never run for political office.

The global disaster took place on May Day 2018, when sixty-plus meteors streaked through Earth's atmosphere. Some struck the Pacific Ocean, sending tidal waves surging east and west. Others continued on, and one of them exploded over Washington State. The force of the blast was twenty to thirty times more powerful than the explosion that had leveled Hiroshima during WWII.

The secondary effects were even more devastating. Especially the widespread dispersal of particulate matter into the atmosphere. So much particulate matter that the amount of sunlight reaching the surface of the planet was reduced by 15 percent. Plants died, the animals that fed on the plants died, and the humans who relied on both died. Millions upon millions of them.

America was hard-hit. Not only by the stuff in the atmosphere, and the effect that it had on crops, but by the meteors that struck Denver and Washington, D.C. In the blink of an eye, the top echelons of the federal government were annihilated, and Secretary of Energy Sloan became president.

Sloan had been in Mexico on May 1. And by the time he made it back and managed to assume the presidency, his badly shattered country had descended into chaos. There were pockets of civility. But large swaths of the country were controlled by warlords, religious groups, or no one at all. And that opened the way for a group of Libertarian oligarchs to form a new government in the American South. The Second Civil War followed.

Now, after many months of conflict, the Union Army was about to drive the Confederates out of Albuquerque. That was the plan, anyway. And some of the necessary groundwork had been laid. Thanks to arms supplied by the Union Army, a chief named Natonaba and a thousand Navajos had put the squeeze on the Confederate supply line that led up from Texas-and into New Mexico.

As a result, the rebs had to send heavy armor up Highway 285 north every time one of their convoys headed for Albuquerque. And, because the city was well within the reach of the Union Air Force, the Southerners couldn't fly the supplies in either. All of which meant that the Confederates were running short of everything. That included food, fuel, and ammo.

The bastards did have one thing going for them, however-and that was the civilian hostages who were being held at key locations in the city. A situation that kept Union forces from bombing Confederate troop concentrations-and forced them to attack on the ground.

Sloan's thoughts were interrupted as his platoon leader spoke on the radio. "This is Archer-Six. Move out. Watch those intervals and rotate the people on point every fifteen minutes. Over." Sloan knew that the person on point would have to break trail for those who followed. That made it necessary to rotate people through the one slot in order to spread the work around. Not to mention the risk since the person on point was more likely to trigger an IED or catch a bullet.

Of course the lieutenant colonel in command of the battalion knew that. So, rather than send her people down the network of trails that could easily be booby-trapped, Barkley ordered each platoon to find its own way to the extent that was practical. And thanks to the mostly low, scrubby growth that covered the hills, her strategy was working.

To ensure that her troops didn't get lost, Colonel Barkley had assigned local guides to each platoon. They were supposed to occupy the two slots right behind the point man and in front of the platoon leader.

As for Sloan, he was number eighteen in a twenty-six-person platoon, five of whom were Green Berets assigned to protect him. That in spite of Sloan's opposition to any form of executive privilege. But Secretary of Defense Garrison and the rest of the cabinet were adamant. Sloan could accept the bodyguards or they would quit en masse. White House Chief of Staff Wendy Chow had been selected to deliver the message. "If you get yourself killed, or if the rebs manage to capture you, everything we've worked for will go down the toilet. So accept some bodyguards or run the administration by yourself." Sloan had no choice but to agree.

Thanks to his night-vision gear, Sloan could see the soldier in front of him as she passed between snow-laden trees and circled a snowcapped boulder. Sloan's snowshoes kept him from sinking into the powdery stuff. But they were clumsy, and his knees were starting to ache.

About three miles. That's how far the platoon had to go in order to reach Kirtland Air Force Base, which was located adjacent to Albuquerque's International "Sunport." Kirtland had been home to the Materiel Command's preimpact Nuclear Weapons Center a couple of months earlier.

But when it became clear that the rebs were going to capture Albuquerque, it had been necessary for air force personnel to destroy key parts of the facility as they withdrew. The ruins would make a good place to rally, however, and prepare for the final push into the airport, where more than a hundred civilian hostages were being held.

What were conditions like? Were the prisoners being fed? And what about the children? At least a dozen of them were being held in the main terminal, according to intelligence reports. Assuming all went well, this would be their last night in captivity.

Sloan had hoped to free Albuquerque earlier in the war but couldn't do so without pulling much-needed soldiers out of the east, where General Hern couldn't win without them. But thanks to recent successes, troops were available.

Sloan saw a flash of light and heard a loud bang. He raised the M4 but couldn't spot any targets. "This is Archer-One," Lieutenant Orson said. "We have a man down. No medic required. Keep moving."

It seemed that the platoon's point man had been killed by an IED, or a mine, in spite of the decision to stay off established paths. But where were the paths? Under many inches of snow, that's where . . . And it looked as though the platoon had strayed onto one of them.

Had the enemy heard the explosion? Or seen the flash? Perhaps. But the curtain of steadily falling snow might have been sufficient to conceal the flash and muffle the sound.

Sloan winced as he slip-slid past the point where the charge had gone off. A body lay in a patch of blackened snow-and a badly mangled arm pointed the way. Sloan felt something cold clutch his stomach. Would he be next? Why not me? Sloan asked himself. Maybe it's my turn.

As soon as the platoon arrived on level ground, it began to move more quickly. Speed was of the essence. Especially if the enemy knew they were coming. A hill rose to the right and forced them to circle around it. There were still no signs of an enemy response, which gave Sloan reason to hope that the explosion had gone unnoticed.

His knees were on fire by then, and Sloan wanted to rest. Five minutes would be enough. But no, that wouldn't be possible until they arrived at Kirtland. And there was no way in hell that he would request something the other soldiers couldn't have.

After crossing a large open area, the platoon arrived at an unplowed road. Sloan had studied a map of the area and knew it was Pennsylvania Street NE, a street that would lead them to Kirtland AFB. And that was good. The fully loaded pack and TAC vest were starting to make themselves known, and Sloan's shoulders had begun to ache, a sure sign that he should work out more often.

Not Lieutenant Orson, though . . . he fell out of line occasionally and let the rest of them pass before shuffling up to the head of the column again. Why? To check on his soldiers, that's why. Because they were his responsibility. And Sloan admired him for it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the vague outlines of buildings began to appear through the veil of steadily falling snow. There were what might have been fuel tanks off to one side. And even though the very top of the com tower was lost in the grayness up above, Sloan could make out the bottom third of the structure, along with the equipment shed nearby.

The only tracks were those left by the people in front of Sloan, and that was promising. If the enemy knew the force was there, surely they would have come out to fight by now?

Orson led the platoon through a shattered door into what had been a fitness facility. After posting sentries, the platoon leader told the rest of his soldiers to take a bio break. It felt good to remove the snowshoes. A couple of green beanies followed Sloan as he went out to take a pee. It was annoying, not to mention intimidating, but there was nothing he could do about it.

By the time Sloan reentered the gym, the rest of the battalion was preparing for the final push. He wanted to pester Colonel Barkley but knew it would be counterproductive and managed to restrain himself.

Sloan took the opportunity to mingle instead. All of the troops knew who he was, and most were willing to talk. And that was part of the mission Press Secretary Besom had given him. "Shoot the shit with the troops," Besom said. "They'll write home about it, some of their anecdotes will appear in the hometown paper, and you'll score some points."

Sloan knew that "points" were important with an election coming up in a few months. But he wanted to talk to the soldiers and took pleasure in doing so. He was busy chatting with a tech from Iowa when Colonel Barkley appeared at his side. "Sorry to interrupt, Private . . . Can I borrow the president for a moment?"

"Yes, ma'am," the soldier replied, and drifted away.

Barkley was a little under six feet tall. Sloan figured the officer was in her forties. But she looked older because of her prematurely gray hair and the damage that years spent in the field had done to her face. Barkley's eyes were gray and fearless. "So far, so good, Mr. President. Thanks for making the rounds. The troops like you, and no wonder. Lots of politicians claim to love the military but wouldn't dream of risking their own lives."

"It's an honor to be here," Sloan replied. "Are we running on schedule?"

Barkley nodded. "The other battalions are in position and ready to move out. After we depart, we'll double-time our way up to the main terminal. Chief Natonaba and his people will launch a feint on my command. Then, if everything goes as planned, the attack will pull most of the rebs over to the north side of the building. That's when we'll force our way in." Barkley shrugged. "Who knows how things will go after that."

"Yeah," Sloan said. "Who knows?"

Barkley smiled. "So, you're ready?"

"As ready as a desk jockey can be."

"Good. Please do me a favor, Mr. President."

"Sure, name it."

"Don't get killed. It would be bad for my career." With that, Barkley turned and walked away.

Sloan laughed, and was still grinning, as Orson led the platoon out into the snow. They began to jog. The local guide led the way through a maze of buildings and over onto what Sloan knew to be the airport's north runway. A single set of tire tracks was visible. A perimeter patrol? Yes, that would make sense. But, thanks to the poor visibility, the rebs hadn't been able to spot the white-clad invaders.

There were no indications that planes had been arriving or departing, however. And that was to be expected. The airport was shut down except for the rare C-17 loaded with critical supplies. The platoon passed a wrecked plane, though . . . A passenger jet perhaps? Caught on the ground when the city fell? Most likely. A white shroud covered its remains.

Sloan was tired by then. He was a runner . . . But most runners don't carry fifty-pound packs. His breath came in short gasps, and it was hard to keep up with the 120-pound private in front of him. She was carrying fifty pounds, too . . . And showed no signs of flagging.

The runway lights were off, consistent with the citywide blackout imposed by the Confederates. But cracks of light could be seen around the edges of the terminal's windows and hinted at life within. Sloan was trying to imagine the scene inside the building when muffled explosions were heard. He knew that was the diversion . . . The one intended to pull rebs over to the north side of the terminal building.

Night turned to day as the airport's lights came on. Suddenly, the column of soldiers was fully lit and exposed to machine-gun fire that originated from the top of the terminal building and some ground-level pillboxes. Soldiers fell as streams of tracer converged ahead of Sloan. He went to one knee and returned fire. A rooftop machine gun fell silent as a rocket struck it.

"Follow me!" Lieutenant Orson shouted as he led the platoon to a door. A noncom ran forward. He was armed with a shotgun and fired two breaching rounds into the lock. The door sagged, and the sergeant pushed it out of the way.

Orson was the first person through the doorway, and the first to fall, as a reb fired half a magazine into the officer's lower extremities. The next soldier killed the Confederate, only to be cut down himself.