Seek and Destroy

Book 2: 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 and the Mutant Files series comes the second novel in a postapocalyptic military science fiction series about America struggling to overcome a natural disaster but starting a second civil war…

As people fight to survive the aftereffects of more than a dozen meteor strikes, a group of wealthy individuals conspires to rebuild the United States as a corporate entity called the New Confederacy, where the bottom line is law. As a second civil war rages, with families fighting against families on opposite sides, Union president Samuel T. Sloan battles to keep the country whole.

To help in the fight for unity, Union Army captain Robin “Mac” Macintyre and her crew of Stryker vehicles are sent after the ruthless “warlord of warlords,” an ex–Green Beret who rules a large swath of the West. But defeating him will be even more difficult than she thought. The warlord is receiving military assistance from Mac’s sister—and rival—Confederate major Victoria Macintyre. And when the siblings come together in the war-torn streets of New Orleans, only one of them will walk away.

Release date: June 20, 2017

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter 1

No nation ever had an army large enough to guarantee it against attack in time of peace, or ensure it of victory in time of war.

-Calvin Coolidge

Washington, D.C.

A thick layer of dark clouds hung low over Washington, D.C., as the Black Hawk helicopter circled the severed stub of what had been the Washington Monument-and passed over the remains of what had been the Museum of Natural History, the National Gallery of Art, and the Capitol Building. President Samuel T. Sloan had seen pictures of the destruction-but still wasn't prepared for the terrible reality of it.

Sixty meteors had entered Earth's atmosphere on May Day 2018. Some splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, where they exploded and sent tidal waves racing east and west. Others swept in over North America at 1:11 p.m. PST. One of them exploded over the San Juan Islands in Washington State. The blast was twenty to thirty times more powerful than the atomic bomb that fell on Hiroshima, and the secondary effects included a powerful shock wave, earthquakes, and enough particulate matter to block the sun. Millions died.

But the horror wasn't over. More meteorites rained down. Denver and Washington, D.C., were destroyed. Sloan had been the Secretary of Energy on that horrible day-and in Mexico on official business.

It wasn't until after the arduous trip home that Sloan learned the truth: All those senior to him had been killed and, by virtue of being alive, he was president. But the country was so broken by then that most of the Southern states had seceded from the Union, triggering the Second Civil War.

And that was why Sloan had returned to the capital . . . To not only announce his intention to rebuild Washington, D.C., but to reconstruct the country itself, no matter the cost.

Army One circled the Capitol Building's shattered dome and flew west. Moments later, it passed over the courthouse, the theater where Lincoln had been shot, and the ruins of the White House. That's where the former president and the first family had been when the incoming meteor killed them and half a million other people.

The Black Hawk began to lose altitude as it swung around the State Department and swooped in for a landing adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial. Thanks to Sloan's press secretary, an ex-PR man named Doyle Besom, a large crowd was present to greet Sloan. Many of them had been hired to rebuild the capital. So Sloan heard enthusiastic applause as he exited the helicopter and paused to wave.

Like the rest of the federal government, the ranks of the Secret Service had been decimated during the disaster. But recently confirmed director Raul Jenkins was doing the best he could to reconstitute the organization-and his agents were there to protect the president from any would-be assassins in the crowd.

Cameras whirred and clicked as Sloan ran up a short flight of stairs to the top of the temporary platform. "Always run up stairs . . . It makes you look young and energetic." That was just one of the many pieces of advice Sloan had received from Besom. And most of them were correct.

Attorney General Reggie Allston was on the platform waiting for Sloan. He had closely cropped hair, dark skin, and was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit. The handshake was followed by a man hug. "You look good, Mr. President."

"But not as good as you do, Reggie . . . Where do you get those suits?"

"That's a secret, Mr. President . . . I want to look better than you do."

Sloan laughed as Allston turned to the bulletproof podium and microphone. "Good morning . . . My name is Reginald Allston, and I'm here to introduce the man many people call the Fighting President. When a renegade general seized control of Fort Knox, President Sloan fought side by side with our troops to take it back. And when our Rangers attempted to capture the oil reserve in Richton, Mississippi, President Sloan fought with them. That's how we know we've got the right man for the job."

Besom's people were salted throughout the crowd. And when they began to clap, the people around them followed suit. Allston smiled, nodded, and let the applause continue for a moment. Then he raised his hands. "But we're here to fight a different kind of battle today . . . a battle to restore the nation's capital. The task will take years. Some say ten, others say twenty, but it makes little difference. We will get the job done!"

The applause was entirely spontaneous this time, and quite loud. Allston waited for it to die down before making his introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . On this, the first day of this city's reconstruction, it is my honor to introduce President Samuel T. Sloan!"

Sloan stepped up to the mike as Allston moved to one side, and the crowd applauded. There were what? At least three thousand of them . . . filling the space between the platform and the long, narrow Reflecting Pool. A government-authorized camera drone swooped in to capture a tight shot of Sloan's face. Electronic communications continued to be somewhat iffy north of the New Mason-Dixon Line, but improved with each passing day. "Good morning," Sloan said. "It is a distinct pleasure to meet some of the many people who are going to-"

There were three suicide bombers. Each killed at least a dozen people when their vests exploded. And that included 60 percent of Sloan's Secret Service detail. The blasts were too far away to harm him. But they were close enough to open a bloody gap through which more attackers could charge.

The crowd had been screened. But the weapons were there all along, concealed by a thin layer of soil and marked by dots of orange spray paint. All the second wave of assassins had to do was scoop up a weapon and charge the platform. The podium saved Sloan's life during the first few seconds of the attack. Then he ducked, stuck his hand inside his jacket, and pulled out the Glock he had started to carry.

As far as Sloan knew, he was the only president who routinely carried a gun . . . And a good thing, too, since he'd been forced to use it once before. The surviving Secret Service agents had opened fire by then, and some of the attackers were down. But as Sloan leaned out to look, he saw that five assassins were still vertical and coming his way!

Sloan fired. But it seemed as though the wild-eyed man in the lead was wearing body armor, because he took two bullets in the chest and kept coming. Fortunately, the third round punched a hole in his forehead and knocked him over.

As that attacker fell, the woman coming up behind him tripped on the body, giving Sloan the opportunity to kill her, too. Then Secret Service agents flooded the stage and hauled him away. The camera drones captured the whole thing-and the footage of Sloan defending himself cycled over and over on TV. Press Secretary Besom was a happy man.

Murfreesboro, Tennessee

The old warehouse complex consisted of three one-story concrete buildings, one of which was dedicated to housing a makeshift cafeteria and an exercise area-all powered by an army generator. After donning three layers of clothing, Captain Robin "Mac" Macintyre made her way down a grubby corridor to a steel fire door. Then, pulling a knit hat down over a mop of dark brown hair, Mac stepped out into the driving sleet. The temperature should have been around eighty, but because of the globe-spanning layer of airborne particulates that blocked the sun, it was thirty-seven instead.

A trail of scuff marks led Mac to what was popularly known as "the command shack." She pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth provided by a "liberated" stove. Staff Sergeant Woods was seated behind one of the beat-up desks that had been captured with the rest of the complex. "Good morning, ma'am," the noncom said cheerfully. "The major is in his office."

Mac said, "Thanks," and turned to her right. She was about to knock when Granger motioned her in. He had carefully combed hair, a slightly bent nose, and gray eyes. Mac saluted, and Granger threw one of his own. "Close the door and take a load off. I've got a job for you."

Mac wasn't surprised. In addition to the responsibilities associated with being in command of Bravo Company, Mac served as the battalion's executive officer, too. "Yes, sir. What's up?"

"The brass want us to snatch a rebel general," Granger replied.

"Okay, no problem. Before lunch? Or after?"

Granger chuckled. "After. His name is Revell. General Scott Revell. He's in command of the Bloody Bill Anderson 205 Infantry Regiment. That means he could provide us with valuable information."

Mac knew the rebs liked to name regiments after Confederate generals from the first civil war and, by all accounts, Anderson had been famous for his brutality. "Okay, and what makes them believe that we can grab a regimental commander? That sounds like a special ops mission to me."

"It is a special ops mission," Granger told her. "Your job will be to deliver the operators, provide security, and bring everyone out in one piece."

Mac frowned. "Really? We're supposed to fight our way through a regiment of troops, find their CO, and take him home? Why not use helicopters instead?"

"Because," Granger said, "you won't have to fight your way through Revell's regiment. According to one of our spies, he's having an affair with the wife of a local politician. The pol has to attend a county-council meeting each Wednesday at 7:00 p.m. And that's when Revell drops by.

"The politician's house is located about twenty miles inside reb-held territory. And, whereas the weather might keep the rotor heads from lifting off Wednesday night, your Strykers will be able to get through."

Mac knew that the Union had spies down South, just as the Confederates had agents in the North. And she knew Granger was correct . . . The weather could keep the helos on the ground. But driving twenty miles into enemy-held territory wasn't her idea of a good time. Of course, Granger didn't care-and neither did the brass. "Yes, sir. So we're talking this Wednesday? As in tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow night," Granger replied. "If that's convenient."

Mac grinned. "I was going to paint my nails . . . But if you insist."

"I do. An eight-man special ops team under the command of a butter bar named Thomas Lyle will arrive here in a couple of hours. Be nice to him."

Mac looked innocent. "I like second lieutenants. They're cute, like puppies. Is there anything else?"

"One thing," Granger replied. "And that's security. If word of this operation were to leak, you could walk into a trap."

It was a sobering thought. Mac stood. "Roger that, sir."

"Good hunting."

As Mac left the command shack, she headed straight for the motor pool, which was housed in another one-story concrete building. The structure had been bombed during the fighting, but the roof had been repaired, thanks to the efforts of Company Sergeant Mary Dodge. That meant the interior was ten degrees warmer than the outside temperature.

But Mac could still see her breath as she made her way over to the spot where Second Lieutenant Marvin Haskell was kneeling next to a Stryker's exposed brake drum. It was a Stryker RC. The "RC" stood for "recon," and the crew consisted of a commander/gunner and a driver, both of whom were present. The gunner yelled, "Atten-hut!" and Mac waved the courtesy off. "As you were . . . Which is to say, damned cold."

The joke produced an appreciative chuckle from everyone except Haskell. He had sandy-brown hair, a farm-boy face, and a serious expression. "Morning, ma'am," Haskell said, as he stood. "The brakes on one-one are good to go."

"Excellent," Mac replied. "Come on . . . Let's grab a cup of coffee."

The big pot was on twenty-four/seven and contained a liquid that had the appearance and consistency of motor oil. But it was located on a table where they could talk without being overheard. Mac took the opportunity to brief Haskell on the mission. She finished by saying, "We'll take one-one, one-two, and one-three. Each truck will carry four green hats plus the crew. I'll ride in one, and you'll ride in three. Any questions?"

"Yes, ma'am. What about my soldiers?"

Each platoon included four squads of infantry, one per truck. "Tell 'em to grab some extra sleep," Mac replied.

"They won't like being left out."

Mac shrugged. "Sorry, but that's how it is. And Marvin . . ."

"Ma'am?"

"Smile once in a while."

Haskell frowned. "Yes, ma'am."

Camp David, Maryland

In spite of the damage done to Washington, D.C., the presidential retreat known as Camp David was unscathed. Sloan and his advisors on national security were seated around the long wooden table in the Laurel Lodge conference room. It was a sobering moment because the last time Sloan had been there, it had been for a cabinet meeting. And, except for him, all the other people who'd been present were dead. Including the previous president. He pushed the thought away. "Okay, people . . . Let's get to it. You're up first, George . . . What's happening in Europe?"

Secretary of State George Henderson had brown skin, a jowly face, and was built like a fireplug. "Nothing good," Henderson replied gloomily. "Most of them suffered a significant amount of damage. And, like us, are going through social turmoil as a result. Sweden broke away from the EU, Muslim extremists took over a large section of France, and the government of Germany imposed martial law."

"That works for me," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. Four-star General Herman Jones was a Marine from the top of his closely cropped head down to the toes of his extremely shiny shoes. "I'm in favor of anything that keeps the Europeans busy. Otherwise, one or more of them might form an alliance with the Confederacy."

Henderson nodded. "Fortunately, that isn't likely to happen anytime soon. Russia took some serious hits, and they're busy gobbling up all of the ex-Soviet states, plus anything else that isn't nailed down. That's going to be a big issue postreconstruction, but there isn't anything we can do about it now."

"The secretary is correct," Martha Kip agreed. She was a fiftysomething blonde who had spent fifteen years in the CIA and five at the NSA before Sloan chose her as National Intelligence Director. "As for Iran," she added, "we might see something good develop there. Indications are that the Grand Ayatollah is dying of cancer-and there's a real possibility that a more progressive leader will succeed him."