Authors: Steven Konkoly
“What time—how long was I out?”
“It’s 2:15.”
“You should have woken me earlier. I needed to check in with—never mind,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.
“Everything’s been fine. You needed the rest.”
“I know, but I can barely move right now,” Alex said, straining to lift his right arm.
“What happened to your arm?” Ryan asked. “And your wrist?”
“I’m fine. Nothing a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen can’t fix. Grab the medical kit out of my rucksack. It’s near the top. How big is the storm?”
A powerful round of thunder answered his question before Chloe could respond.
“The news Sunday night showed a massive system moving across the Midwest, but you know how these things can go.”
“Yeah. This could last fifteen minutes, leaving us high and dry—”
“Or it can last all afternoon,” said Ryan. “We should be able to move faster in a heavy rain, right? Two miles? We could be there in thirty minutes if we bust our asses.”
“It’s tempting. Have you seen any militia activity on the street?”
“Nothing. It’s been quiet.”
“That’s not always a good thing. How long until the two of you are ready to move?”
“We’re waiting on you,” said Ryan.
“Chloe, the smartass gene runs in our family, on the mother’s side. Let’s be ready to walk out of the front door as soon as the heavy rain hits,” he said, extending a hand.
Ryan took his father’s filthy hand and helped him off the couch. Alex grinned at him for a few moments.
“Look at you,” said Alex.
“Dad, we’ve been apart for like three days…”
“Long three days.”
A refreshing wind swept through the apartment, billowing the front curtains and sweeping a map off the kitchen table.
“Here comes the rain,” said Alex.
Chapter 13
EVENT +57:16
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Ed Walker sat on a folding chair in the battalion headquarters tent, dozing off. Heavy thunder jarred him awake, nearly toppling him from the chair. He glanced over at his unofficial “escort,” a perpetually irritated marine corporal talking into a headset, before burying his head in his hands. The marine never acknowledged him. Nine hours on this chair, broken up by two escorted trips to the “head” in Hollis Hall and a single MRE—unceremoniously thrown at his feet. Every time he felt like screaming and running out of the tent, he reminded himself what Alex said: “Stay with the marines.”
He’d been right. Despite the surprise attack on the headquarters and open hostility displayed by the marines, he felt safe here. Perimeter security had killed fourteen “hostiles” within the span of thirty seconds, repelling an attack that Lieutenant Colonel Grady assessed had taken “insurgents” over twenty-four hours to coordinate and launch. Grady felt confident they had sent a strong message back to insurgency leadership: Attacking marines was a bad idea.
He propped his head in his hands and stared vacantly through the mesh window at the red brick walls beyond the command tent. At least they hadn’t stuffed him in a guarded dorm room. He could deal with the concept of house arrest, as long as he stayed in the command tent. A single raindrop streaked across his view, followed by another. Moments later, the pounding din of heavy rain masked the marine’s chatter. Ed glanced from the mess of wires and power strips littering the sand-colored modular flooring to the battalion sergeant major sitting next to Lieutenant Colonel Grady, waiting for the command that would convert the headquarters tent into a sauna. The sergeant major stood, having no doubt made the same weather observation.
“Secure the tent flaps!”
Several enlisted marines left their stations, methodically lowering the windows.
“Colonel Grady! Durham Three-Zero just transmitted. I have the transcript,” said the corporal.
Grady removed his headset and walked to his corner of the tent.
“How we doing, Sergeant Walker?”
“Could be worse, Colonel.”
“Now you’re catching on,” said Grady, taking the corporal’s notepad. “Looks like they’re taking advantage of the weather. They just stepped off from your daughter’s apartment.”
“You don’t look too enthusiastic,” said Ed.
“METOC predicts periods of heavy rain and thunderstorms for the next three hours.”
Ed thought about the bridge at Milton Mills. A heavy downpour had camouflaged their approach until it was too late for the militia. Alex knew what he was doing.
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Periods of heavy rain. Meaning this could stop five minutes from now and continue an hour later. Alex is taking a big risk. He should have waited until nightfall.”
“He’s not convinced you’ll be here when he gets back, especially after last night.”
“If that’s the best the insurgency has to throw at us, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” said Grady.
“What if that wasn’t their best? What if it was a probe?”
“Damn costly probe, Sergeant Walker. They didn’t have to lose fourteen heavily armed insurgents to figure out we have this placed locked down tight. That’s amateur hour by my book.”
“You’re not worried that they managed to assemble and coordinate an attack by more than twenty…insurgents?”
“I’m concerned by the high number, but not worried about their capabilities. They could have assembled one hundred of those idiots, with the same result—except we’d have a higher insurgent casualty count.”
“I wish I shared your optimism.”
“Stick around long enough, and it’ll start to rub off. Do you think I can trust you not to swipe any more of the battalion’s gear, especially the kind with embedded crypto? If one of my marines ‘accidently’ took one of these radios home, they’d face a protracted interrogation session sponsored by NCIS, followed by a general court-martial.”
“I promise not to take or touch anything that doesn’t belong to me.”
“I can live with that. Corporal, Mr. Walker is no longer your responsibility. I still want you to monitor Durham Three-Zero’s transmissions,” said Grady.
“Understand, sir. Thanks for behaving, Mr. Walker,” said the corporal, breaking into a grin.
Ed shook his head. “I didn’t think you cared enough to notice.”
“Corporal Maguire notices everything, and you have him to thank for your release. I take his word seriously,” he said, showing Ed the notebook.
A short note scribbled at the end of Alex’s transmission read “Recommend Sergeant Walker be released on his own recognizance.”
“He’s been a public defender in Lawrence for two years,” added Grady. “Follow me.”
“One surprise after another,” mumbled Ed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay in the command tent. It’s about the only place I feel safe.”
“You’re not going anywhere. I just need to give Maguire a break from your ugly mug. Bring your chair over to my table.”
“Am I still under house arrest?”
“No. More like grounded.”
“I can live with that,” said Ed, folding his chair.
“Let’s see if we can steer Alex in the right direction before the storm grounds my Ravens.”
Chapter 14
EVENT +57:27
Chestnut Hill Reservoir
Brookline, Massachusetts
Alex picked up the pace, transitioning from a fast walk to a light jog. He’d worked through the cramps seizing his legs, using an age-old method perfected by the marines. Keep going. Defying all scientific theories regarding muscle cramps, ranging from electrolyte depletion to dysfunctional reflex control, “pushing through it” never failed. He checked on the kids, who easily kept pace. Both of them ran cross-country and long-distance track events in high school, so he didn’t anticipate any endurance problems. He wondered if they were thinking the same thing about him.
An unfamiliar buzzing sound penetrated the curtain of driving rain, causing him to stop. He scanned the deserted gravel path, expecting to see a motorbike tear down the trail. The gently curving stretch appeared empty, but he wasn’t convinced they were alone. The driving rain had reduced effective visibility to a few hundred feet. The high-pitched buzz intensified, and he signaled for the kids to take cover in the bushes and trees to the right of the path. They scrambled through the thin foliage, pressing into the dirt behind the first stand of trees. Alex caught a fast motion in his peripheral vision and turned his head.
No shit.
A gray aerial drone streaked over the reservoir, bucking from the wind and passing within a hundred feet of the northern shore. He recognized the RQS-11D immediately. Slightly larger than its predecessors, the Solar Raven represented a breakthrough in the realm of organic unit reconnaissance capability. Fitted with integrated, high-efficiency solar panels, and day/night camera systems, a single Solar Raven provided unit commanders up to nine hours of continuous aerial surveillance coverage. Colonel Grady hadn’t let him down. Alex stood and waved for the cameras. A sudden gust of wind dropped the remote control aircraft several feet below its flight path, and Alex knew it had a limited time on station (TOS).
“Wave to your dad. That’s one of the marine UAVs.”
Chloe stepped in front of the trees and waved enthusiastically. Alex hoped Ed was watching. It was unlikely that Ed had received Chloe’s transmission last night, and this was the first time he could personally verify her safety. With Grady actively helping them, he felt far better about crossing during daylight hours. Even with the storm masking their approach, the chance of discovery en route was high. Crossing the river carried a near one hundred percent guarantee of being spotted. He’d transmitted news of their departure, pretending to speak with Ed, in the hopes of eliciting sympathy from an old friend. Now it was time to see how big he owed Grady. He extracted the handheld radio.
“Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over”
“Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”
The Raven banked left toward the center of the reservoir and was swallowed by the rainsquall. Visibility must be shit from above. Colonel Grady answered the radio a few seconds later.
“This is Patriot Actual. You don’t look any worse for the wear Three-Zero. Sierra Whiskey sends his thanks.”
Sierra Whiskey stood for Sergeant Walker.
“Your dad says hi,” he said to Chloe, motioning for her to take cover. “Copy. Looking to reunite these two, sooner than later.”
“That’s what I suspected. Big picture is dim until weather clears. It’s either retrieve or recover the birds. I’d rather recover. You know the drill.”
“Roger. I’ll take any intelligence you can pass,” said Alex.
“
Low-level passes indicate you are clear to cross Commonwealth due north of your position. Avoid closing within two hundred feet of any T-Station. High probability of contact. Low-level north-to-south flight in the direction of movement showed no signs of obvious or concentrated insurgent movement. All vehicle movement classified hostile. How copy?”
Insurgent movement?
Both sides had this completely wrong.
“Copy all. Request that you notify all friendly units within vicinity of destination. Estimate travel speed to be twelve to fifteen kilometers per hour. Raider gave me flares for IFF. I will contact Patriot when ready to launch flares. Can you verify that Raider passed the right sequence to friendly pickets?”
“
Roger. We’ll ensure they have the correct details. Recommend that you demilitarize your look. Charlie Romeo to start.”
“Understand. Old habits die hard,” said Alex.
“
Good luck, Three-Zero. Patriot out.”
Alex pocketed the radio and dropped his backpack.
“Did you get all of that?”
“Most of it. Retrieve or recover?” said Ryan.
“He can’t keep the Raven up in this weather. Five pounds is no match for heavy rain and gusting winds. He’d rather recover it in Cambridge than retrieve it from the river or a hostile street. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still flying. I’m going to strip down my tactical rig and stuff it in my backpack so I look a little friendlier on the streets. The two of you should be fine.”
Ryan wore a gray T-shirt under a light blue, unbuttoned long-sleeve hiking shirt, a pair of khaki pants with cargo pockets and brown leather boots. With a medium-sized military-style rucksack and Alex’s desert MARPAT bonnie hat, he might attract a second look, which was why Alex insisted that he stuff the HK P30, without suppressor, into his right cargo pocket. Tucking it into his front waistband was too obvious, and the rear waistband was obstructed by his pack. It was all about appearances and practicality, which brought him to Chloe.
Her backpack was a purple, off the shelf, day hiking rig, which didn’t raise an eyebrow. Combined with a light blue Boston Red Sox hat, gray short-sleeved hiking shirt and dark brown convertible cargo pants, she looked like a lost, yuppie hiker. Her outfit wasn’t the problem. Chloe’s gender would automatically attract attention, and additional scrutiny could end in disaster. Wrong.
Any
scrutiny could be instantly lethal.
He had no idea what had happened to the students in Warren Towers after he left. If the Liberty Boys broke through the barricades, they’d show little mercy for Piper and her ragtag band of freshmen warriors. Most of the students could provide an adequate description of Alex if forced. They knew he came to rescue Ryan and that Ryan had a girlfriend at Boston College. It didn’t take a Boston University level SAT score to put together the pieces. He’d even left photos behind for the Liberty Boys to pass around!
Stupid.
If the sixth floor of Warren Towers fell to militia guns, it wouldn’t matter if Chloe grew a beard. Still, they had to do something.
Alex proposed outfitting her in Ryan’s spare clothes and giving her a one-minute haircut, but Chloe pointed out the obvious problem that no last minute, gender-neutralizing efforts could camouflage. Even with her tightest jog bra cinched in place, she couldn’t pass for “one of the guys.” They’d have to do their best to stay out of sight.