Authors: Steven Konkoly
“Rub some dirt on your face, Chloe.”
“Do you really think that will make a difference?”
“I don’t know; just do something. Help her out with that, all right?” he said, nodding at Ryan.
He unclipped the rifle and removed the sling, which had been layered over his tactical chest rig. A few minutes later, he jammed the waterlogged chest rig into the top of his assault pack and reattached the rifle. His external carry load represented the bare minimum he needed to cross the river. He’d spread the chest rig’s eight rifle magazines into easily accessible pockets. Three in each cargo pocket and two protruding from the right back pants pocket. The dump pouch from the chest rig was now attached to the right front section of his Molle compatible rigger’s belt. The water-resistant bag contained the radio, GPS unit and two 38mm aerial parachute flares. He’d fire those when they were ready to cross. Red followed by green.
The effort they had put into maintaining a neutral appearance seemed ridiculous with a military-grade rifle prominently displayed, but he couldn’t justify burying it in his pack. Despite all of the restrictions placed on AR and military style rifles after the Jakarta Pandemic, it was still one of the most recognizable and commonly owned weapons in the United States. The appearance of a heavily armed parent travelling with two unarmed young adults might pass initial muster. It could prevent an undetected ambush, giving Alex a chance to react, or it might allow them to move far enough through an openly observed area to make a run for it. Either way, the rifle would prove decisive, and he had no intention of sidelining it.
“Ready to move? One point six miles to the bridge. Twenty minutes tops if we jog. Good?”
“If that’s not too fast for you,” said Ryan snidely.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“We’ll let you set the pace.”
Chapter 15
EVENT+57:29
Middlesex Fells Reservation
The splashing and laughter continued longer than Charlie had hoped. He started timing them as soon as it became obvious that they weren’t passing through. Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.
Too damn long.
Two women and one man, in their twenties from what he could tell through the foliage, had appeared from the west, walking along the dirt road connecting Charlie’s small island to the forest preserves on either side of the reservoir. They stopped almost directly in front of the trail leading to the Jeep and dropped their packs. At first, he thought they had spotted the Jeep, but it soon became apparent that they were more interested in skinny-dipping than forest exploration.
Charlie felt a little weird watching them through binoculars. Peeping Tom weird. Still, he had to keep a sharp lookout in case one of them caught a lucky glimpse of the Jeep. On the grand scale of threats, the three travelers didn’t rank high in the dangerous spectrum, but looks could be deceiving, and a concealed, snub-nosed revolver in one of their back pockets could even the odds in a heartbeat.
He’d been lucky during his stay on the island. Only a handful of refugees had wandered across the island road, most of them at night when it was impossible to spot the Jeep. The majority of the traffic through his area had been confined to the eastern shore of the reservoir. He’d made a few trips to the edge of the island to observe the paths skirting the water. Families, lone wolf types, college-aged kids, mountain bikers with child carriages bouncing behind them. Now skinny-dippers. Few carried a pack larger than one of the rucksacks sitting in the Jeep. All of them were headed north. Most would run out of supplies before they reached their destination. All the more reason for him to be cautious of everyone that set foot on the island.
He’d game-planned his reaction several times, still not decided on how to respond if one of them saw the Jeep and approached it. He was pretty sure he’d charge out and pull the “military special operations” card. Tell them to move along right away or—or what? He had no idea. Maybe claiming to be military was a bad idea. Then they might insist that he helped them. He was better off telling them that he’d kill them if they didn’t leave immediately, and hope they didn’t push the issue, or try to pull a weapon. People were desperate, and trying to predict the behavior of a desperate person was like trying to predict the weather.
Distant thunder reminded him that he’d be stuck in the rain without his Gore-Tex if the skinny dippers didn’t pack up and leave soon. He couldn’t risk trying to slip into the Jeep with them this close. What the hell was going on with Alex and Ed? He hadn’t heard a word from them since Ed’s panicked transmission this morning, over eleven hours ago. It sounded like Alex’s end of the operation was moving along as planned, but he still didn’t know what to make of Ed’s predicament. The more he thought about the situation, the less he knew what to do. How long was he supposed to wait here? Hell, even if Alex called him and said they couldn’t get out of the city, “good luck, you’re on your own,” Charlie had no way of moving the logs blocking the road by himself. More thunder threatened, and the trio in the water swam to shore.
That’s more like it. Move along.
Rain started falling before they had dressed, causing them to seek shelter in the stripped trees. Charlie held his breath as they sat down to finish dressing. Lightning flashed, followed by an instant crack of deafening thunder, prompting them to stand up. He heard words, but couldn’t tell what they said over the strengthening rainfall. Within seconds, they started to jog toward the eastern shore, sharing the same thought with Charlie.
It isn’t safe out here.
When they disappeared from sight, he picked up his gear and piled everything, including himself, into the Jeep. His radio crackled a few seconds later.
“Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over.”
“Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”
He pressed his palms together and smiled. Alex was still in the game—but who the hell was Patriot Actual?
Chapter 16
EVENT +57:48
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Ed stared across the tent at the radio sitting next to Corporal Maguire. They should have reached the river by now. Something wasn’t right. He scratched the sweaty stubble on his cheek and stole a glance at the battalion commander, who crouched next to a marine seated in front of a flat-screen monitor. Grady jabbed at the previously recorded aerial drone, and the screen froze. The marine enhanced the image, and Grady shook his head. He turned his head suddenly, catching Ed’s stare, and for the first time since he stepped foot in the tent over twelve hours ago, Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked worried.
“Sergeant Major!”
With practiced efficiency, the battalion sergeant major silenced the tent with minimal words.
“Time to reinforce the concentration zone. Redeploy Bandit platoons in accordance with Charles River Op-order number two. Deploy QRF one to the Longfellow Bridge and QRF two to the BU bridge. I want Bandit platoons in place and briefed within thirty mikes,” he said, turning to the sergeant major. “Make it happen, Marines!”
Grady rushed to his seat and pulled up the Raven imagery, sorting through the various feeds provided by the UAV team.
“What’s going on, Colonel?”
“I’m collapsing the battalion’s perimeter and reinforcing the bridge crossings,” said Grady, peering intensely at the screen in front of him.
“I figured out that much. What’s really going on?”
“The last Raven pass picked up some unusual activity near two of the bridges. Vehicles and personnel almost hidden out of sight. I don’t think they were expecting us to keep the Raven up that long in the storm. Previous passes didn’t show any signs of activity. I suspect they’re up to something. I just hope Alex gets his ass across the river before it happens,” said Grady.
“He should have contacted you by now. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” said Ed.
“I’m sure he’s fine. Twenty minutes was a generous estimate, under the best of circumstances. I won’t start worrying until we hit the forty-minute mark. Even then, he might have spotted an insurgent patrol and decided to hide out for twenty minutes. This isn’t an exact science, Sergeant Walker. How long did it take you to get down here from Medford?”
“Way too long.”
“Not long enough. If you had taken it slower, you might have detected and avoided Striker One’s headquarters.”
“I couldn’t imagine going any slower than four miles in three hours.”
“No wonder you got caught. Good thing Alex was in a hurry. If we hadn’t crossed paths, your trip across the BU Bridge would have ended in disaster.”
Ed considered his words and grimaced. Grady was right. Alex would have led him onto the darkened bridge, oblivious to the danger ahead. Dressed like Special Forces soldiers, they would have been gunned down as soon as practical by insurgents hidden in the buildings and trees along Storrow Drive, or run down by one of their cars. He’d started and stopped this pointless internal debate more than a dozen times since Alex left Harvard Square, fueled by a desperate sense of helplessness. His daughter’s rescue was in the hands of Alex, and he wasn’t convinced Alex made the best decisions.
Their entire journey had been marked by one close call after another, all precipitated by Alex’s insistence on the most dangerous course of action.
With his daughter so close to safety, he needed to let it go. There was nothing left to do but trust in Alex—but he couldn’t. Chloe’s life was in the hands of a man with a lucky streak a mile long. What was that stupid quote? Luck is when preparation meets opportunity or something like that? He needed to stop dwelling on something he couldn’t change. The outcome depended solely on Alex. He had no choice but to trust his friend to protect the kids at all costs.
Grady patted his shoulder. “My daughter is at UCLA. I could only dream of having someone like Alex Fletcher on a rescue mission like this. Your daughter is in capable hands. I still see a lot of the old Captain Fletcher in him.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” said Ed.
“A very good thing.”
Chapter 17
EVENT +57:51
Riverview Road
Boston, Massachusetts
Alex crouched in the thick bushes between two dilapidated houses and examined the rusty chain-link fence across the street. According to the GPS plotter, the Massachusetts Turnpike lay beyond the fence. Blackened treetops swayed with the wind beyond the stained crisscross barrier, indicating a drop beyond to the highway. This was where things would get interesting. The turnpike represented one hundred fifty feet of flat, “nowhere to hide” open space. Beyond that, they faced three to four hundred feet of unknown before reaching the riverbank. They’d have to make a quick assessment once they ran out of concealment. Swim the Charles or run for the bridge.
Fortunately, most of the ground cover in the area had been spared the blast’s thermal radiation effects. With any luck they might be able to cut the distance to the river in half, which helped them address another challenge. The mud. Alex hadn’t forgotten the thick layer of silt he’d trudged through on both sides of the river. Sprinting near the riverbank wasn’t a viable option.
Despite these challenges, Alex was optimistic about the approach. Conditions favored a covert arrival. He didn’t detect any high-rise structures in the vicinity of the North Beacon Street Bridge, which restricted militia observation to ground-level efforts. The Liberty Boys should have a presence at the bridge, but given the weather conditions, he suspected it would be confined to vehicles. Street visibility was limited to two hundred feet at best, even less through water-blurred car windows. By the time Alex’s group appeared, it would be too late to stop them, and if the Liberty Boys tried, they’d be cut to pieces with brutal precision by the marines. It was time to get moving.
Alex scuttled through the narrow space between houses and sprinted across the muddy backyard to a gray wooden shack nestled against a paint-chipped white picket fence lining the back of the property. The kids had sheltered on the leeward side of the utility shed, between an overgrown forsythia bush and the fence. He pushed his way through the branches, startling both of them.
“Jesus, Dad!” Ryan said, lowering the pistol.
Ryan and Chloe sat shoulder to shoulder on the ground, with their backs against the shed. A steady flow of water poured off the roof onto their legs.
“Time to go,” said Alex, extending his hand to pull Ryan off the ground. “The street looks empty. There’s a chain-link fence on the other side, then the turnpike. We’ll cross at a dead sprint. Do not stop for any reason. If you spot another human being, call out the relative direction using the clock method. Add a rough distance and description. Keep moving. We can’t get pinned down on the turnpike. There’s no cover. Understand the clock method? Assume twelve o’clock is directly facing the river or across the highway. Check?”
“Check,” said Ryan.
“Check?” said Chloe.
“I got her,” said Ryan, pulling Chloe to her feet.
The screen door at the top of the back porch flew open, slamming against the warped siding. A man rushed down the uneven concrete steps connected to the house, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at them. Alex skidded to a halt, immediately reaching back with an open hand to signal the rest of them to stop. He locked eyes with Ryan and quickly shook his head, returning his gaze to the man holding the shotgun. He prayed that Ryan got the message. There was no way they could outdraw this guy. Someone died if either of them tried. He doubted the shotgun was loaded with anything less than #1 buckshot, which would obliterate anything in the gun’s direct path. At a distance of twenty feet, the man could very easily kill two of them with one blast. He raised his hands and faced the gunman, relieved to see Ryan and Chloe do the same.