Authors: Steven Konkoly
Sustained machine-gun fire shattered the quiet, followed by the sporadic pop-pop of semiautomatic fire. Alex dropped to the road and rolled next to the SUV, just as a shorter burst of automatic fire ripped through the lakeside community. Evans leaned out of his window.
“They’re firing at the house!”
Alex pushed off the ground, crouching behind the door. Another long, staccato burst echoed through the street, devoid of the telltale hisses and cracks.
Shit!
“Drive!” he screamed, hopping into the car.
They roared past Eli’s Bronco, as long bursts of automatic fire continued.
We’re too late.
Based on the feeble level of return fire, he doubted many of his friends had survived the initial fusillade.
“Dismount! Take your Marines down the road on foot and push through the yard. Weapons free!”
Before Kennedy hit the brakes, Alex pushed off the seat in front of him and leapt out of the SUV, skidding across the shoulder into the bushes on the right side of the road. Without pausing, he lurched forward, breaking through the dense brush and tumbling onto a well-manicured lawn. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the thick wall of evergreens that marked the boundary of Charlie’s property, cringing with every devastating burst of rifle fire.
“Staff Sergeant, you got anything on the road?” said Alex, his rifle barrel entering the wall of pine needles.
“Negative. We’re almost in position in front of the house.”
“Advise when ready. I’m entering the bushes on the right side of the property. Out.”
The gunfire stopped, dropping a heavy silence over the yard. Gunfire meant his friends were still in the fight.
Please. No.
Alex shouldered his rifle, advancing cautiously in the face of the unbearable silence. When a few seconds passed without another shot, he stopped in the middle of the evergreen hedge and switched his squad radio to the first frequency programmed by the militia prisoner. He needed to distract Eli long enough to save anyone left alive in the house. It was all he could do at this point.
“Eli, I’m going to kill you just like your piece of shit brother and nephew,” hissed Alex. “Make a bullet in the head a new Russell family tradition.”
“Good luck with that.”
The bush in front of him exploded, discharging a bloodied man in camouflage.
Charlie!
He collided with Alex, knocking them both to the lawn under bullets snapping through the branches. The sound of sustained automatic gunfire kept Alex pressed to the ground while the man desperately clawed at the grass beside him to get away. Alex twisted onto his side and reached out to calm Charlie, his hand knocking a Motorola radio out of the way.
What the—
Eli Russell stared back at him, stunned for moment, before his blood-splattered face morphed into a demented grin.
“You!” he screamed, flipping onto his back and fumbling with the pistol holster on his belt.
Alex rolled onto Eli, jamming his left hand against the top of the holster while driving his knee into his groin. Eli bellowed and planted his left foot under Alex’s lower abdomen, propelling Alex into the evergreen bushes. He tripped over the sturdy branches of a dwarf spruce and crashed to the ground, smashing the back of his helmet against a landscaping boulder. The blow left him stunned, until the first bullets from Eli’s gun whipped through the pine boughs, passing inches overhead.
Alex rolled to his right in a desperate attempt to evade the storm of bullets chasing him. He collided with a tree trunk as Eli crashed through the bushes, screaming and firing his pistol until the slide locked back. One of the .45-caliber bullets struck the top of Alex’s helmet, snapping his head backward against the ground. The second bullet pounded his upper sternum—one inch below the top of the Dragon Skin vest. The impacts stopped him cold, freezing him in place for the kill shot. Eli crouched a few feet away, quickly reloading the pistol’s magazine and leveling it at Alex’s face.
“What were you saying about my brother?”
Alex kicked his right foot in an arc over his body, hitting the pistol but failing to knock it out of Eli’s grip. Eli backed up and extended the pistol forward, his eyes darting nervously to the left. A rifle barrel protruded through the bushes, hovering inches from Eli’s temple. A single, point-blank shot snapped Eli’s head sideways. His body remained upright for a moment, then crumpled to the ground next to the dwarf spruce, a bright crimson fountain pulsing skyward from the neat hole punched through his head. Charlie limped into the open, keeping his AR-15 aimed at Eli’s motionless body. A Marine shouldering a bipod-equipped M27 burst through the bushes a fraction of a second later, sweeping the smoking barrel left and right for targets.
Corporal
Almeda?
He’d stayed behind in the helicopter, or so Alex thought.
“Hostile is down. Say again. Hostile is down,” said the marine, crouching over Alex. “That was stupid, Mr. Thornton. You all right, Captain?”
“The rest of your squad is hidden along the road,” he rasped, still struggling to breathe from the sternum shot.
“Copy that, sir,” said the marine, activating his microphone. “Friendlies on road in front of the house. Hold fire. I repeat. Hold fire.”
Charlie kneeled next to him, slowly shaking his head. “What the hell happened to you?”
“What the fuck hasn’t happened to me?” Alex grumbled, clasping Charlie’s hand. “Is everyone all right?”
“Ed fell off the deck trying to follow me. He’s the only casualty I’m aware of.”
“I’m fine, jackass!” said Ed, hobbling stiff-legged into view. “You knocked me down the stairs.”
“You were moving too slow!” said Charlie. “Everyone’s fine. We moved the kids into the cellar after the Marines arrived.”
Alex stared quizzically at Almeda. “How did you pull that off, Corporal?”
“You owe that crew chief a few bottles of something expensive,” said the marine. “He convinced the pilots to drop us off at the second set of coordinates.”
Staff Sergeant Evans squeezed between the bushes next to Alex, his eyes drawn to the blood-soaked corpse on the ground.
“Is that him?”
“That’s him,” said Alex, staring at Eli’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes.
“I’ll snap some pictures so they can confirm his ID,” said Evans. “Almeda, escort these gentlemen back into the house until we secure the perimeter. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Affirmative.”
“I got them, Staff Sergeant,” said Alex, using Ed’s hand to pull himself up.
“You got us?” said Ed. “I’m losing track of the number of times we’ve saved
your
ass.”
“Me too,” said Alex, brushing off the pine needles. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you guys watching over me.”
An awkward silence enveloped the group.
“There’s an empty house at the end of the road. The owners live in Hartford. Doubt we’ll ever see them,” said Charlie. “We can make it work up here—together.”
Alex unfastened the nylon straps against his chin and removed the three-pound ballistic helmet, accepting the sun’s warm rays on his face. He liked the sound of that.
Together.
“Does the other house have more than one toilet?” asked Alex, raising an eyebrow.
Charlie and Ed broke into laughter, knocking down more of the wall Alex had spent the past six years building around him. He flipped the selector switch on his rifle to “safe,” and clipped the helmet to the side of his vest.
“Can’t be any worse than a thirty-eight-foot sailboat,” said Ed.
Alex smiled, shaking his head. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Chapter 46
EVENT + 22 Days
Penobscot Bay, Maine
A crisp, north Atlantic gust penetrated his jacket, providing a stark reminder of the family’s decision. Instead of warm trade winds and endless summer days, they unanimously decided to steer the
Katelyn Ann
north, toward a bitter cold winter in Belgrade, Maine, relieved to keep the sturdy bonds of hard-earned friendship intact. Doubts still lingered about the Federal Recovery Plan’s long-term impact on New England, but they all agreed that northern Maine provided adequate geographical isolation to keep them out of harm’s way for the immediate future.
Alex raised the binoculars hanging from his neck and scanned the wispy fog ahead for the signs of Belfast harbor. His handheld GPS receiver indicated they were less than a nautical mile from the town docks. White specks materialized in the distance, announcing the outer edge of Belfast’s extensive mooring field. From what he could tell, the field was intact, untouched by the wall of water that had devastated coastal facilities further south in Casco Bay.
Sailing the
Katelyn Ann
out of Yarmouth through petroleum-covered inner Casco Bay had reintroduced Alex to the extent of the tsunami’s damage. Marinas and town facilities they’d frequented on family sailing trips had been wiped out of existence, now marked by little more than bobbing clusters of discarded boats, heavy debris and the occasional decayed body. Alex steered them as far away from land as possible until they passed Monhegan Island, where he pointed the bow in a northeasterly direction for the transit into Penobscot Bay.
He tracked a steady flow of merchant vessels and petroleum carriers headed in the same direction, maintaining a cautious distance from the behemoths. The sight of inbound maritime traffic was encouraging, signaling the first real steps toward recovery he had seen since the morning of the event. The unusual volume of ships plying the bay’s restricted waters meant one thing: Searsport’s Intermodal Cargo Terminal had power and was open for business. Good news since petroleum and durable goods reaching Searsport could be transported by pipeline and truck to points south, easing recovery efforts in the most damaged areas of New England.
As the field of swaying sailboat masts came into focus ahead, the familiar deep growl of a throttling lobster boat reached him. Scanning the mist, he spotted the ancient wooden contraption cutting across the bay for open water and its crustacean harvest. On the surface, Belfast harbor appeared unchanged in the wake of the disaster. Alex knew better, but seeing the waterfront emerge unscathed gave him hope. He’d seen nothing but one devastated harbor after another on the trip up the coast.
“Mom, bring the kids topside!” said Alex. “We’re getting close.”
Amy Fletcher appeared through the open cabin hatch. “How close?”
“Ten minutes from tie up.”
“That close?” she said, climbing into the cockpit and peering over the ripped dodger. “Belfast looks completely untouched,” she said.
“On the outside. It’s a different story behind every door. We need to offload as quickly as possible and get out of here. Two vehicles and a loaded trailer are bound to attract attention.”
“What about the boat?” she said.
“I’ll find an empty mooring and do a ten-minute winter prep. Throw a little fuel stabilizer in the diesel tank. Pump the water from the lines and run a jug of antifreeze through the system. Same with the engine. If we need to leave, we can have the boat running in less than two minutes.”
“We won’t need to do that. I have a good feeling about this,” said his mom.
“Me too, Mom, but it’s always good to have options.”
“I’ll leave you to your options while I get the kids up to help,” she said, climbing below deck to send the kids topside.
Alex pulled back on the stainless steel throttle lever, slowing the sailboat for their transit through the crowded mooring field. Most of the boats appeared empty, devoid of the telltale signs of a cruising family or couple: towels and bathing suits draped over the boom, or dinghies swinging lazily from a line tied off to an aft cleat. Occasionally, a head peeked through a hatch or appeared in a cabin window. He wondered if they had been there since the day of the event or if they had fled north seeking refuge. Either way, they couldn’t stay on the water much longer.
Studying the rapidly developing image of Belfast’s waterfront in his binoculars, he spotted the first marina on the edge of town. He’d arranged to meet Kate at the first dock that could handle a five-foot draft at low tide. Extending a few hundred feet into the harbor from a concrete pier at the end of a dirt parking lot, the slips looked full—and Kate was nowhere in sight. He struggled with a rising sense of anxiety. He’d been out of radio contact with Kate for more than a day. A lot could happen in a day.
The decision to join the Walkers and Thorntons in Belgrade came with a few logistical requirements, which they decided should be handled by splitting up in Yarmouth. The most critical necessity was food. They had stocked the boat with a two-month supply of dehydrated food packets and MREs, which represented more than enough sustenance to reach South America, but nowhere close to the amount required to survive a Maine winter. The earliest they could expect to start eating modestly from a garden was mid-June. Nine months. He came up with a plan, utilizing the Marines, to transport the rest of their long-term food stores from Limerick to Belgrade.
Since Alex needed to keep a low profile in southern Maine, he agreed to take the sailboat north, ferrying the younger kids and his mother to the Belfast harbor. Kate, Tim and Ryan split up between the two vehicles in Yarmouth and returned to the compound in Limerick. With Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s blessing, Alex had arranged for the Marines at FOB Lakeside to stuff two Matvees with most of the remaining dry foods in their basement. Additional survival gear, ammunition and domestic supplies would be packed in the two SUVs, which would join the convoy of tactical vehicles headed north. Grady justified the deployment of the Matvees to recover his “stranded” Marines.
Alex scanned the dock again, still not seeing any signs of human activity. She was probably at the next dock.
At the far left of his visual field, a car door opened in the parking lot. Two figures ran across the concrete pier, waving with both hands as they sprinted down a steep metal ramp toward the floats. They stopped three-quarters of the way down the dock, jumping up and down to draw his attention. The empty slip appeared as soon as he cleared the last cluster of boats in the mooring field. He lowered the binoculars and steered toward the dock, curious and eager to start a long chapter with his new Band of Brothers—as long as it didn’t involve sharing a bathroom.