Event Horizon

Chapter 12

EVENT +57:14

^{42 Orkney Rd}

^{Brookline, Massachusetts}

The first sound of distant thunder drew Ryan to the open window facing the street. He leaned on the armrests and craned his head, examining the sky. The light gray cloud cover had thickened, replaced by darker clouds, but the real menace clung to the western horizon. A purple-tinged, charcoal gray band hugged the skyline, slowly creeping in their direction.

“How long is the rain supposed to last?” he asked.

Chloe stopped fanning herself long enough to answer. “Most of the afternoon, but that was the forecast Sunday night, from what I can remember.”

“Take a look at this,” he said, stepping back from the chair.

She didn’t look thrilled to get up, and he didn’t blame her. Without air-conditioning or any semblance of a breeze, the apartment sweltered from the unabated heat wave suffocating New England. Daytime temperatures had remained steady in the mid-nineties since his arrival at Boston University on Saturday. High humidity compounded the misery, especially once the power died.

The window air conditioners in Chloe’s apartment had barely kept up with the demand, but it beat the hell out of his dormitory. He had somehow missed the part about no air-conditioning in Warren Towers and spent most of Saturday night awake, sweating through his mattress. He’d nearly cried walking back to the Chestnut Hill Avenue station Sunday night after respectfully declining Chloe’s offer to let him sleep on the couch. At least the subway had air-conditioning. He’d contemplated taking the “B” train to Lechmere station and back.

She wiped her face with a damp towel and joined him at the window, giving the sky a quick look. “It’s gonna pour. If it lasts long enough, it might drop the temperature.”

“Do you think we should wake my dad?” he asked, nodding at the couch.

“Why?”

“I think we should take off during the storm,” said Ryan.

Chloe wiped her face and stared down at Alex.

“Good luck waking him. I’ll start filling our water bottles.”

Ryan examined the filthy, disheveled man sprawled on the oversized couch and shook his head. He’d seen less realistic-looking zombies in The Walking Dead. Covered head to toe in a crusty, foul-smelling layer of muck, Alex Fletcher hadn’t stirred since falling asleep in mid-sentence. While arranging him on the couch, they discovered numerous congealed cuts and scrapes on his face and hands. A tightly wrapped, rust-color-stained bandage peeked out of his left sleeve and completed the picture. He’d gone through hell to arrive at their doorstep. Ryan almost felt bad waking him.

“Dad. Dad!” he said, nudging his exposed shoulder.

Alex mumbled and turned away from the sound. Thunder boomed closer as Ryan tried to rouse his father from a near catatonic state.

“Try this,” said Chloe, appearing behind the couch with a half glass of water.

He reluctantly took the plastic cup and held it over his dad’s face. A loud clap of thunder reinforced the urgency of their situation, and he dumped the water. Alex came to life, flailing his arms and knocking Ryan to the floor. A thunderous boom shook the windows.

“What happened?” yelled Alex, sitting up and grabbing for the rifle Chloe had hung on one of the kitchen table chairs.

“Dad, everything’s fine. I just dumped some water on your face. We’re fine,” said Ryan.

The room darkened, filled by another round of approaching thunder. His dad glanced around, still confused.

“There’s a big storm coming, Dad. We could take advantage of the heavy rain to reach the bridge. At least get us into place for tonight,” said Ryan.

“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.

“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.

“On your knees!” the man yelled.

“We’re just passing through. Headed north to Maine,” said Alex, trying to stall.

Dropping to his knees represented a severe reduction in mobility and options. The man would order them to lay prone next, eliminating any chance of escape or reasonable discourse. They’d cease to be human beings on the ground.

“This is my son and his girlfriend. I came down here to bring them home. They were in college when this mess started,” said Alex.

He studied the man’s reaction. His deep scowl relaxed while he examined the kids and took a few hesitant steps forward.

“How do you explain the hardware?” he said, pointing the shotgun at Alex’s gun.

“I had no idea what I’d be up against in the city. Better to be prepared, right? Do you have family?”

The man nodded imperceptibly, studying the kids again. The shotgun started to lower, but stopped. “I’m sorry. I can’t take the risk. On your knees! Mary! Run down to the overpass and grab one of the guys with a rifle!”

A woman dressed in khaki shorts and a yellow tank top appeared in the open doorway. “Holy shit!”

“Don’t gawk; just get down to the overpass! Tell them to get up here right away!” said the man, turning his head to address the woman.

The shotgun’s point of aim naturally followed the man’s head and drifted to Alex’s left. He didn’t want to kill this man, but time and circumstance presented no other option. Alex dropped to one knee, cradling the rifle in a single movement, but the gunman recovered swiftly, realizing his mistake. A sharp report beat the thunderous blast of the shotgun, which grazed Alex’s left shoulder, knocking him to the mud. Screams erupted from the house.

He spun on the ground, bringing the rifle to bear on the man, but the fight was over. The guy lay curled up on his side, clutching his left elbow and groaning. Ryan stood next to Chloe, frozen in a modified Weaver stance, oblivious to the downpour. The pistol trembled in his hands.

“He’s down. Grab the shotgun!” yelled Alex, testing his left arm for stability.

His upper shoulder stung intensely, but he couldn’t afford to look at the wound. They didn’t have time to stop and treat it, so there was no point. Finding that the arm easily supported his weight, he stood and grabbed Chloe, who hadn’t stopped staring at Ryan.

“He didn’t have a choice, Chloe. Let’s go,” he said, pulling her toward the street.

Pushing through the dense bushes, he heard a door slam shut.

“Find Ryan and get over the fence.”

“Where are you going?” she said, shaking her head and grabbing his left sleeve.

“I’ll be right behind you. Go!” he said, pulling his arm away.

Alex scanned the street as soon as he emerged, cursing when he finally spotted the yellow tank top in the middle of the street.

She must be an Olympic sprinter.

The woman had a six car-length head start in the direction of the Brooks Street underpass, which may as well have been six miles. Even without the backpack, he had little chance of catching her. Brooks Street was six hundred feet away according to his GPS plotter, and she showed no signs of slowing.

Alex stepped into the road and considered his options. All of them sucked. He raised his rifle and stared at her magnified image through the ACOG sight. At one hundred feet, her entire body came into focus. Her arms pumped furiously as she tried to open the distance. He placed the tip of the illuminated red arrow on her upper back and applied pressure to the trigger.

What am I doing?

He lowered the rifle a few inches and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.

Protecting family.

If she reached the underpass, they faced the possibility of a coordinated, concerted militia effort to kill them at the bridge. He hadn’t asked for any of this shit. He should have been able to drive his car to pick up the kids without anyone stopping him or trying to kill him, but that hadn’t been the case, and that wasn’t his problem. Why should he be the one to pay the price for something that had nothing to do with him? They thought he was with the marines and decided to gun him down? Fuck them. The Liberty Boys decided to shake down the citizens and turn them into informants.

Not my problem.

He reacquired the target and started to squeeze the trigger.

“Damn it!” he screamed, unable to shoot.

The woman jumped out of the street, continuing her run on the sidewalk, mostly obscured from sight. Alex turned to find Ryan and Chloe standing in the middle of the street, staring blankly at the fleeing woman.

“Dump the backpacks! We go straight for the bridge!”

Chapter 18

EVENT +57:55

^{Westbound Lanes, Massachusetts Turnpike}

^{Boston, Massachusetts}

The first Liberty Boys appeared exactly where he predicted. A raised concrete section interrupted the turnpike’s featureless metal guardrail, marking the underpass. At an approximate distance of three hundred feet, he’d barely spotted the break using his 4X ACOG sight. The men materialized at the eastern edge of the anomalous concrete segment. He hoped the men that spilled onto the rain-swept highway carried the same type of unmagnified EOTech or Aimpoint sights he’d seen fitted on the militia ARs at Warren Towers.

“Run side by side and don’t stop. Find a place to hide. Looks like plenty of concealment. Go!” said Alex, slapping Ryan on the back.

He sighted in on the group, trying to settle on the target with the best chance of detecting the kids. The strategy was pointless, since they all faced his direction, apparently aware that Alex’s group planned to cross further down the turnpike. He could have delayed this if he had shot the woman. At that range, he could have put a bullet through one of her lower legs.

I will never hesitate again, he thought as he scanned for any signs that the Liberty Boys had seen them.

The kids crossed unnoticed, but by the time they traversed the highway, the militia group had covered enough ground that Alex could see their outlines without magnified optics. He should have followed his own orders and continued without stopping, but the figures appeared in his ACOG just as they reached the turnpike divider. He panicked and ordered the kids to take cover along the concrete barrier, overestimating the militia group’s detection range. He knew he’d screwed up as soon as they stopped. Now he faced a higher probability of discovery. It was time to switch from passive to active avoidance measures.

He braced the rifle’s vertical fore grip against the top of the cement barrier and centered the red arrow on the furthest target. The suppressed rifle kicked, dropping the figure to both knees as Alex snapped two hasty shots at the next man in line. While the men scrambled for the safety of the guardrail embankment, Alex hopped the divider and sprinted across the slick pavement. He reached the guardrail as his first target face-planted into the pavement.

Gunfire erupted to his left, but he didn’t hear the telltale snap and hiss of incoming bullets. A discordant volley of gunshots immediately responded from the other side of the turnpike, followed by an intense, unremitting fusillade of semiautomatic and automatic gunfire. He expected the foliage and tree trunks around him to explode with deadly projectiles, but the wall of steel never materialized.

They’re shooting each other! he realized.

Alex spotted the kids crouched behind a thick stand of trees at the edge of a chain-link fence. Ryan had his pistol drawn, peering around the trees at the dense brush to the east. A one-story red brick building peeked through the healthy shrubs along the fence. He slid down the ridge, scraping his backside on rocks or glass. Like his shoulder, he didn’t care to check. They didn’t have time for first aid. If it didn’t involve running or shooting, it could wait until they were on the other side of the Charles River. A pungent, brackish stench hit his nose, reminding him of the muck ahead.

“What happened up there, Dad?”

“They’re shooting at each other, but we need to keep moving. Must have been a shitload of them hiding out in the underpass. Follow the fence line right. Call out any targets. I’ll cover the rear until we break out of this,” huffed Alex.

He knew going right would bring them closer to the bridge, but it also put them on the wrong side of this building when the Liberty Boys figured out they had already crossed the turnpike. The volume of gunfire coming from each side suggested a squad-on-squad level engagement. They needed to avoid direct contact with elements of either group for as long as possible.

The shooting stopped by the time they reached the corner of the fence, which meant they were running out of time. He had to reach the bridge before the militia. Once on the bridge, the marines could provide heavy suppressive fire, enabling them to cross. The trick was getting his crew to the foot of the bridge. He’d estimated the distances using maps and GPS. They had to cover two to three hundred feet of open ground, slogging through thick mud, with a rifle and a pistol for defense. The only thing they had going for them at this point was the rain.

“Keep moving! When we get past the building, you make a straight line for the bridge. I’ll peel left and give you a buffer,” said Alex.

He took the lead and broke out of the tree line, running along the fence toward the parking lot next to the building. His boots sank well above the ankle, but emerged without the telltale sucking sounds that signaled painfully slow progress ahead. The rain hadn’t penetrated far enough to make this a complete disaster. A quick look inside the fence told him that it had once been a municipal pool. Mangled lawn chairs and plastic tables lay in a heap along the far fence. The pool must have been covered with a tarp, because he couldn’t tell where the pool started or stopped under the blanket of dark brown silt.

A red brick outbuilding stood between the embankment and parking lot, shielding them from view as they approached the street. Beyond the empty parking lot, Alex saw the outline of a wide traffic island containing several denuded, blackened trees. He led them through a gate into the parking lot and hugged the side of the building, approaching the street quickly but cautiously. There was no point making a run for the bridge if the Liberty Boys had set up a firing squad for them. He risked a peek around the corner and caught a glimpse of the street signals flanking the mouth of the bridge. A concrete Jersey barrier blocked the inbound bridge lane, but the barrier on the outbound lane was not in sight. He wondered if militia units had pushed the outbound barriers out of the way on all of the bridges last night. Something big was going down.

Tearing his eyes off their escape route, Alex scanned west along North Beacon Street for any signs of immediate trouble. He didn’t see any vehicles, which made sense given the potential difficulty of the mud. The militia’s quick reaction force for the North Beacon Street Bridge had most likely been positioned inside the underpass. He noted a concrete handicap ramp extending from the front of the municipal pool building to the sidewalk. A small staircase with thick metal railings sat in front of the ramp. The brick structure directly faced the bridge, making it a logical place for one of the militia observation posts. He’d have to deal with that first.

“Straight to the bridge. Don’t wait for me,” he said, stepping onto the sidewalk.

Alex ran through the heavy mud toward the front entrance, glancing back to make sure Ryan and Chloe had started their run. He saw Ryan yank Chloe into the open by her arm, holding her in place as she clawed the air for the perceived safety of the brick corner. Returning his attention to the concrete steps, he squeezed against the wall and aimed down the canted iron sights as he approached. A quick look behind showed Chloe and Ryan making progress toward the bridge. They had reached the traffic island, gaining more ground than he expected and prematurely exposing themselves to possible observers in the pool building.

He heaved his aching body over the railings and landed on the top steps, firing his rifle before he had steadied. The first rounds out of the barrel struck the front of the thick wooden desk, startling the gunman seated behind it. The shooter recoiled and knocked a scope-equipped, bipod-fitted assault rifle off the desk into the tight space between the right edge of the desk and the wall. Alex adjusted his aim and fired two bullets center mass, knocking the man out of sight behind the desk. He let his HK416 dangle from the one-point sling and grabbed the scoped rifle from the muddy floor.

The weapon’s heft indicated he had picked up a .308 caliber AR. When it emerged, the large, box-style magazine confirmed it. Shit. He’d probably picked up the one AR-style rifle within a mile that wasn’t compatible with the ammunition he carried. He couldn’t complain. Twenty rounds in the hands of a second shooter could make a big difference.

He leaped down the stairs, leveling the .308 rifle at the closed door at the top of the handicapped ramp. Nothing. He turned his back on the building, hoping the man had been alone, and slogged through the mud until his peripheral vision detected movement—in both directions. A pickup truck raced out of the Brooks Street underpass, followed by an SUV. The vague shape of vehicles emerged from the east, still mostly obscured by the rain. He’d forgotten about the other underpass. A bullet snapped past him, fired from an unknown location. He sprinted forward, not bothering to search for the hidden shooter. His first priority was to close the distance to the bridge. Another projectile cracked overhead, joined by the sound of revving engines, putting a hold on those plans.

Alex turned to face the pickup truck and kneeled in the mud, switching to his HK416. With the .308 propped upright against his chest, he steadied his firing platform and found the right side of the pickup’s windshield through his rifle’s scope. He fired three bullets, confirming that the windshield spider-webbed, before firing on the trailing SUV. A tight pattern of four rounds shattered the second vehicle’s windshield in place.

Hurtling toward the intersection at forty miles per hour, the SUV slammed into the near stationary pickup, launching the SUV’s front seat passengers through the opaque windshield into the bed of the truck. Bodies tumbled into the intersection, catapulted by the collision. Alex grasped the rifle and ran for the first Jersey barrier, bullets smacking into the mud behind him. A throng of Liberty Boys had emerged from the bushes beyond the wrecked vehicles, firing on the run. He needed to reach the reinforced concrete barrier before the shooting frenzy tapered and they transitioned to more deliberate and inherently accurate tactics.

A thunderous metallic crunch forced Ryan to steal a glance at the intersection. A dark blue late-model SUV careened sideways, its hood bent upward from rear-ending an oversized four-door pickup truck. The SUV’s front windshield was missing, along with the driver and front passenger, who he assumed had joined the tangle of bodies next to the pickup. Three tightly spaced holes and a bright red stain in the driver’s side of the pickup’s windshield explained why the pickup stopped in the middle of the intersection. Thirty feet away, his father lowered his suppressed rifle and ran toward the bridge, looking over his shoulder at several men running toward the intersection from the turnpike.

Ryan tugged Chloe’s hand to force her along. Progress across the exposed intersection had been stop and go since the shooting started. She had dropped to the mud several times during their trek across the exposed intersection, the crack and hiss of near misses short-circuiting her legs. He just needed to get her behind the Jersey barrier and out of immediate danger. Ryan slid his right arm under her left arm and shoved her forward, pushing against her back. Bullets ricocheted off the barrier in front of them as they edged toward the temporary reprieve of the one-foot-thick, steel-reinforced concrete barricade.

She sank to the pavement behind the wall, placing her back against the concrete and burying her face in her knees. Her body twitched uncontrollably, and Ryan couldn’t tell if she was hyperventilating or crying. He pressed his forehead against her pink ball cap and held her tightly, wishing he could soothe her. The maelstrom of incoming fire intensified, showering them with concrete fragments. Chloe flinched at every sound. There was nothing he could do for her right now, other than get her to the other side of the bridge.

He yanked the pistol from his waist and started to lift himself, but froze. This wasn’t a day at the range with his father. The supersonic snaps filling the void above him represented lethal projectiles travelling over three thousand feet per second. Rising above the top of the barricade exposed him to a fickle domain ruled by chance and ever-slimming odds. Ryan had learned all about this world after he announced his intentions to follow in his father’s footsteps and pursue a commission as a marine officer. A weekend camping trip materialized, during which his father unveiled the realities of combat and dispelled the myths. One of those realities pressed down hard, locking him in place. He grimaced, fighting against it.

“Combat is all about odds,” Alex had told him. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of ordnance fired on the battlefield never reaches its intended target. Long odds until you consider the sheer volume of projectiles fired in a battle.”

He tried to stand, but his legs refused. He had to break out of this paralysis. His dad would be devastated to find him cowering behind cover. The thought of his dad in the sights of every gun south of the bridge spurred him into action.

Ryan popped up and scanned right, finding a target aiming a rifle at the bridge from the riverbank. Three rapid trigger presses placed ordnance close enough to break the shooter’s concentration, forcing him to seek concealment in the thick underbrush. His dad hit the pavement next to him, slamming his back against the concrete. Ryan dropped down, not seeing any point in pushing the “long odds.” The intersection swarmed with heavily armed militia. Remembering another Captain Fletcherism, he slid past Chloe to take a new position along the barrier.

“Appearing in the same place twice during a gun fight is bad for your health.”

Shards of concrete stung Alex’s hands as he vaulted the barrier and landed next to Ryan, who had just fired Alex’s pistol at the riverbank. Ryan scooted past Chloe and rose to fire three aimed shots directly into the intersection. A sharp scream from the intersection penetrated the earsplitting chaos.

“They’re all over us!” yelled Ryan.

Alex unclipped the HK416 from his sling and handed it past Chloe to Ryan. Chloe quivered against the obstacle, face buried in her knees and hands covering her ears.

“Spare mags in my cargo pockets! Lay down some fire while I launch our flares!”

Alex scrambled to open the dump bag containing the flares while Ryan rapidly fired two-round salvos at the militia. He felt Ryan’s hands clawing at the rifle magazines in his left cargo pocket before he had unscrewed the top and bottom end caps of the first flare. His son burned through the rest of the magazine in seconds. Incoming gunfire struck the top of the barrier and the side of the bridge, spraying them with painful fragments. They needed to move to the next barrier, but he didn’t dare risk running toward the marines without sending up the flares. He prepared the second flare and turned to face the opposite side of the bridge.

Ryan stopped firing and ducked behind the barrier to reload. “They’re getting too close! I can barely stick my head out!”

“Just buy me a few more seconds!” said Alex, aiming the flare at a seventy-degree angle in the direction of the marines.

He withdrew the safety pin and depressed the trigger, launching the aerial rocket. The flare sailed skyward and disappeared in the rain. He heard a faint pop a few seconds later.

Fuck.

Alex had forgotten that the parachute flare travelled nearly a thousand feet before igniting and drifting back to the ground. He wasn’t sure if it would drift down far enough to be seen through the gray curtain of clouds and precipitation before extinguishing. Firing another flare seemed pointless, but he aimed the next one skyward and fired it with the same grim result. Swallowed by the impenetrable squall.

“What happened to the flares!” yelled Ryan, changing magazines.

“Into the clouds! Stand by to leapfrog to the next barrier. I’ll cover you and Chloe with the .308 from here. You lay down fire for me. Focus on the closest shooters. Three-round salvos. Go!”

Bullets snapped overhead as Alex and Ryan swapped positions at the end of the crumbling Jersey barrier. Ryan pulled on Chloe, but she didn’t budge.

Wrong time for this!

Alex leaned around the corner and found a target crouched behind a thick tree in the traffic island. He centered the crosshairs on an exposed shoulder and pressed the trigger. The rifle bit into his shoulder. He scanned over the barrel for more targets, locating a shooter at the corner of the pool building. The 6X scope brought the man into focus; a .308 bullet dropped him into the mud. The volume of fire against Alex’s edge of the barrier intensified, forcing him back.

“You have to get her moving!” he said, sliding in the mud to the other side of the barrier.

“It’s only twenty-five feet, Chloe,” Ryan said to her. “You can do it. My dad and I will protect you. We have to go, Chloe! You have to run!” pleaded Ryan, tugging furiously at both her arms.

Alex fired two shots from his new position, connecting with one of them before the Liberty Boys adjusted their aim and started to pulverize the corner. He pressed his back into the concrete and examined the rifle scope. Small miracle. The scope was attached to a quick-release mount. He flipped the levers and discarded the scope, raising the front and rear flip-up sights. That was better. He rose to his knees and braced the rifle’s hand guard against the concrete, firing the rest of the magazine in two-round salvos at the militia squad that had taken cover behind the destroyed vehicles. The level of incoming fire dropped significantly for a few seconds.

Alex dropped below the barrier and processed the situation. He could suppress the militia and hand Ryan the rifle, giving his son a few seconds’ head start. It might be enough to get him to a safer position. The Liberty Boys would focus their initial fire at the barricade, giving Ryan a few additional seconds to reach cover. No other scenario worked.

“Get to the next barrier and cover me! I’ll carry her,” said Alex.

“You can barely run! I’m not leaving her!”

“Get to the next barrier! That’s an order! I’ll unload the HK and give you the time you need to get in position to cover our withdrawal. It’s the only way,” said Alex, tossing the .308 into the mud.

Alex reloaded the HK416 with one of the magazines from his back pocket. He passed the three from his right cargo pocket to Ryan, who stuffed them in his pockets, shaking his head.

“Dad, I’ll carry her. You shoot,” said Ryan.

With Chloe on his back, Ryan would move at less than half of his potential speed. Alex was willing to fight and die behind the first barricade, but the high volume of fire required to momentarily quiet the militia guns would burn through the HK’s thirty-round magazine in seconds. Ryan and Chloe would be caught in the open during the first magazine change. Only one scenario produced a guaranteed survivor if Chloe refused to run. Glancing at her shell-shocked, inert form, he didn’t see a ten-meter dash anywhere in her near future.

“That won’t work! You go first and get ready to cover us!” said Alex.

“You’ll leave her here!”

“I won’t leave her,” muttered Alex, stunned by his son’s accusation. “I don’t get to walk off this bridge without both of you.”

“Then let me carry her.”

“Ryan—”

A red glimmer in the sky east of the bridge caught his eye. He craned his neck against the harsh concrete and watched a red parachute flare break through the murky ceiling, swinging wildly for a few seconds before extinguishing. The parachute landed on the northern riverbank, nearly three hundred feet away. A green flare appeared further downriver, visible for a brief moment. Red tracers streaked past on both sides of the bridge before he could turn to Ryan, followed by the thunderous pounding of heavy-caliber machine guns. Alex pulled Chloe and Ryan flat against the pavement as the air filled with the sharp, staccato crackle of automatic machine-gun fire. The deafening roar continued for a few seconds before Alex lifted his head far enough off the ground to see that the tracers raced north to south.

Hello 1^st Battalion!

“Those are marine guns! Lift her up and haul ass. I’ll be right behind you!” said Alex.

Alex crested the top of the concrete block and stared at the carnage for a moment. The municipal building’s red brick façade crumbled into chunks of brick and mortar under a hail of tracers, each red streak representing four steel-jacketed bullets. Large and small projectiles punctured the thin metal on both sides of the pickup truck and SUV, hammering the men seeking cover from the onslaught. A geyser of blood erupted above the pickup truck’s hood, followed by a headless body toppling into the mud. A group of panicked men scrambled away from the vehicles east of the traffic island as tracers ricocheted off the metal. The marine gunfire intensified, tearing into the men as they crossed open ground. He felt a solid tug on his shoulder.

“Ready to move,” said Ryan, holding Chloe in a fireman’s carry.

“Right behind you,” said Alex, firing at the few targets of opportunity left by the marines.

He found it difficult to keep up with his son, who effortlessly carried Chloe to the next barrier. Ryan paused near the next barrier, waiting for instructions.

“All the way! All the way!” said Alex, pushing Ryan forward.

Two bullets struck the face of the barrier, stopping him from immediately following. He scanned the intersection through the ACOG scope, searching for a shooter the marines couldn’t see from their firing positions or vehicles. The bridge rose a few feet higher than the north bank, possibly obstructing their view of low-profile targets directly in front of the first barrier. He focused on positions close to the ground, spotting movement under the front end of the pickup truck. With all of its tires flattened by machine-gun fire, the front fender sat several inches above the mud, providing a perfect firing position for anyone willing to burrow their way through the filth.

Alex centered the tip of the red arrow on the darkness beneath the bumper and fired twice, unsure if his bullets struck a target. Smoke erupted from the same spot, spitting several bullets back. Alex pressed the trigger once before the projectiles reached the barrier, shattering concrete and grazing his right cheek. He dropped to one knee, clutching his face with his left hand and firing indiscriminately with the other. More rounds hit the barrier, forcing him to crouch. Ryan cried out less than a second later. This wasn’t working.

Chloe lay on the pavement next to Ryan, who struggled on one knee to pull her toward the next barricade. Bullets snapped overhead, but Alex ignored them. He had to get the kids out of the open. He waved at the nearest marine M-ATV for help, but the gunner kept firing the roof-mounted M240B in long bursts. A few seconds later, three marines in full battle gear appeared at the end of the bridge, running in their direction. Alex rushed across the exposed hardtop and helped Ryan drag Chloe behind the wall. His son had been hit in the leg, but he couldn’t tell how badly. A primeval tunnel vision channeled all of his focus and physical energy into pulling Chloe out of harm’s way. He instinctually knew it was the only way to get his son out of the kill zone. The marines slammed into the concrete before he could check Ryan, firing fully automatic bursts across the bridge.

“Ryan!” he yelled, scrambling around one of the marines to reach his son.

“40 mike mike! Send it!” yelled a short, stocky staff sergeant.

The marines grabbed the pistol grips beneath their rifle-mounted M320 Grenade Launcher Modules and filled the air with hollow thumping sounds. A pair of hands grabbed his collar and stopped him.

“We got this, sir!” said the staff sergeant. “Colonel will kick our asses if he finds out about this.”

The marine lifted Ryan’s right arm and draped it over his shoulder, pulling him upright. Blood dripped from the tip of his son’s boot.

“Grady didn’t send you?”

“Negative. My orders are to provide suppressing fire to aid in your withdrawal. I just happened to bump into you while repositioning.”

Three successive explosions sprayed mud and invisible fragments across the distant intersection.

“Amazing how shit like that happens. I owe you one, Staff Sergeant—Williams,” said Alex, studying the name patch sewed onto his Dragon Skin vest.

“Compliments of the house. We need to get your son to the BAS. He has a through and through to the outer right leg. You could use a little patching up yourself.”

Alex touched his cheek and held his hand in the rain, watching the rain wash away the blood. A quick glance at his bloodstained left sleeve brought his shoulder injury into focus. He traced the arm and saw two deep red slashes across the deltoid area. A few inches to the right and he could have claimed a repeat. Six years earlier, a shotgun-wielding psychopath had shot him squarely in the same shoulder. He started to jog toward the marines lifting the kids when the sound of a fast-moving car on the other side of the bridge stopped him.

“Behind the barrier!” yelled Williams.

Alex took Ryan’s other arm and helped the marine lower him to the asphalt.

Williams keyed his combat radio headset. “Raider One-Zero, hold fire on approaching vehicle. I say again. Hold fire on approaching vehicle.”

The marines tracked the mini-SUV skidding through the intersection.

“Staff Sergeant?” said a corporal, fingering his grenade launcher’s pistol grip.

“It could be some stupid-ass civilians trying to get across. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Could be a suicide bomber,” replied the corporal.

“Hold on. Raider Base, this is Raider One-Zero. I have an SUV approaching the south end of the bridge, moving fast. VIPs have been recovered. Request ROE instructions.”

“Raider One-Zero, this is Raider Base. Apply ROE in effect. Signal vehicle using any and all means available. Do not let the vehicle across.”

“Fire a grenade at the first barrier. Now!” said Williams.

The corporal’s launcher thumped, sending a small, dark object in an arc toward the southern end of the bridge. The 40mm high-explosive grenade hit the Jersey barrier, blasting it in half and showering the oncoming car with cement fragments. The vehicle accelerated.

“Staff Sergeant!” yelled the other marine.

“Light it up!”

Alex canted his rifle to use the iron sights and fired alongside the marines, emptying the rest of his magazine at the speeding car. Heavier guns from marine positions along the riverbank joined the skirmish, sending lines of tracers at both sides of the SUV. The car disintegrated under the barrage of mixed-caliber steel, careening left and wedging itself between the second barricade and the bridge. Alex tried to stand, but William’s hand held him firmly in place. The engine whined for a moment before the car exploded.

The force of the blast rippled across the bridge, shifting the four-thousand-pound Jersey barrier several inches. William’s instinct had saved Alex’s life, keeping his body shielded from the potentially lethal overpressure and fragmentation effects. Instead of flattened organs and punctured flesh, Alex was knocked onto his back. A cloud of cement dust and smoke settled over the bridge, obscuring his vision. Urgent, muted voices penetrated the haze.

“Sound off!”

“Leverone. Still in one piece!”

“Graham. Shoulder is trashed!”

“My VIPs?” said Williams.

“VIPs good to go!” answered Corporal Graham.

“Move them off the bridge! You all right, sir?” said Staff Sergeant Williams, extending a hand toward Alex.

“Did I spring any new leaks?”

“Just the old ones. Let’s get your son into one of the Matvees, get you all back to HQ.”

Alex helped Williams lift his son off the ground.

“You all right?” he said to Ryan.

“I can’t hear you!” screamed his son, grabbing Alex with both arms and hugging him.

“It’s going to be fine, buddy. We made it,” he said into Ryan’s ear.

“Where’s Chloe?” Ryan said, craning his head over his shoulder.

“She’s fine. You’ll see her in a minute.”

“What happened?”

“Car bomb,” said Alex.

“Motherfucking game changer,” added Williams.

Chapter 19

EVENT +58:24

^{Harvard Yard}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Ed Walker bolted through the thick tent flap and skidded on the slippery, matted grass beyond the entrance. His legs swung out, dropping him straight on his ass in front of the command post sentry. The corporal shook his head slowly. Ed sat on the wet ground for a moment, glad to be out of the steamy battalion command tent. The lukewarm downpour washed the sweat from his face and soaked through his swampy clothing, revitalizing him. The distant sound of a humming diesel engine echoed off the buildings, drawing him to his feet. He dashed toward the opening between Harvard and Hollis Halls, slowing as he approached the two marines stationed behind HESCO barriers.

After last night’s attack, Lieutenant Colonel Grady put all noncritical personnel to work filling the battalion’s modular HESCO cages with dirt from campus. The work lasted most of the night, producing dozens of four-foot-wide by four-foot-high barriers for the defensive positions ringing Harvard Yard. Two HESCO cages formed most positions, placed in a “V” shape facing the expected threat direction.

The HESCO system put twelve inches of compacted dirt between the marines and incoming high-velocity rifle bullets. Ed had been a little disturbed to discover that they didn’t have enough barriers to surround the command tent. Grady told him that if the command tent came under sustained fire, they were well past the point where a line of HESCO barriers would make a difference. He couldn’t tell if Grady was serious or kidding.

“Sir?” said one of the marines, looking away from his riflescope.

“My daughter’s coming in on one of the Matvees.”

The marines glanced at each other with doubtful looks.

“Let him through, Marines!”

Both marines stiffened, standing at attention. Grady gave him a single nod and disappeared into the tent. Ed squeezed past the HESCO barrier’s metal mesh exterior and searched for the vehicle transporting Chloe.

Holy Jesus!

Harvard University resembled a cross between a refugee camp and a third-world military outpost. The battalion’s “hard” security perimeter now encompassed most of the Old Yard commons. Two ugly, obtrusive machine-gun positions cut the yard in half, facing south toward Gray’s Hall. Three HESCO cages, arranged in a “U,” protected each M240 machine-gun team. Muddy patches of ripped turf surrounded each nest, identifying the immediate source of filler for the cages.

The battalion’s motor transport section sat directly behind the machine guns, taking up half of the remaining open space between Thayer Hall and the cluster of buildings sheltering the battalion command post. Eight behemoth MK25 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) transport vehicles made up the bulk of the section, staggered far enough apart to maneuver independently out of the yard. Four M-ATVs (“Matvees”) were parked haphazardly in front of the seven-ton MTVRs, facing Johnston Gate. All of the battalion’s tactical vehicles mounted M240 machine guns, part of Homeland’s Category Five load out. He’d learned a lot pretending not to listen to the marines in the command tent.

Ed spotted an empty Matvee near the front entrance to Stoughton Hall and jogged toward the vehicle. Part of the battalion’s inner perimeter, Stoughton had been converted into the Battalion Aid Station. The aid station had started as a self-contained shelter unit, half the size of the command tent, in the northern part of the Old Yard. Citizens flocked to Harvard Yard as word spread through Cambridge, quickly overwhelming the medical section’s capacity to house severely injured patients.

The worst cases were moved to the first floor of Stoughton Hall, where the battalion surgeon and four navy corpsmen scrambled to stabilize patients long enough to be transported to one of the overwhelmed hospitals near Cambridge. Options remained limited, since most of Boston’s major hospitals were south of the Charles River. Few patients had been moved.

Patients with minor injuries packed the rest of the yard, hiding from the rain in a variety of commercial tents and makeshift shelters. Grady refused to allow them inside the outer perimeter building, citing security concerns for both the civilians and marines. Few people in the Harvard Yard shantytown complained about the restriction. They were inside the defensive perimeter, which to many felt like the only safe place in the world. They had no idea how quickly “Fort Harvard” could cease to exist if the situation north of the Charles deteriorated much further. He’d overheard Grady issue an order to activate “thirty minute” protocols. He assumed this meant “gone in thirty minutes.”

His knees buckled as the rear cargo compartment came into focus. Bloodstains streaked across the composite benches on both sides of the vehicle. He slammed the rear hatch shut and charged the entrance to Stoughton Hall.

A marine stepped through the open doorway and put a hand on his chest, forcing him back.

“Sir, you need to be escorted into the building by one of the aid station’s personnel. If you head over to the triage—”

“My daughter’s in there!” he said, pushing back.

“Sir! You will step back and follow procedure!”

“He’s good to go, Corporal! His daughter is part of our group,” said a marine Ed didn’t recognize.

“Daddy!” he heard from the dark hallway beyond the sentry.

“Sorry, sir! Orders.”

Ed ignored the marine and pushed into the dormitory, searching for his daughter.

“Chloe!”

He heard footsteps rushing down the hallway and turned in time to grab his daughter. The fact that she could run toward him meant that she hadn’t been hurt. He hugged her tightly.

“We got you. We got you,” he struggled to say.

She buried her head in his shoulder and cried quietly, her bear hug constricting his ribs.

“You okay, sweetie?”

She nodded her head, and he held her, momentarily oblivious to the hard journey ahead of them. He remembered the blood in the back of the Matvee.

“What about Mr. Fletcher and Ryan?”

A familiar voice echoed in the dim vestibule.

“We’re okay too.”

“Alex?” he said, searching the hallway.

“We’re in the student lounge!”

His daughter reluctantly released her grip and stepped back a few paces. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Are you all right, Chloe?” he said, grasping her hand.

She sobbed and shook her head.

“She was caught in the middle of a nasty gunfight. Real nasty. You should have one of the corpsmen take a look at her,” said one of the marines that had brought her in.

Ed crouched, scrutinizing her for signs of injury. She didn’t appear to be bleeding. She was soaked like everyone else, but intact. In the hazy light cast through the entrance, he couldn’t find a single tear in her clothing.

“Not that kind of injury, sir,” said the marine.

He nodded toward the marine and hugged his daughter again. “You’re safe now, sweetie. We’re going home.”

“Right now?”

“As soon as we can, Chloe.”

“We need to go now,” she said blankly.

“Why?”

She paused for several moments. “Because they’re everywhere.”

“Who’s everywhere, sweetie?”

“The Liberty Boys.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Let’s find Alex and figure out how to get out of here,” said Ed. “Where’s the student lounge?”

“That hallway. Second door on the left,” said the marine, pointing him in the right direction.

“What happened out there?”

“They had a serious hard-on for your friend. Sorry, ma’am. Whatever he did last night, it really pissed them off. They blew up half the bridge trying to snuff him out. They’re lucky we saw the flares. We thought it was an all-out attack on the bridge.”

“Thanks for bringing back my daughter,” said Ed, starting for the student lounge and holding his daughter.

“We were just batting cleanup. Your buddy and the kid did most of the work. Navy Cross material on the bridge. Sorry, ma’am. You don’t see that very often with today’s youth.”

Ed stopped and stared at the corporal, who didn’t look much older than his daughter. He didn’t know how to respond, so he nodded and kept walking. All of this was beyond surreal. What the hell had happened on the other side of the river? Was this related to the Liberty Boys his daughter mentioned? Were they safe here? The sooner they left, the better. He planned to activate his own version of the “thirty minute” evacuation plan, rain or shine. When he walked into the doorway marked student lounge, his hopes of leaving drained faster than the blood in his face. Neither of the Fletchers looked ambulatory.

“Well, there he is. Sergeant Walker!” said Alex, lying on a cot next to his son.

The room’s furniture had been stripped, replaced by cots and folding chairs. A table stacked with medical supplies sat against the wall next to the door. A smaller cart near Ryan and Alex displayed stainless-steel surgical tools. Ed’s stomach pitched. Two of the medical station’s personnel hovered around Ryan’s bloody leg while another tended to Alex’s shoulder.

“Same shoulder?”

“It’s not bad. Barely grazed,” said Alex.

“How’s Ryan?”

Alex’s son had his head turned to the wall.

“He got hit in the leg, but he should be fine. He’ll be out of it for a while. Morphine.”

Chloe pulled at his arm, keeping him from entering the room.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Ed, turning to Alex and shrugging his shoulder.

“You should spend some time with your daughter. We had it rough getting back. She did good,” said Alex.

“No, I didn’t,” she muttered. “I almost got all of us killed.”

Alex shook his head and mouthed, “No.”

Ed hovered in the doorway, feeling conflicted and guilty about leaving them alone in the makeshift surgery room. He owed Alex everything for this. He had so much to say, but his daughter clearly needed him more.

“I don’t know what to—”

“We’ve been in this together from the start. This is just what we do. Go,” said Alex, suppressing a grin.

“Still, I—”

“Ed, don’t make me chase you out of here.”

“All right,” Ed mumbled, “but I owe you one.”

“Negative. You keep forgetting the church.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Bringing Chloe back—I can’t even.” He shook his head, fighting back tears.

“I know the feeling,” said Alex, reaching out to touch Ryan’s arm.

Chapter 20

EVENT +59:33

^{Harvard Yard}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Alex entered the command tent and immediately sensed that something was off. The staff sat tensed at their stations, silent. The battalion TOC (Tactical Operations Center) was never quiet. Ever. He took a few steps in and spotted Lieutenant Colonel Grady talking to the UAV section.

Not good.

UAV operations had been grounded for more than two hours, and the storm showed no signs of abating. He removed his boonie cap and twisted the water onto the floor. Grady saw him and patted the UAV pilot on the back before moving to greet him.

“This isn’t a good time, Alex. Sorry,” he said, pointing toward the hatch.

“You’re putting a Raven up? In this?”

“It’s just a precaution. I can’t afford any more surprises like the car bomb. Sorry, but I can’t have nonessential personnel in the TOC right now.”

“This is the first chance I’ve had to get away from the aid station. My son’s fine, by the way,” said Alex.

“I’m glad they got him stitched up, Alex. He sounds like a fine young man. Staff Sergeant Williams told me about the bridge. Sorry I haven’t been able to swing by, but things are a little tense right now. Insurgency chatter stopped three minutes ago. All channels,” said Grady, with a severe look.

“I need to talk to you about the so-called insurgency. It might have some bearing.”

“All right.”

“You’re not dealing with a rogue gang of criminals. This is something much bigger. My son says they refer to themselves as the Liberty Boys.”

“He heard them say this?” said Grady, betraying a hint of recognition.

“From his apartment window.” Alex nodded. “A group of heavily armed men and women drove a pickup truck down their street, assuring everyone that the streets are safe. From what Ryan described, criminal elements ran wild for about twelve hours. There was a ton of shooting the first night, and this Liberty Boys group appeared the next day. They were asking for volunteers to help them secure Boston.”

“That could have been the same criminal group trying to draw out troublemakers,” said Grady.

“You don’t sound very convinced. What I saw was far too centralized for spur of the moment, post-disaster opportunists. They had an effective, grassroots communications network. We were ratted out by a family just south of the turnpike. I didn’t give you a heads-up on the radio because we were running for our lives.”

“You got lucky. Staff Sergeant Williams almost lit you guys up. Flares reach a height of three hundred thirty meters. Over a thousand feet, in case you were curious,” said Grady.

“I remembered the forty second part. The name Liberty Boys has an interesting historical context.”

Grady held a hand up to stop him from continuing. “Why don’t we step outside for a second,” he said. “Let me know as soon as the Raven is airborne!”

“Yes, sir,” replied the UAV operator.

They walked far enough away from the sentry to avoid being overheard. The rain collapsed the brim of Alex’s cap against his forehead before they stopped. Grady, however, appeared unfazed by the deluge against his ballistic helmet.

“I have a few hundred digital pages of information compiled by the Department of Homeland Security on the Liberty Boys—or the Mechanics. Top secret, limited distribution. Myself and the battalion intel officer. There’s a reason for that.”

“A reserve military unit drawing unit members from the greater Boston area? I can’t imagine what the problem might be,” said Alex.

“We left three marines at Fort Devens, including my XO. My first task was to privately open a sealed file stored in my secure Cat Five capsule. The file contained explicit orders for the immediate incarceration of three marines that had been in the unit for more than a decade. Homeland identified them as ‘immediate, high-mission risks. Known affiliation to subversive anti-government militia groups.’”

“And you don’t think Homeland found all of them,” said Alex.

“That’s why we’re talking out here.”

“Don’t you find this a little disturbing? Homeland investigating your marines? Category Five Event Response with no information flowing from higher headquarters? Boston is falling apart because the two groups with half a chance to keep it together are working against each other. Maybe that’s by design. By the way, I saw a few XM-9s out there,” said Alex. “What exactly happened to the National Guard unit out of Brockton?”

“We don’t know. They just stopped communicating with us,” said Grady.

“I think they had a problem. An internal problem—and I think you know more about the situation than you’re willing to admit.”

“How many XM-9s did you see?” asked Grady.

“Does it matter?” Alex countered, studying Grady’s poker face.

The XM-9 was a new combat carbine used exclusively by the United States Army and National Guard units. Civilian variants of the Heckler and Koch line of XM rifles had been specifically banned from importation into the U.S. by the 2016 Combat Weapons Reduction Bill.

“You need to reach out to militia leadership across the river before this situation spirals further out of control. I’ve studied groups like this in Maine and New Hampshire. Talked to their leadership. They’re highly suspicious of the government, but they’re reasonable. Most of them share the same mission as your battalion: to help the people in a crisis. I assume that’s still the crux of your mission?”

“The Liberty Boys are making that mission extremely difficult,” stated Grady.

“That’s because you’re working against each other. If the current organization has roots to the original Mechanics, you’re talking about a league of New Englanders that has spent the better part of the past two hundred fifty years planning to fight a guerilla war against a possible government takeover. I’m surprised that I didn’t come across this group in my research.”

“They don’t officially exist. You won’t find a single modern reference to them on any website. They don’t produce literature or host bean suppers like nearly every other militia group out there. They don’t muster in the streets to fill sandbags when the rivers overflow or serve hot meals after a nor’easter. Instead, they donate sizable sums of money through untraceable proxies to support relief efforts. They have considerable resources at their disposal. We’re talking generational wealth.”

“You need to take steps to convince their leadership that your battalion isn’t part of a master plan to subjugate the United States. That’s the only way this won’t end in a complete disaster.”

Grady grinned and gripped Alex’s good shoulder. “I need you to head this up.”

“Excuse you—Colonel,” said Alex.

“You have experience talking to militia leaders. You’ve studied their structures and drawn conclusions based on research. My education into this subject started two days ago with the arrest of my executive officer and two staff NCOs. I can give you a laptop and a private room in one of these buildings to sort through the digital file. Help me make sense of the Liberty Boys and form a strategy. I barely had time to read the executive summary.”

“Sean, I was really hoping to head out as soon as possible. I need to get these kids home to their mothers. We’ve been gone for thirty-six hours with no contact,” said Alex.

A marine appeared between Stoughton and Hollis Halls, walking the well-worn, muddy path toward the battalion TOC. They waited for him to salute Grady and pass before continuing their conversation. The marine sergeant glanced back at Grady as he approached the sentry stationed outside of the TOC.

“Your son really isn’t in any condition to travel right now. Neither are you, for that matter.”

“I was hoping you might spare one of those Matvees for thirty minutes. I have a Jeep stashed up in the Middlesex Fells Reservation.”

“Not until I figure out why militia radio traffic went quiet. I should have UAV coverage in a few minutes. Could you give me a few hours of analysis?” said Grady.

Alex’s attention strayed to the marine that had passed them a few seconds ago. The sentry was speaking into a Motorola. The sergeant leaned against the HESCO barrier and started to unclip his assault pack from his Modular Dragon Skin Vest (MDV).

“Who is that?” asked Alex.

“Sergeant Bruckman. Chief mechanic,” answered Grady, craning his head to look at the marine.

“Why is he detaching his assault pack?” asked Alex, thumbing the snap on his drop holster.

The marine looked back at them, his eyes dropping to Alex’s holster.

Shit!

Alex drew his pistol as Sergeant Bruckman dropped the assault pack and fired a quick rifle burst into the sentry’s chest. He tried to turn the HK416 on the battalion commander, but Alex lined up the sergeant’s silhouette with his front sight and fired first, joined a fraction of a second later by Grady’s P30L service pistol. More than a dozen 9mm bullets struck Bruckman in rapid succession, driving him against the HESCO barrier and knocking the rifle out of his hands.

The marine’s MDV stopped the bullets from entering his torso, preventing his instantaneous death. Colonel Grady closed the distance to the marine, firing his pistol at the mechanic’s unprotected face with devastating effect. Bruckman’s faceless corpse slid down the tan HESCO cage and toppled into the shiny grass. Grady had already disappeared over the barrier to check on the sentry, reappearing a second a later.

“Alex, get the battalion surgeon ready for a Class Two!”

Alex holstered his pistol and took off for Stoughton Hall, placing his hands on his head as marines scrambled out of the TOC. Tensions were high, and he didn’t want to give any of the headquarters’ staff an early excuse to fire their weapons. Given what just transpired, Alex felt confident that every marine in Grady’s battalion would put their service rifle to work, sooner than later.

“Fletcher is friendly!” Grady shouted. “Sergeant Major, get Bruckman’s assault pack out of here. Possible IED. Put it in one of the HESCO pits away from the TOC. Bruckman shot Kappleman at point-blank range. Help me get this marine to the BAS!”

Alex needed to get his crew out of Cambridge within the next ten minutes. Bruckman’s aborted attack on the TOC was only the beginning. A cascade of destabilizing violence would ripple through the battalion positions in short order. He’d seen this before, and so had Grady. Alex reached the side entrance to Stoughton Hall and stopped. Beyond the fact that one of Grady’s marines had just attempted to detonate a bomb in the battalion TOC, something nagged him about the rogue sergeant’s actions.

Bruckman had removed the pack, which indicated that he either planned to throw it inside or leave it behind. Either method required remote detonation. Throwing it through the entrance hatch didn’t make sense. With a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead, Bruckman would have been forced to trigger the bomb well within the casualty radius. He probably planned to drop it next to the piles of personal gear stashed around the tent, setting off the IED from a distance. But how did he acquire the bomb? Did he bring it with him from Fort Devens? Each question led to answers he couldn’t ignore. Not if his son was stuck in the battalion aid station.

“Notify the battalion surgeon that he has a Class Two casualty inbound,” he said to the marines assigned to the sentry post between Stoughton Hall and Hollis Hall.

“Do it,” said a corporal, dispatching a private to deliver the message.

The corporal looked shaken, on the verge of tears.

“That wasn’t your fault, son. Get that out of your head right now,” said Alex.

“Why did Bruckman do that? I don’t—”

“There’s nothing to understand about it. Don’t let anyone through, Corporal, without clearing it with the TOC first. Copy?”

“Yes, sir,” said the marine, shifting his rifle toward the Old Yard.

“Colonel Grady!” yelled Alex, running back toward the TOC.

Alex passed two marines carrying the critically wounded sentry to Stoughton hall. He didn’t see an obvious entry or exit wound, but the upper half of his body armor was stained dark red. Bright red blood streamed from his mouth and nose. He’d be dead within thirty minutes—if that. Grady leaned against the tree next to the TOC sentry station, his hands and uniform sleeves soaked in blood. He shook his head and grimaced.

“Fucking savages,” he muttered.

“Sorry, Sean. Your marine…” said Alex.

“One of the rounds hit a centimeter above his Dragon Skin,” said Grady, shaking his head. “You ready to give me a hand figuring out this insurgency?”

“Can you confirm that the IED is remote triggered?” said Alex, kneeling next to Bruckman’s body.

“Hold on,” he said, searching around. “Top? Can you take a look at Bruckman’s pack and confirm the detonation mechanism?”

“Roger, sir,” said a hulking Latino marine standing next to the battalion sergeant major. “Make a hole!”

The master sergeant ran toward the unlucky marine tasked to carry the backpack to one of the shallow pits dug into the Old Yard.

“Get the marines focused, Sergeant Major. We still have a shit storm brewing out there,” added Grady.

“On it, sir! Back in the TOC! Let’s go!”

Alex emptied the dead marine’s pockets and vest pouches, trying to avoid staring at his lifeless, destroyed face and the brain matter seeping out of his combat helmet. He found a Motorola resembling one of the battalion’s encrypted models and handed it to Grady.

“Can you confirm this is one of yours?” said Alex, continuing the search.

“What’s your theory?”

“If it’s remote triggered, either Bruckman or another marine has the detonator. I was hoping to find it on Bruckman.”

“Doesn’t make any sense. How did he know to bring a backpack IED to Devens? We were on a regularly scheduled AT,” said Grady.

Alex finished his search, coming up empty. He stood up and shook his head.

“Maybe they bring bombs with them to every reserve drill—or maybe someone delivered it.”

“Everyone camped out on the yard has been thoroughly searched… son of a bitch! Bruckman CASEVAC’d some of the civilians to Cambridge Hospital,” said Grady, stepping toward the tent flap.

“Not by himself, I assume,” said Alex.

“Correct. Another motor transport marine. Sergeant Major!”

The ground shook, followed by the sharp crack of a high-order detonation. Windows shattered above the HESCO barrier stationed between Harvard and Stoughton Halls, followed by a horizontal debris shower that instantly engulfed the marines shielded from the blast. Gunfire erupted outside of the perimeter as marines from the battalion supply point poured out of the back of Harvard Hall and rushed to the source of the explosion. Alex started to walk backward, toward the battalion aid station.

“Who am I looking for?” yelled Alex.

“Private First Class O’Neil. Caucasian. Short. Pale with freckles,” said Grady.

The battalion sergeant major’s acne-scarred face burst through the tent hatch. “Sir, we have movement south of the river. UAV picked up at least fifty personnel and multiple vehicles at the bridges.”

“Which bridge?” asked Grady sharply.

“All of them, sir.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll take care of your internal problem,” said Alex, turning toward the Old Yard.

“Alex!” yelled Grady, bending over Bruckman’s body. “You might need one of these.”

Grady tossed Bruckman’s HK416, which Alex snatched out of the air by the hand guard. The sergeant’s Motorola followed. He started to open the dead sergeant’s ammo pouches, but Alex stopped him.

“I still have a few of my own.”

Chapter 21

EVENT +59:37

^{North Beacon Street Bridge}

^{Boston, Massachusetts}

Staff Sergeant Terrence Williams stood in the M-ATV’s armored gun turret and squinted into his binoculars. The rain hampered his view of the intersection, but he didn’t need a crystal-clear view to know that the situation at his bridge was about to reach critical mass. Raven imagery passed to his vehicle-mounted tablet showed at least fifty infrared signatures gathered in front of the Brooks Street underpass. That was two minutes ago. The Raven had started with the North Beacon Street Bridge and headed east, confirming similar IR signatures at every bridge over the Charles River. Combined with the report of a massive explosion at the battalion TOC, he wasn’t looking forward to the next several minutes. Something big was going down.

He had a rapidly developing problem. The crowd approaching the bridge didn’t appear to carry weapons. Not like the group that had thrown itself at the civilians over an hour ago. ROE was clear in that case, and the militia made it easy for all of them by displaying and firing weapons. Everyone south of Mr. Fletcher’s group had been declared hostile and was targeted with extreme prejudice. He didn’t like what he saw through his binoculars. They were going to have a serious problem when the growing mass of men, women and children reached the bridge.

“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. I have eyes on sixty-plus foot mobiles approaching south entrance to bridge. I see children. No vehicles present.”

“Copy. Can you confirm weapons from that distance?”

“Nothing in plain sight. Request ROE update,” he said.

“Stand by.”

His orders were explicit. Nothing gets across. And with the newly minted suicide bomber tactic in play, he faced a shitty decision point. If he couldn’t confirm weapons, he would launch tear-gas grenades first, hoping to convince the mob to turn back. Failing that, Raider One Zero’s only remaining option was to physically block the group and try to force them back, which put his marines at risk from hidden weapons or explosive vests. If they spotted weapons, his options didn’t improve. He could use sharpshooters against the armed targets, followed by tear gas against the rest, or—he didn’t want to think about his last option. There was no way he would give that order. Not with children in the group. He’d already lost the bridge. He just hoped the crowd marching through the intersection didn’t realize it.

“One Zero, this is Raider Actual. Hold the bridge. ROE version three still in effect.”

Son of a bitch. Battalion wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

“Graham, put our Matvee in a blocking position at the foot of the bridge.”

“Ooh-rah, Staff Sergeant,” said Corporal Graham.

He keyed the vehicle radio as the fifteen-ton armored vehicle lurched out of its hide site in bushes north of Greenbough Boulevard.

“Raider One Zero, unclassified foot mobiles, numbered thirty plus, are about to walk onto our bridge. All One Zero units will hold fire. I repeat. All One Zero units will hold fire. Observe and report. I need to know if you see weapons. I want Rottolico’s Matvee forming a block with me on the north end. Load all grenade launchers with CS. Start ranging the second Jersey barricade from the far end.”

The Matvee raced into position on the bridge and joined the second vehicle. Williams hopped out of the Matvee and directed Corporal Graham into a twenty-degree angled position blocking the southbound lane. He ensured that the front of the vehicle had adequate clearance from the side of the bridge, to allow a quick evacuation. The second tactical vehicle backed up toward Graham’s, leaving a five-foot gap between the rear bumpers. Satisfied that both vehicles could simultaneously escape, he ordered the marines to take positions behind the Matvees. He walked the line, verifying that they had loaded tear-gas grenades, borrowing one from Private First Class Leverone for his own launcher.

After replacing the high-explosive grenade in his own M320 grenade launcher, Williams climbed into his Matvee’s turret and raised his head far enough to rest his binoculars on top of the armored protection kit. He scanned the crowd channeling past the first barricade. The group funneled into the left lane, which had been cleared of concrete obstructions by a large bulldozer last night. At two hundred feet, with rainsqualls whipping across the bridge, the image was still fuzzy.

“Does anyone see any weapons?” he said into his radio headset.

Negative reports filled Raider One Zero’s designated intersquad channel.

Williams stood up in the turret and leaned over the side.

“Fire one CS grenade each, at right side of the bridge, near the exploded car!”

With the crowd massed in the left lane, he hoped to avoid skimming a solid metal object the size of a Red Bull can into the crowd at two hundred fifty feet per second. Hollow thumps filled the air, and Williams watched several dark objects arc toward the south end of the bridge. Williams knew the tear gas had limitations in this weather, which was why he ordered a large barrage to be fired in front of the mob. He hoped to discourage the civilians by giving them a diluted taste of what lay ahead if they continued. Most civilians had no experience with the painful, debilitating effects of tear gas and retreated immediately when exposed to a light dusting.

Three of the seven 40mm projectiles overshot the smoking car. One hit a piece of debris and ricocheted wildly into the crowd, dropping an adult to the pavement and exploding. A cloud of white gas erupted and covered half of the group before quickly dispersing in the high winds and rain. The CS gas blinded everyone it enveloped, forcing his or her eyes shut with an excruciatingly painful chemical reaction. It then went to work on their lungs and mucus membranes, causing each breath to feel like inhaling fire.

The sudden, violent denial of sight and oxygen caused a tragedy he couldn’t have predicted. With the sole intent of escaping the tear gas, the mob dispersed in every direction. Staff Sergeant Williams watched in horror as a woman holding a child disappeared through a destroyed section of the bridge’s concrete side barrier, followed by several others.

Williams climbed out of the turret and scrambled down the side of the vehicle, hitting the pavement in a dead sprint for the side barrier. He leaned over and counted six people flailing in the water. The current dragged them slowly away from the bridge, into the middle of the Charles River.

Fuck. I killed those people.

He wanted to help them, but a rescue was out of the question. His team didn’t carry any equipment that could possibly help.

“Staff Sergeant! They’re still coming!” yelled the marine in the gun turret of the second Matvee.

Williams lifted the binoculars and saw at least forty civilians continuing the march toward the north end of the bridge. Still no weapons. The woman hit by the errant 40mm projectile lay motionless on the pavement behind the mob. Small clusters of people materialized in the traffic circle beyond the intersection, headed toward the bridge. If he could break up this advance, they might be able to hold the bridge. He kneeled and aimed his M320 grenade launcher at a point directly in front of the group. The grenade exploded exactly where he intended, obscuring the front rank in a toxic chemical cloud. He watched as the pack worked together to keep the momentum moving forward. He’d fired as close to the crowd as possible without striking it—to little effect.

“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. CS ineffective unless fired directly into crowd, causing hard casualties. No weapons visible. Estimate forty-plus civilians on bridge, with more approaching.”

“Stand by,” said the radio operator.

“Reload tear gas!” he said, running back to his vehicle.

He had just settled into the turret when Raider Base responded over the battalion tactical net.

“One Zero. Use 40 mike mike grenades to repel crowd.”

“What the fuck?” Williams muttered, keying the microphone. “Raider Base, this is One Zero. Say again. I heard use 40 mike mike grenades. Do you mean tear-gas grenades?”

An explosion thundered in the distance. Several seconds passed with no response.

“Raider Base, this is One Zero. Did you copy my last?”

“Stand by, One Zero.”

“Copy. One Zero standing by.”

The explosion was bad news. With the same situation simultaneously unfolding at ten bridges, he knew Raider Base was too busy to hold everyone’s hands. He’d give the tear gas one more chance, then order One Zero’s withdrawal. He wasn’t going to kill or maim more civilians.

“One Zero, standby to fire CS grenades. Leverone, Graham, Rottolico, Howard will fire directly in front of the group. The rest of you will fire to the right. Know your limitations and adjust. I do not want to put another round directly into the group. Five second stand by. Four. Three.

“All Raider units, this is Patriot Actual. Withdraw from your positions immediately and proceed to assigned secondary staging areas for further orders. I say again, withdraw from your positions immediately and report to secondary staging area. Acknowledge, over.”

The battalion commander had just given up the Charles River.

Williams activated the intersquad communications net. “One Zero, mount up. We’re headed to Medford.”

He dropped into the vehicle and squirmed into the front passenger seat as Graham and Leverone jumped in. He waited for his turn to acknowledge the order over the battalion tactical net, the process apparently stalled with Raider One Seven. One Seven covered the Anderson Memorial Bridge two miles downriver. He hoped the explosion had nothing to do with the delay in One Seven’s report. The thought of a bomb detonating on the Anderson Memorial Bridge triggered an instinct. He glanced across the cabin, through Graham’s thick driver-side window. A man sprinted ahead of the crowd.

“Contact, left!” he screamed, kicking his door open.

Williams sprinted to the rear corner of the M-ATV and sighted in on a runner carrying an oversized olive green backpack in his right hand. A short burst of automatic fire stopped the man just as he passed the bridge’s final Jersey barrier. Gunfire erupted from the second vehicle, directed at the advancing crowd.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he yelled into his headset, pounding on the second Matvee’s rear hatch.

A deep, rhythmic thundering replaced the M240’s rapid chatter.

No. No. No!

Tracers from the third vehicle’s .50-caliber machine gun streamed out of its concealed position along Greenbough Boulevard and connected with the top of the bridge’s side barrier. Chunks of gray concrete exploded, followed by body parts. Williams ran toward the third vehicle, frantically waving his arms and screaming the cease-fire order. The firing stopped.

“Raider One Zero, this is Raider Base. You’re transmitting over battalion tactical. Did you copy Patriot’s last transmission?”

Williams checked the transmit switch attached to his Dragon Skin vest. He had broadcast the cease-fire order over the wrong net. His marines never heard him. He switched back to the intersquad channel.

“Graham, pick me up by Howie’s Matvee,” he said.

The armored vehicles lurched off the bridge and roared onto Greenbough Boulevard, speeding in his direction. Movement in the river drew his attention to three figures struggling against the current to reach the far side. A hundred feet downriver, Williams spotted the rest of them. Four bodies drifted in a loose pack toward Arsenal Street Bridge. One of them was half the size of the others.

Anger and resentment overwhelmed him, directed at everyone. The idea of blocking these bridges had been an obvious zero-sum game, matched and raised in its absurdity by the lunatics running the show south of the Charles River. Now what? Rinse and repeat at the next set of bridges north of Boston?

“Raider One, this is Raider Base. Radio check.”

“Raider One acknowledges the withdrawal order. Proceeding to secondary staging area,” he said, opening the Matvee door. “I think we’re done with this mission,” said Williams.

Leverone and Graham nodded their approval. He’d assigned them to his Matvee for a reason. Like him, they all had young families in the Springfield area.

Chapter 22

EVENT +59:38

^{Harvard Yard}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Ed piled out of the side door to Stoughton Hall, stopping in the middle of the red brick walkway connecting the dormitories. A bullet snapped against the building façade several feet beyond him, causing him to flinch.

“Ed!” Alex said, waving him back into the building.

Alex reached the corner of Hollis Hall and edged along the concrete foundation until he stood behind the corporal. Ed held the heavy glass door open, beckoning him to follow.

“I have to take care of something. Get everyone into one room, close the door, and don’t let anyone in until I get back!” Alex yelled.

Ed grimaced. “What the hell is going on?”

“Cambridge is falling. We can expect to leave here shortly,” said Alex.

“Ryan’s leg won’t support any weight!” said Ed.

“We’ll have to make do, unless I can secure a ride with the marines.”

Two bullets ricocheted off the red brick wall a few feet above and in front of the corporal. Alex grabbed the marine and moved him off the wall. Bullets striking a hard surface at an angle had a tendency to ricochet and continue travelling several inches along the surface.

“Get off the wall, Corporal. One-foot minimum.”

“Ooh-rah, sir! Private, stay off the walls!”

“I should be back in five minutes, Ed. Hold down the fort!”

“Where are you going?” yelled Ed.

“Out there with the good corporal.”

The marine turned his head as a few more rounds struck the side of Hollis Hall.

“Don’t get shot again,” said Ed.

“Funny.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

“To stop Private First Class O’Neil. Colonel Grady’s orders. Someone detonated Bruckman’s bomb remotely after Top and another marine brought it out of the perimeter—”

“Top’s dead?”

“Most likely. Whoever triggered the bomb had to be close enough to see them carrying the pack. Bruckman made the medevac runs with O’Neil. They could have picked up the bomb from someone along their return route.”

“Sir, I need to confirm this with the battalion commander,” said Corporal Blake.

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m headed over to the vehicles before he sabotages my only ride out of here,” said Alex, taking off across the wet brick.

Alex entered the Old Yard and made a rapid assessment of the situation. Red tracers streamed across the empty half of the common, bouncing off the rain-obscured dormitory buildings and sailing hundreds of feet in every direction. Extended staccato bursts from the northern side of the yard engaged unseen targets beyond Cambridge Street. The HESCO position directly ahead of him, partially obscured by the battalion’s MTVRs, stood silent, patiently waiting for targets to appear beyond University and Thayer Halls.

Screams rippled through the northern yard as bullets tore through the civilian tents and ruffled tarps tied between the trees. Militia gunfire directed at the marines raked the refugee camp, igniting a panicked stampede for the safety of the battalion’s inner perimeter. The corporal intending to follow him was swallowed in the pandemonium, pushed back into the gap between Stoughton and Hollis Halls. Alex was on his own.

He dashed from the cover of a thick tree trunk to the front of the closest MTVR, briefly detecting figures beyond the quiet machine-gun nest. Bullets snapped past and pummeled the side of the truck during the quick trip, clearly focused on stopping him. Alex dropped to the muddy grass and leaned his head a few inches beyond the truck’s oversized tire.

A partial silhouette appeared from the far corner of Thayer Hall, directly adjacent to the HESCO barrier. Craning his head another inch yielded the complete picture. The two-man machine-gun crew lay crumpled on the ground behind the barricade; the M240G leaned against the inside of the cage, pointing skyward. Bullets smacked into the ground near Alex’s head, forcing him to take cover. The battle for Harvard Yard depended on holding this machine-gun position.

Alex rolled to his right and aimed the HK416 down the first row between vehicle columns. Clear. He stepped onto the MTVR’s running boards and opened the door, climbing into the driver’s seat.

He locked the cabin doors before climbing into the top-mounted, armored gun turret. He located the joystick for the Battery Powered Motorized Traversing Unit and slewed the independently powered turret to the right until the M240B machine gun pointed at the gap between Thayer and University Halls. He pulled back on the charging handle and slid it forward, chambering a round. With the synthetic stock dug firmly into his shoulder, he sighted in on the gap between buildings, hoping it wasn’t too late.

Four men dressed in civilian clothes, carrying rifles, swarmed the HESCO barricade, firing point blank into the unresponsive marines. Alex depressed the trigger before the Liberty Boys added a M240G machine gun to their arsenal. The gun rattled the turret mount, ejecting shells downward into the cabin, but stayed lined up on the tightly packed group of insurgents. The first extended burst punched more than thirty 7.62mm bullets through the group, at a devastating range of fifty yards, detonating a dense cloud of red mist over the HESCO barrier. The second burst shredded the remaining upright bodies, splattering the pavement with bloody entrails, chunks of flesh and skull matter.

Bullets pinged off the front armor plates surrounding Alex’s M240B, drawing his attention to a woman aiming a rifle from a covered position behind the corner of Thayer Hall. With her rifle jammed against the corner, she fired round after round at the weapon that had just cut her militia team to pieces. Alex fired the machine gun, not bothering to aim directly at her silhouette. The wall did most of his work. The first steel projectiles struck the brick wall at 2800 feet per second and ricocheted toward the woman before the rest obliterated the brick. When Alex’s gun fell silent, the woman stumbled forward in a cloud of masonry dust and dropped to her knees. Most of her face was gone.

Automatic fire erupted from Alex’s immediate right, cracking overhead and pounding the turret’s side armor. He dropped into the cabin, catching a glimpse of a helmet through the thick, bullet-resistant driver’s-side window. He drew his pistol and turned the door handle, kicking the hatch open. The reinforced door slammed into the traitor’s rifle, knocking it from his grip and smashing his nose. The marine stumbled backward into another MTVR, and Alex fired the remaining 9mm rounds from his P30 at the marine’s legs, dropping him to the grass in an agonized heap.

“Get back on the 240! That fucker took out one of the MG’s covering the south perimeter. You have a clear field of fire! I’ll get the east gun back into action!” yelled a familiar voice from the front of the truck.

Alex climbed into the turret and spotted a lone marine racing toward the gore-streaked HESCO cage next to Thayer Hall. The young corporal lifted the machine gun and placed its bipod legs on the barricade. Once he started firing across the eastern yard, Alex rotated the turret right until he had a commanding view of the south commons. The machine-gun position located on the western side of the Old Yard stood quiet, another victim of O’Neil’s rifle.

Two figures snaked along Matthews Hall, using the uneven façade to mask their approach from the remaining gun. In the confusion, they had managed to advance within fifty feet of the southern perimeter line. Alex lined up the front sight with the partially obscured figures and centered the notch in the rear sight ring, depressing the trigger. Bricks exploded, and one of the targets tumbled to the ground a few feet into the grass. Alex fired a long burst between the body and the wall, guessing what might happen next. The bullets caught the second insurgent trying to grab his partner, splattering the concrete foundation behind them.

Two marines sprinted from the corner of Harvard Hall to the downed machine-gun position beyond his gun sights. Alex scanned for threats beyond Matthews Hall, keeping the sector secure until they arrived and put the M240G back into action. One of the marines left the protection of the HESCO barrier and ran toward the battalion aid station with one of the wounded machine gunners in a fireman’s carry. Alex dropped into the cabin and opened the door, grabbing his rifle from the passenger seat. He jumped down on O’Neil’s legs, causing him to scream, and tossed the traitor’s rifle well out of crawling distance.

“I’ll get this devil dog to the aid station,” he said, intercepting the marine in front of the MTVR. “You go back and get the other. I’ll meet you on my way back.”

The staff sergeant shook his head and pointed at the marine on the ground between the two rows of trucks. “Ramirez is dead. You grab that one.”

Alex stared at O’Neil, who clutched both legs, crying out in pain.

“He killed the marines. I need you to dump that piece of shit in the battalion TOC and tell the colonel it’s a special delivery from Alex Fletcher.”

The staff sergeant’s right hand drifted toward his rifle.

“You have to deliver him alive. He might have information critical to surviving this nightmare.”

The staff sergeant transferred the unresponsive marine into Alex’s care and jogged toward O’Neil.

“Alive, Staff Sergeant!” said Alex, not encouraged by the marine’s glare.

Alex carried the marine across the abandoned sea of trampled tents, backpacks and moaning bodies, noticing that the incoming militia fire had slackened. With the bomb plot thwarted, and all of the battalion’s machine guns back in action, the attack had been reduced to a lethal, medium-range engagement. Lethal for the militia. By the time Alex reached the steps of Stoughton Hall, the yard was quiet except for the panicked yelling inside the building. He fought his way through the packed hallway, jamming the side of his HK416 against those unwilling to move.

“Make a hole! Let’s go! Out of the way!”

“Take it easy! My wife’s ankle was sprained in that mess out there,” barked a man in front of Alex, holding a woman up by the arm.

“This marine was shot standing guard over you,” said Alex, shoving past the man.

Alex pushed his way through the door to the triage center and helped one of the corpsmen lower the unresponsive marine onto the floor. All of the cots were occupied by marines or civilians with grisly wounds. The events of the past five minutes had quickly filled the station to capacity. The corpsman worked on the wounded marine for several seconds, conducting a trauma assessment.

“Class IV!” he announced, turning to Alex. “Sorry.”

Class IV was a death sentence. The corporal’s wounds required treatment beyond the aid station’s capabilities, and they couldn’t move him to one of the local hospitals. Grady didn’t have the personnel to spare. Simple life-sustaining measures like emergency airway breathing and plasma replacement only delayed the inevitable, consuming resources that could be used to stabilize other casualties. If the marine revived on his own, they’d sedate him with narcotics. Combat triage was a bitch. Without the prospect of immediate medical evacuation to a Level Three medical treatment facility, triage was an angry, merciless bitch.

Alex dug through the marine’s ammunition pouches, filling his cargo pockets with spare rifle magazines. He had a feeling they faced a protracted siege at Harvard Yard that required an “all hands” effort. He eyeballed the corporal’s Dragon Skin tactical vest, wishing he could get his hands on a few of them. The level IV body armor could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet, along with high-explosive fragmentation. Unfortunately, it didn’t protect you from traitors that understood the vest’s coverage limitations.

Angry shouting erupted from the hallway, causing Alex to level his rifle at the open doorway. The battalion surgeon glanced from the door to Alex and went back to work on a squirming woman held down by a blood-splattered corpsman. A mud-encrusted marine stepped inside the room a few moments later.

“Colonel Grady just issued the thirty-minute withdrawal order, sir. No civilians.”

“We’re gonna need some help getting these marines to the vehicles,” said one of the corpsmen.

“We have our hands full with the perimeter. You’ll have to make do,” said the staff sergeant.

“Transition to palliative care for the civilians,” said the battalion surgeon, addressing the corpsman.

The navy petty officer beside him paused for a second before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant commander tossed a bloodstained surgical instrument onto the wooden table and turned to face the marine. Placidly composed, his face projected a stolid “don’t fuck with me” expression. He spoke deliberately.

“Tell Grady we require an escort. When the crowd finds out that we’re abandoning civilian casualties, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to reach the vehicles without creating more casualties—and I have no intention of doing that.”

“Sir, the battalion has its hands fu—”

“Take a look around you, Staff Sergeant. I have thirteen critical casualties. Four marine, nine civilian. I just issued an order that killed the civilians and violated my Hippocratic Oath. Their families are waiting outside that door. Guess who gets to face that music?” He paused. “Tell Grady to get his head out of Homeland’s ass and figure it out, or he can find a new battalion surgeon.”

“Goddamn it, Commander. I don’t have the personnel to—fuck it; we’ll clear the building. Be ready to move in ten minutes,” said the marine.

“We’ll be ready in five. What’s our destination?” said the naval officer.

“Melrose Armory.”

“What’s the status on a Level Three MTF?”

“Not at Melrose. They’re still working on the delivery of equipment and personnel to Concord or New Londonderry. I’ll be back in ten, sir,” said the marine.

“Lock the door on your way out,” said the battalion surgeon, glaring at Alex. “Reclassify that marine as Class II and stabilize him for transport.”

“Class II, sir,” answered the corpsman.

“If you don’t get moving, gentlemen, I’ll put you to work,” said the surgeon.

Alex left with the marine, pulling the door shut behind him and checking that it was locked. The civilians jammed against them, asking questions that Alex ignored. He broke through the crowd and jogged down the long, dim hallway to the stairs, passing open dormitory rooms filled with injured civilians. He wondered if these people might be better off without the marines at this point.

His legs protested halfway up the first flight of stairs, forcing him to stop on the landing and lean against the wall. A wave of exhaustion and ache washed over him, no longer confined to his left shoulder. The dirty bandages covering the shotgun wound showed signs of blood seepage. He fought the urge to take a seat in the stairwell, knowing he probably wouldn’t get up. His mission was to get Ryan and the Walkers into one of the MTVRs for the battalion’s withdrawal. Melrose was located a few miles due east of the Middlesex Fells Reservation, and he had every intention of hitching a ride as far north as possible.

He shuffled up the remaining stairs and entered the deserted second-floor hallway. Ed Walker poked his head out of the fourth door on the right.

“Ed! Battalion is pulling out in thirty minutes! We need to be moving!”

“Shit,” said Ed, stepping into the hallway with Alex’s original rifle. “Is it safe out there?”

“Safer than staying here. They’re headed up to a National Guard Armory in Melrose, which isn’t far from your jeep. Two miles tops. Charlie can drive the Jeep to meet us if Grady won’t take us directly,” he said, patting Ed on the shoulder. “We’re almost out of here, man.”

“I’ll feel better when we’re loaded up on one of their trucks,” said Ed.

“Me too. How’s Chloe?” whispered Alex.

“Better. She’s able to talk to Ryan, but she still won’t look at him.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong, Ed. I’ve seen marines freeze up way worse than that. Things got really nasty right before the bridge, and it got worse from there. She’s going to need some time and distance, neither of which are in ready supply right now. She’ll be the same young woman soon enough. Trust me.”

“I don’t think any of us will be the same.”

“My guess is she’ll be fine. Let’s get our shit together and secure some seats on the last ride out of Boston.”

The stairwell door behind him burst open, causing him to whirl and level his rifle. A marine first lieutenant stepped into the hallway and froze at the sight of the rifle.

“Captain Fletcher?”

“Mr. Fletcher works just fine,” said Alex, lowering the rifle.

“Colonel Grady instructed us to call you captain. He needs you in the TOC.”

“I’m a little busy right now.”

“Give him five minutes, sir.”

“I need to secure transport out of here before the civilians figure out that the battalion is abandoning Harvard Yard.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sir. I’ve been ordered to facilitate your group’s evacuation. As soon as they’re ready to move, I’ll escort them to Harvard Hall.”

Alex looked at Ed, who shrugged with a ‘why not?’ look on his face. If Grady was offering them a ride out, who was he to turn it down? Especially if that ride came in the form of a small-arms-impregnable vehicle and only cost him a few hours of scouring through the Liberty Boys’ file data. The Captain Fletcher thing was a little annoying, but he could understand Grady’s need to give him some perceived authority in light of the chaotic circumstances.

“Fair enough. Tell Grady I’ll be right down,” he said, turning to Ed. “Stay close to this marine.”

“What’s that saying you like to use?” Ed said. “Glued to his ass?”

“That’ll work. Lieutenant? I want them in Harvard Hall ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll escort them down as soon as we get their shit together.” He extended his rifle toward Ed. “Trade you.”

“They’re the same,” protested Ed.

“But that one’s mine.”

“I give up trying to figure out how marines think,” said Ed, swapping rifles.

Chapter 23

EVENT +59:53

^{Harvard Yard}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Alex weaved through the chaotic mess of refugees that had enveloped the battalion TOC. The wounded sentry had been replaced with four marines that barely held the crowd back. As he approached the inner ring of civilians, one of the marines pushed through the angry mob and pulled him through.

“You’re good to go, sir,” said the sergeant, pointing toward the entrance flap.

He stepped inside to find most of the battalion’s gear packed into reinforced, gray travel cases marked “Cat Five.” Lieutenant Colonel Grady stood near the operations station, taking reports from the battalion staff huddled in front of communications gear. Grady saw him and rushed over.

“Attention in the TOC!” said Grady, halting all activity. “Based on the authority vested in my command by the Joint Department of Defense and Homeland Security Directive Five Bravo, I hereby commission Alex P. Fletcher as a provisional officer in the United States Marine Corps reserve, at an O-3 pay grade, effective immediately. Congratulations, Captain Fletcher. As you were, Marines!”

A few celebratory “ooh-rahs” echoed through the shelter, and the marines quickly went back to work, scrambling to pack up for their impending evacuation. Alex remained at attention in front of Grady, coming to his senses a few seconds later.

“What just happened?” he said loud enough to draw a few hurried stares from nearby marines.

“I need your expertise, Alex, and your judgment. Corporal Meyers told me what you did out there. You prevented a serious perimeter breach.”

“You don’t have to make me a captain, Sean. I’ll gladly help you sort through the militia file in exchange for a ride up to Medford.”

“The Liberty Boys aren’t my problem anymore. We’re heading well north of the city. I need your help with something else.”

“My top priority is getting everyone back to Maine,” stated Alex.

“That’s exactly where I’m sending you. One of my infantry companies is based out of Brunswick, Maine. Alpha Company. I’ve had no contact with them since the EMP.”

“Now it’s an EMP?” said Alex.

Grady raised an eyebrow. “What else could it be? Homeland hasn’t confirmed it, but I don’t expect them to. We have enough problems without rumors of a foreign attack or invasion.”

“Yeah. Reports of a U.S. government sponsored invasion seem to be keeping everyone occupied at the moment,” quipped Alex.

“I’d like you to lead a convoy of two Matvees back to Maine and establish contact with Alpha Company. First stop in Maine is at your discretion,” said Grady.

“You don’t need me to babysit your marines, Sean. What’s the catch?”

“If this shakes out like I suspect, southern Maine is about to become a significant focal point in the federal government’s recovery plan. I assume you’re familiar with Sanford?”

Alex nodded, wondering exactly how much Grady knew about his compound in Limerick. Was he included in Homeland’s file?

“Sanford has a 5,000-foot runway and sits strategically in the center of southern Maine. Rivers naturally define most of the state’s southern border, which makes it easy to seal off from the bulk of expected refugee traffic. One of the joint FEMA/Homeland Recovery plans establishes Maine as a Primary Recovery Zone. When that happens—”

“If it happens,” said Alex.

“Oh, it’s going to happen. The tsunami, coupled with the EMP, likely caused critical damage to Seabrook and Pilgrim nuclear plants. Think full reactor meltdown.”

Alex shook his head slowly.

“The refugee situation along the coast is already a mess. Wait until everyone within a thirty-mile radius of each plant hits the road. Southern Maine is about to become one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in New England. Guess what’s in this file?” said Grady, lifting a green envelope.

“Recipes for radioactive clam chowder?”

“Funny. Profiles of militia groups in Maine. When Maine is declared a PRZ, every reserve and National Guard military unit in northern New England will be sent to southern Maine to assist in recovery efforts. Homeland assessed that local militia, and Mainers in general, will not respond favorably to the sudden influx.”

“How does this relate to me being conscripted into the Marine Corps?”

“1^st Battalion, 25^th Marine Regiment will provide security within the Southern District,” he said, pausing. “And I don’t want a repeat of Boston. The Liberty Boys may or may not have responded to battalion outreach efforts. We’ll never know, and that’s my bad. I want you to study these files and come up with a game plan to approach the groups in Maine. You know them better than anyone. Ideally, we’d want to incorporate them into the overall recovery structure. Get them vested in—”

“The success of the military’s plan to speed the recovery and return control of civil functions to the local government?” said Alex.

“You know the drill. Think of this as a favor,” said Grady.

“Who’s doing who the favor? I kind of lost track.”

Grady started laughing. “We’re knee deep in favors. I’m giving you an armed escort back to Maine and a provisional commission in the Marine Corps Reserve, which gives you one of these.”

He reached into the green file folder and withdrew a light blue card with a magnetic strip on one side.

“Military ID card?”

“Better. Provisional Security ID. If you accept my offer, I’ll activate the card and upload your information to Homeland’s database. I doubt any of the law enforcement agencies or Guard units have the capacity to swipe this card, but they can confirm your identity and classification via satellite phone. Instructions are on the back of the card. You’ll be classified as security/intelligence, which will give you unrestricted travel and facilities access.”

“Travel will be restricted?”

“Only if we run into trouble, which is why I’m putting you to work on this before we arrive. I’ll provide you with a secure satellite communications kit and a ruggedized laptop. You’ll communicate directly with me, or in some cases my S-2. Can I count on your help, Captain Fletcher?” said Grady, extending a hand.

Alex weighed the situation. Taking the “deal” solved most of their immediate problems. It provided a heavily armed, government-sponsored escort to Maine, which, given the acutely hostile environment, seemed well worth the price. Long term, the military rank and security ID gave them an additional layer of protection and privilege, regardless of whether Grady’s predictions came true. Priority medical treatment for his son’s leg or, at the very least, access to medical supplies. Transportation. He envisioned safely returning to Durham Road to collect his family’s personal effects. Pictures, scrapbooks—everything they’d left behind.

Grasping Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s hand, he knew the job involved far more than relaxing at the Fletcher compound, reviewing files and typing up reports. A deep instinct told him to walk away, but he brushed it aside and shook Grady’s hand, standing at attention immediately after.

“As you were, Captain Fletcher. Welcome back to the Marine Corps,” he said, handing Alex the thick file folder. “The papers contain executive summaries of the data found on the flash drive. You’ll set your own password when you plug the drive into the laptop. I’ll activate your ID card and meet you in Harvard Hall to release the electronics gear. S-4 will set you up with some battle rattle, and off you go.”

Grady considered him for a moment and nodded slowly. “Alex, I really appreciate you doing this—on top of everything you’ve already done for the battalion. Our reunion here was providence. I’m sure of it.”

“If not, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“Too big for that. I’ll see you in a few,” said Grady, walking toward the operations table.

“Colonel Grady?”

The battalion commander looked back.

“Does Homeland have a file on me?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s just say that activating your ID will be a one-click evolution,” said Grady.

“I didn’t give you my information yet.”

“Like I said,” he smiled and knelt next to a monitor displaying a map overlay of Boston.

“Captain Fletcher,” said a young marine from the left side of the tent. “You can sneak out the back door. Head right to supply in Harvard Hall. Your family will be there shortly.”

Nausea hit him in a sudden, quickly passing wave. Homeland Security’s omnipresent hand felt suddenly oppressive. The government’s level of knowledge about everything and everyone was disturbing. Alex wondered what might have happened if he had refused Grady’s offer. Would Homeland have changed his status and paid him a visit in Limerick? Did their banter about favors have more meaning than Alex realized? Maybe the choice had never truly been his to make.

Providence, my ass.

Chapter 24

EVENT +59:42

^{Middlesex Fells Reservation}

^{Medford, Massachusetts}

Even the windshield wipers worked surprisingly well in the Matvee. He’d imagined the same shitted-up, blurry ride he’d experienced with the venerable Humvee, but everything about the Oshkosh Defense’s M-ATV sang the words “major improvement.” Visibility through the tiny bullet-resistant side windows sucked, but that shortcoming was more than compensated for by the small arms and IED impregnable armor design. He felt secure inside the tactical vehicle and wished he could convince himself to leave the Jeep behind. He pointed at the granite sign marking the entrance to the reservation’s lower parking lot.

“Take a left at that sign.”

The corporal driving hit the tactical vehicle’s siren, which sounded like a police car, while the marine in the turret yelled at the thick stream of refugees blocking the entrance. They had stopped using the horn twenty minutes ago. The trip had been stop and go most of the way from Harvard Square, rarely exceeding fifteen miles per hour. News of the battalion’s evacuation spread quickly, prompting a large percentage of the civilian holdouts in the areas surrounding Cambridge to take flight. Perceptions ruled the day. The past twenty-four hours had been marked by frightening exchanges of distant and nearby gunfire. With the marines gone and the bridges unguarded, Cambridge was now vulnerable to the threat south of the Charles River.

The convoy cleared the crowd and slowed in front of the concrete underpass.

“We gonna clear that, Barry?” yelled the driver.

“Good to go!” said the turret gunner, sticking a thumbs-up through the hatch into the cabin.

The corporal eased the Matvee under the train trestle and roared forward toward the main parking lot. A few seconds later, Alex stopped him.

“I think this is it. Chandler Road.”

“Not much of a road, sir,” he said, pulling the left side of the vehicle as close to the trail marker as possible. “Confirmed. Chandler Road. Is there room to maneuver in there?”

“It’s not worth getting one of your vehicles stuck. The Jeep is a half mile away. I can walk it,” said Alex.

“Your guy can’t drive it out, sir?”

“We moved a few downed trees across the path. It’ll take two of us to move them,” he said, glancing back at Ed in the rear driver’s-side seat.

Rain poured through the open turret hatch, soaking both the rear passenger seats. Ed raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Ryan and Chloe sat jammed in the rear troop compartment.

“Kids, I’m headed out to grab Uncle Charlie and our Jeep. I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes.”

Ryan nodded, still wiped out by the painkillers.

Chloe smiled wearily, looking a little more like the joyful, carefree young woman he remembered. The further they drove from Boston, the more she emerged from the mental barrier she’d constructed at the North Beacon Street Bridge. Alex knew from experience that she would never fully step out from behind the wall, but given enough time and compassionate support, few would notice. He returned the smile before activating his handheld radio.

“Durham One-Seven, this is Durham Three-Zero, over.”

“This is One-Seven. Solid copy.”

“I’m coming in on foot. Tactical vehicles won’t fit down the trail. Meet me at the first obstacle with the Jeep. How copy?”

“Oh, man. What are we talking about here? M-ATV? Fully armored troop carrier variant? It’s an M-ATV, right?” squawked the radio.

Alex winked at Ed. “I brought two of them, my friend,” he said to Charlie.

Prolonged static filled the cabin.

“One Seven, you still there?”

“You’re gonna make me drive the Jeep back, aren’t you?”

“How could I deprive you of this? You’ve earned it. The marines will stick you in one of the turrets, if you don’t mind the rain—and promise to keep your hands behind your back.”

“Holy shit! Are you serious? In the turret? What kind of firepower are we talking? Is there somewhere to sit, or do I have to stand the whole time?”

“One Zero, we’ll work out the details when we get back. I’m starting my trek into the reservation. See you in a few minutes. Out,” said Alex, turning off the radio. “You think the staff sergeant will let him in one of the turrets?” he asked the corporal.

Corporal Gibson shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you, Captain. He sounds a bit excitable.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Alex. He’ll drive the staff sergeant crazy,” said Ed.

“I wasn’t going to put him in the rear vehicle,” said Alex.

“What? No wonder you’re so excited to drive the Jeep. Forget it. It’s my Jeep. I get to drive it to—”

“With all due respect, sir, one of the marines in the rear vehicle will drive the Jeep,” said Corporal Gibson. “Based on the current conversation, I’d feel more comfortable if both of you were present when Durham One-Zero steps into the turret.”

“Apparently, Corporal Gibson is far more savvy than he appears,” said Alex. “Let the staff sergeant know we’ll need one of his marines to drive the Jeep back to Maine.”

“My pleasure, sir. Truly my pleasure.”