Point of Crisis (16 page)

After grabbing coffee, they settled around one of the larger tables and finished the introductions. Curious faces stared through the windows, refilling the park across the street. Eager nods and smiles had replaced the distrust and fear broadcast through the town square upon their arrival. Sitting down with the mayor in one of the town’s central gathering places had been a stroke of genius. Campbell knew what he was doing.

“So,
provisional
captain? I’ve never heard of this,” said the mayor.

“Neither had I until a few days ago. I was basically recruited by the commanding officer of the battalion in Boston.”

“You were down in Boston?” he asked, looking incredulous. “I heard the city turned into a war zone.”

“Boston suffered an incredible amount of blast and tsunami damage from the asteroid or meteorite that hit off the coast. The situation spiraled out of control, as you can imagine,” Alex said, hoping to end that part of the discussion.

He preferred to dodge the uncomfortable task of explaining how the same battalion headed to Sanford and a long-standing militia group ended up in a protracted, low-intensity conflict throughout the city over a basic misunderstanding. He was doing his best to prevent a repeat of the same disaster in southern Maine.

“So…what can you tell me about the situation in Maine?” asked the mayor, leaning back and sipping his coffee. “The National Guard unit based right here in Sanford set up roadblocks on the approaches. I can’t get in anymore. They’ve been busy hauling tons of supplies out of secret stockpiles. People are getting nervous.”

“Has anyone from FEMA or Homeland talked to you about the airport?”

“No. I’m completely in the dark about this Recovery Zone thing.”

“Where did you hear that term?” asked Alex. “I’m more curious than anything. I haven’t talked to a single person within the military command structure that knew about the stockpiles around the airport prior to the disaster.”

“I put it together when Diane Ellis came out to one of the roadblocks to talk to me. She’s in charge of the 1136
^th
Transportation Detachment based right here in Sanford. Diane said the whole Recovery Zone headquarters area was off-limits to civilian personnel. Acted really funny about it, like when a friend tells you they can’t help out when you know they can. I asked her how big of an area that was, and she wouldn’t say. Diane and I went to high school together. Twenty years, and I’ve never seen her look that spooked. Something fishy is going on out there.”

“Everyone’s pretty spooked at this point,” said Alex. “As for the airport, all I can really tell you is that the 1136
^th
, along with an engineering company from Westbrook, are turning Sanford Seacoast Airport into a Recovery Zone headquarters. Within the next few days, it’s going to get extremely busy and crowded around the airport.”

“And your people are all right with this?” asked the mayor, shifting his focus to Harrison.

“I don’t see us having much choice in the matter. They’re coming whether we like it or not. Captain Fletcher has asked me to integrate a limited number of my people into a provisional security platoon. Checkpoint duties, patrolling—I’ll have the Kleins at the airport, serving as a direct liaison,” he said, nodding at Margaret and Sheldon. “I’d rather be directly involved than shut out of the equation.”

“I just wonder if it might be a better idea to hold off until we know what we’re dealing with,” said the mayor. “No offense, Captain Fletcher.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders. “None taken. It’s Harrison’s call.”

“Do you mind if I share some of the less rosy picture you painted a few days ago out at my house?” Harrison asked.

The mayor looked surprised. “You showed him your headquarters?”

“Alex interviewed members of the brigade a few years ago. He knew where to find us,” said Harrison.

“I’m still not understanding how you got wrapped into this role,” said the mayor, raising an eyebrow and shifting his glance to Alex.

“Neither do I. Providence, I guess. It’s a long story that goes back to 2003, in Iraq.”

“I don’t have that long. What were you saying, Harrison?”

“Captain Fletcher travelled to Brookline and back from Scarborough, all within the first four days after the event. He lends a particularly credible, firsthand perspective to the equation. The bottom line is that we have a mass exodus heading to Maine.”

“State police closed the borders within twelve hours of the event,” the mayor said. “Cars are backed up for miles on the 95. Same with Route 4 and Route 9 headed into the Berwicks. One of their deputy commanders gave me the grand tour a few days ago.”

“You saw the tip of the iceberg—the people with functioning cars,” Alex informed them. “The rest left the greater Boston area on foot. We had to take side roads to get back to Maine because every major route was jammed with people. Trust me, the RRZ may be the only thing that prevents southern Maine from being swallowed whole. Picture a million-plus people marching down the roads, looking for food and water.”

“Fuck,” muttered the mayor.

“Greg, I didn’t take you for a cussing man,” said Harrison.

“I’m not a drinking man either, but I could use a little pick-me-up right about now. Can this mystical RRZ hold the line at the border?”

“I don’t know, and frankly, that’s pretty much out of our hands. My direct concern is the state of affairs inside the RRZ,” said Alex, leaning back and taking a long sip of his dark roast.

“Oh boy, here comes the pitch,” said the mayor. “And I thought I was going to work you guys over.”

“We’re not here to work you over. Quite the opposite. Harrison suggested we run something by you, as a professional courtesy, which may or may not be how the RRZ runs business around here in the future.”

“You make it sound like they’re taking over,” said the mayor.

“According to the Federal Recovery Plan, the RRZ is under federal jurisdiction. All part of the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill,” said Alex.

“Just the airport.”

Alex shook his head, glancing at Harrison.

“Southern Maine?”

“Everything. Everywhere,” said Alex.

“The people won’t stand for it,” said the mayor.

“The people have to stand for it, at least until the government figures out the refugee situation.”

“Harrison, I can’t believe you’re still seated. This goes against everything you’ve preached for as long as I remember.”

“I tried to warn people,” said Campbell.

“To be fair, nobody could have predicted that the East Coast would get hit by an asteroid,” said the mayor.

“Somebody figured it out,” said Alex. “EMPs are a man-made phenomenon.”

The table became uncomfortably silent, each mind likely racing with a different conspiracy theory. Alex knew he was walking on thin ice at this point, especially with Staff Sergeant Evans. Even a vague hint that the United States might have played a part in the catastrophe might be too much for him. Alex broke the quiet with his final pitch.

“Here’s the deal, Mayor Hoode. If the internal security situation goes sideways in southern Maine, the government will move the MOB out of the southern zone to—”

“MOB?” said the mayor.

“Main Operating Base. Sanford Airport. Right now, everyone in Maine is classified RRZ Internal. Everyone outside is classified RRZ External.
External
gets you a cot in a FEMA tent—if you’re lucky. Not a great prospect with winter a few months away. If the RRZ relocates the MOB to a northern location, everyone south of the new boundary will be redesignated
external
. Southern Maine will be thrown to the wolves, as millions stream north to the new border somewhere north of here. Can I count on you to remain neutral, at a minimum, while you’re making rounds through the community? I’m not asking you to promote the RRZ; I just don’t see a point to encouraging peoples’ fear of the unknown. Especially right now.”

The mayor furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. After a theatrical exhale, he forced a smile.

“All right. I’m on board. I have to do what’s best for the people, and I don’t see a better option. The town has been lucky so far. We’ve had some petty theft and a few fights related to the crisis, but beyond that, it’s been quiet,” he said, standing and shaking their hands.

“The quieter the better, for all of us,” Alex said.

They all thanked the shopkeeper, insisting on leaving money, which she refused. Once outside, the mayor turned to Harrison.

“What we’re you going to ask me when we first sat down?”

“I almost forgot. Captain Fletcher and I plan to run a joint recruiting station out of the storefront next door. Anyone interested can join the Marines as a provisional recruit or join my brigade. No pressure, just options,” said Harrison.

“Volunteers will train together at the airport, forming a joint platoon, maybe a full company, if we can drum up enough business,” Alex explained. “They’d be trained for basic military police duties and based at the airport or Forward Operating Bases within the southern zone. Ideally, units like these would constitute the bulk of forces visible within the RRZ.”

“The rest would be invisible?” the mayor asked.

“That’s the idea.”

“Can
I
join the provisional Marines? Sounds like the best deal in town,” he said, and they all laughed.

“You’d have to resign as mayor,” said Alex.

“Well, I guess that’s off the table.”

“If you happened to mention the recruiting station during your rounds today, we’d be eternally grateful,” said Harrison.

“How grateful?”

Another round of laughter ensued.

“I could improve the supply situation at the storefront, but I think you should focus your goodwill efforts on Sanford. A countywide effort is too broad,” said Alex.

“Damn, gentlemen. I feel like I’m out of my league here. Now Harrison’s working me through you. I’m sure as hell glad this isn’t an election year. I’d be afraid for my job,” he said, chuckling for a moment before settling his gaze on Alex.

“Sounds like a deal.
We’ll
focus on the town.”

Staff Sergeant Evans whispered into his tactical microphone, activating Lianez and Jackson, who were standing on the sidewalk near the corner of the building. The two Marines walked toward the Matvee, adjusting their rifles.

“Everything okay?” the mayor asked.

“Car inbound from the north,” Evans reported.

“Everything’s fine. We just haven’t seen many cars on the road,” said Alex. “Starting to become a rare sight.”

A gray hatchback slowed at the intersection across from the park, easing onto Washington Street. The vehicle carried two male passengers, who stared at Alex’s group for a moment before nodding uncomfortably. Once past the coffee shop, the car picked up speed, heading in the direction of the airport. Lianez walked onto the road and raised a pair of binoculars, passing the license plate information to Jackson. On any other day before the event, the car and its occupants wouldn’t have drawn any attention, but given that they’d seen a grand total of three other functioning automobiles this morning, its presence was notable.

“Recognize either of those men?” Alex asked.

“Can’t say I do, but we have more than twenty thousand citizens. Bound to be a few I don’t know,” the mayor said.

After another round of handshakes, the mayor crossed the road to mingle with the group that lingered at the edge of the park near the street. The mayor pointed back at them and patted a young man on the shoulder.

Hard at work already
.

Alex wasn’t sure what to make of the mayor’s promise, but he couldn’t afford to have the man running around town repeating stories about secret warehouses and black helicopters, even if the stories proved to be true.

“What do you think?” Harrison asked him.

“I think we’re better off than before we walked into the coffee shop.”

“Let’s hope so. What’s the next step to getting this place up and running as a recruiting station?”

“We should take a trip to the airport. I need to issue your group several radios. Enough for you, the station and the Kleins. We’ll need to talk regularly once we start gathering recruits.”

“My men at the Milton Mills checkpoint could use one too so we can coordinate a rotation. They’ve been on their own for four days. I’ve been checking on them once a day, but they’re starting to wear thin,” said Harrison. “They could use that backup you promised.”

“I’ll dispatch a vehicle with some of the Marines that have trickled in from the Brunswick detachment. We’ll stock them up with MREs and anything else they might need. How many do you have assigned to the storefront?”

“Three at all times, mostly to safeguard the supplies. My plan is to set up a tent and a few tables outside the hospital, where we can assess need from a distance. Otherwise, this will turn into a free-for-all.”

“Plan on that happening within a week. I’ll give you two Marines here, and we’ll adjust accordingly as the situation unfolds. If it starts getting hectic, we’ll send people out the back door, where they’ll get a quick pitch from our designated recruiters.”

“Sounds easy enough,” said Harrison.

“Don’t count on it.”

Chapter 14

EVENT +9 Days

Acton, Maine

“Slow down here, Gene. I want to see if the state police are still at the church,” said Harrison Campbell.

“How far up the road?” Gene McCall, the driver, asked.

“Should be coming up pretty fast. It’s a little white church buried in the trees,” Harrison said, picking up the olive green handheld ROTAC unit given to him by Alex Fletcher.

One of the Marines at the airport hangar had enabled two dedicated “call sign” channels on all of the radios assigned to Campbell’s group. The primary channel, designated “Patriot Five Bravo,” was structured for internal York County Readiness Brigade communications. He’d been instructed to use this for command and control with his militia units. Alex was upfront about the fact that Marines at the airport would monitor all internal transmissions.