Point of Crisis (4 page)

“I’m sure he’s well aware of that.”

“More than you know. Our history in the county has seen its share of ups and downs. Greg Hoode has been good to us, so it’s time to return the favor. Unfortunately, the brigade’s stockpile is suited for a short-term crisis—even shorter with half of it going to the mayor.”

“Harrison didn’t anticipate an EMP attack coupled with a tsunami?”

Powers laughed. “Probably my fault as training officer, right?” His brief moment of levity settled into a distant stare. “Harrison painted some pretty rosy pictures during our public suppers. Picturesque fields filled with families living in quaint tents. Everyone chasing butterflies and cooking over campfires. Temporarily. When the families start showing up—and they will show up—I’m not sure what we can do for them in the long run. Two months from now, every wood-burning stove in New England will be running full time to beat the cold. I’m not optimistic about our future here once the snow starts falling.”

“I might be able to help out with that, but it’s going to take a leap of faith. Even then, I don’t know,” said Alex.

“Regional Recovery Zone?” said Powers.

“See if you can get someone to fill in for you at the gate. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

“We’re a little shorthanded at headquarters. Everyone’s pulling guard duty. Even Harrison,” he said.

“Trust me, this affects you just as much as Harrison.”

Powers nodded as they broke out of the woods, radioing the request ahead of their arrival. The red, two-story barn dwarfed the gray Cape Cod-style home hidden under a canopy of mature elms. An armed sentry sat in a chair on the porch, searching the tree line behind them with binoculars. They followed the dirt road around the house and past a second guard, who eyed them warily before jogging toward the forest. Three cars sat against the far edge of a dirt parking lot, next to the barn.

“Harrison’s expecting us inside. You’ve been here before?”

“Twice. I wrote an article for
New England Magazine
a few years ago, which featured aspects of the brigade. I also did a couple of blog articles focused on militia groups. I interviewed Harrison, Glen Cuskelly and Kevin McCulver.”

“I took over McCulver’s position a year and a half ago,” said Powers.

“Is he still with the brigade?” Alex asked.

“No. He, uh—”

“He liked to play with explosives, and we don’t put up with that kind of nonsense,” interrupted Harrison Campbell from the doorway. “Gary steered the training cadre back on the right path. Made a ton of improvements on top of that. Good to see you again, Alex, or should I address you as captain?” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.

“Still Alex.”

“You might want to pick one uniform and stick with it. It’s less confusing that way,” said Campbell, looking him up and down.

“I’m hoping to straddle the fence as long as possible,” said Alex.

“Stay on that fence too long, and someone will pull you down on the wrong side.”

Powers closed the door behind them, drawing Glen Cuskelly’s attention away from one of the maps on the wall. Campbell led them to the makeshift operations center in the far right corner of the barn, beyond the rough-cut wooden benches.

“We just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. You look like you could use a cup—or two,” said Campbell.

“I’m past the point where coffee will make a difference, but I’ll take you up on the offer.”

“You remember Glen.”

“Of course,” said Alex, nodding at the solemn-faced former artillery officer.

“So, what can we do for Captain Fletcher?” said Campbell, grabbing the coffee pot and an extra mug.

“I’ll get to that in a minute. First, I need to warn you about something. Long story short, there’s a rogue militia unit running around southern Maine. Eventually, you’re gonna run into them.”

“Eli Russell’s group?” asked Campbell.

“You know about him?”

“He killed our Limerick deputy. Massacred the whole family.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“How did you find out about him?” asked Cuskelly.

“He tried to kill my family. Attacked my house in Limerick with a platoon-sized force.”

“Limerick?” asked Campbell.

“My parents live on Gelder Pond. That was our bug-out plan. Now it’s filled with several hundred bullet holes.”

“How’s your family?”

“They’re fine, but barely.”

“Thank God for that. And Eli?”

“He escaped with maybe a dozen men. Paid a heavy price for the attack. Twenty-nine KIA.”

“Twenty-nine? What the hell did you have at the house, a platoon of Marines?” said Powers.

“We were ready for them. The Marines showed up after most of Eli’s crew was dead or wounded. Those fuckers brought a Browning M1919A6. In good working order, too. I put that out of action first.”

“He used to show that thing off when he was part of the brigade. I’m not sure when he acquired it, but I guarantee it wasn’t a legal transaction,” said Campbell.

“Well, it’s mine now. I have it covering a 180-degree arc in front of my house.”

Powers looked puzzled. “Why the hell would he attack you?”

“We’ll get into that. Why didn’t anyone mention his group during our interviews?”

Cuskelly winced. “That was my call. I didn’t want to draw any more negative attention to the word ‘militia’ in southern Maine. We had just spent the better part of a year culling the ranks. All part of rebuilding our image.”

“And putting the brigade back on the right path,” Campbell added. “It wasn’t a PR stunt.”

“Either way, Eli was one of the first to go, and he wasted no time putting together his own crew. We basically fed him recruits for a year.”

Campbell poured Alex a cup of coffee.

“We still do. Anyone we turn down, he welcomes with open arms, including felons. The Maine Liberty Militia ranks swelled with jailbirds after Eli’s youngest brother was released from the state.”

“Fuck me. Another Russell to worry about?” said Alex, waving off a sugar packet.

“Nope. Jimmy got served an epic portion of karma a few days ago. One of my scouting teams found him dead at the Milton Mills Bridge, along with most of his platoon. Ambushed, from what I could tell.”

Alex froze, the hot coffee burning his tongue. After a long swallow, he cleared his throat. “I led the group that killed those men.”

Cuskelly tensed, signaling a mood shift at the table. Alex detected it immediately, belatedly recognizing the implications of his statement.

“Why would you be hunting down militia less than a day after the event?” asked Campbell.

“It’s not like that. My son is a freshman—
was
a freshman—at Boston University. My neighbor’s daughter was at Boston College, and his jeep survived the EMP. We teamed up with a third neighbor to drive down and get the kids back. The turnpike was blocked by the military, so we traced the border until we arrived at Milton Mills. They refused to let us pass, so we shot our way through.”

Campbell didn’t look convinced. “Then how did you end up as
Captain
Fletcher? Last time we spoke, you were out of the Marine Corps.”

“I was, but circumstances in Boston led to my appointment as a provisional captain,” he said, pulling the badge out of his vest and handing it to Campbell.

“Date of issue 21AUG2019. Captain (PROV). 1
^st
BTN, 25
^TH
,” Campbell read. “The reserve battalion out of Devens?”

“The same. Half of the battalion was at Devens for summer training when the EMP hit. They received orders to draw gear and head to Boston. The commanding officer was one of my platoon commanders in Iraq. Wounded by the same RPG that put me in a level-five treatment facility for three months. He offered me a provisional appointment because the battalion is short on militia group analysts. Ever hear of a group called the Liberty Boys?”

“If I recall, they appeared at the outset of the Revolutionary War. Sort of a colonial intelligence network.”

“Apparently, they never went away. Homeland had extensive files on the Liberty Boys, right down to existing members within the reserve battalion. They were detained immediately after the EMP. How long has Eli’s group operated?”

“A few years. Maybe less,” said Campbell.

“Homeland doesn’t have anything on his group. Eli is listed as former York County Militia.”

“Eli flies below the radar. Everything’s word of mouth,” said Powers.

“Do they have files on us?” Campbell asked.

Alex nodded slowly.

“Homeland’s been spying on us all along. Those lying sacks of shit,” uttered Campbell.

“Probably have someone on the inside,” said Powers.

“I don’t think so,” Alex said. “They’d have a file on Eli Russell’s crew if they had an inside man.”

“Says Mr. Homeland,” stated Campbell. “It’s time to ask the million-dollar question. Why are you really here?”

“I need your help. Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady, commanding officer of 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marine Infantry Regiment, is coming to Maine, ahead of thousands of soldiers, airmen, relief workers, FEMA crews and Homeland bureaucrats. Here’s the deal, Grady’s problem with the Liberty Boys in Boston escalated out of control. Trust in the government is at an all-time low, compounded by the fact that nobody really knows what happened Monday morning.”

“Or nobody is telling us,” said Randy.

“Fair enough. Colonel Grady’s battalion is tasked to provide security for recovery operations in York County.”

“Security for who?”

“Primary focus will be on Recovery Zone assets, which include assigned personnel, infrastructure, essential equipment.”

“Military units operating on U.S. soil? I don’t like it,” said Powers.

“Nobody does, which is why I’m asking for your help. People trust the brigade, if you—”

“I can’t in good conscience support a blatant violation of the Insurrection Act,” said Campbell.

“Congress legally modified it with the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill,” said Alex.

“I don’t care what those fucking idiots did. They jammed that down our throats when nobody was looking. Supporting a military security apparatus in York County won’t sit well with the people. Everybody knows where we stand on this,” said Campbell.

“Which is why they will listen when you cautiously accept the invitation to integrate some of your members with my provisional security team.”

“I think you need to catch up on some sleep, Mr. Fletcher. I can’t ask my people to accompany Homeland security patrols. Helping out local law enforcement and Maine guard units is slippery enough,” stated Campbell.

“I completely understand what you’re saying, but you’re not seeing the big picture. I’ve been to Boston and back. Grade A clusterfuck across the board. Everybody is headed north—right now. Here’s
our
problem. The primary Recovery Zone plan holds most of these refugees south of the New Hampshire border.”

“Sounds like a benefit,” said Powers.

“Only if the primary RZ remains viable, from a security standpoint. The alternate plan eliminates the southern Security Area and establishes the Saco River as the new Security Area border, extending west to New Hampshire.”

“What happens to southern Maine in the second scenario?” asked Cuskelly.

“It becomes one big refugee camp.”

“And Colonel Grady’s mission?” Campbell queried.

“Moved north of the Saco River.”

“The people?”

Alex shook his head. “They get to contend with a million-plus refugees looking for food and shelter at the outset of a long New England winter. If the primary RZ is dismantled, I’m packing up and heading north with my golden ticket,” Alex said, holding up his badge. “Without one of these, you’ll be reclassified as a refugee. We have to make a partnership work.”

He let the personal ramifications sink in before continuing.

“Homeland is coming. Nothing can change that. As insane as this may sound, we need to do everything in our power to keep them here. If they pack up and head north, the only thing separating you and your families from millions of desperate New Englanders will be the rifle in your hands.”

Campbell stared at him for an uncomfortable length of time. If he refused, the follow-up conversation promised to be twice as painful. Alex would have to secure Campbell’s promise that the brigade would remain neutral throughout the Recovery Zone, in both action and word. Then he’d have to sell the value of that promise to Lieutenant Colonel Grady, who ultimately decided the brigade’s fate. Based on Grady’s experience in Boston, Alex wasn’t optimistic about a friendly handshake solution.

“What do you need from us?” Campbell asked.

“Not much—for now. The first order of business is Milton Mills. My guess is the bridge is still open for business.”

“It is, but the dead bodies have kept traffic to a minimum.”

“Let’s reinstate the checkpoint at Milton Mills. Six on each bridge at all times. I’ll provide a tactical vehicle, four Marines, food, shelter and communications. You provide the rest. I’ll set the ROE, which will be strict. The security detail will withdraw if fired upon. Agreed?”

“We’re stretched pretty thin. Dave Littner has most of the Berwick chapter stationed at the major law enforcement checkpoints south of Route 202.”

“Have Littner redeploy all of his assets to Milton Mills.”

“That’s a lot more than you requested,” said Cuskelly.

“There’s a reason. I need a reputable third party to investigate a possible mass murder at the church on Foxes Ridge Road. Eli’s brother was running some kind of scam, where he let people across the border and stole their cars. I found a dozen or more cars with out-of-state plates in the church parking lot. The classrooms behind the chapel were stuffed with luggage and personal effects. I don’t think any of the travelers made it past the church. Have Littner’s people search the woods and document everything they find.”

“What happened to Jimmy’s crew at the church?”

“I put an end to their operation.”

“Just you and a few neighbors?” said Campbell, cocking his head slightly.