Point of Crisis (9 page)

He punched in the codes for the third container and waited for the seal to release. After a prolonged hiss, he swung the doors wide, not sure what to expect. Rows of locked equipment boxes lined the walls, leaving enough space in the middle to walk to the end. Military nomenclature on the first few boxes identified sophisticated night-vision goggles. GPNVG-18. Panoramic night-vision goggles, doubling a soldier’s field of vision from standard NVGs. Special Operations gear. He thought about it for a moment; if the battalion had forty or fifty sets, they could conduct swift, vehicle-based night operations. The additional field of vision provided by the panoramic NVGs would give drivers the situational awareness needed to maneuver in tighter spaces, like forests.

The pieces were coming together. Suppressed weapons. Strange uniforms. A heavy emphasis on night operations. Fuck if it didn’t sound like 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marines was being reequipped as some kind of internal security group, capable of snatch-and-grab operations.
No wonder Adler had freaked out.

He detected a faint high-pitched squeal behind him and spun with his rifle ready for action. An unfamiliar soldier wearing ACUs and a heavily modified tactical load out skidded to a stop on an obviously spray-painted, green and tan camouflage-patterned mountain bike.

“Nice ride,” said Alex, lowering his rifle.

“Spray painted it myself.”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Tech Sergeant David Gedmin. 22
^nd
Special Tactics Squadron.”

“Combat Controller? You’re a long way from home,” said Alex.

“Tell me about it. I just wanted to check in before it got crazy around here,” he said, dismounting the bike and peeking into the hangar.

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marines. I’m acting as a forward liaison for 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Infantry Regiment. How long do we have until it gets hectic?”

“Forty-eight hours, tops. We have two C-130s rolling in within the hour to deliver a more robust air traffic control package. Radar, generators, fuel, and more personnel. Once that’s up and running, the RRZ gets the green light for full deployment. We’ll have air traffic 24/7.”

“I thought air control was your job?” joked Alex.

“Combat air control. Higher stress, lower volume. This is more like combining a runway at Logan with the flight deck of a carrier.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Sounds like a clusterfuck. Are you taking all three of these hangars?”

“Yeah. I have a Marine battalion with a motor transport element, and we need quick access to a gate. We’ll be coming and going at all hours.”

“Well, you picked the right spot for that, plus you’ll be out of the way. I’d base your ready vehicles in the rear hangar so they don’t get boxed in. The taxiway in front of your hangars will get busy,” he said, his eyes shifting past Alex’s left shoulder
,
no doubt having just caught a glimpse of the equipment.

“Thanks for the heads-up. I expect the full battalion to arrive within three days with the bulk of our vehicles. I have a platoon-size element heading down from Brunswick. Should be here by tomorrow.”

“Reservists?”

“Reserve infantry battalion out of Fort Devens. The Marines are spread out all over New England.”

“Nifty rifles for a reserve unit,” Gedmin said, nodding at the middle container.

The doors had partially opened, exposing several of the suppressed combat rifles.

“Tell me about it. The containers came out of one of the secret stashes pre-staged around the airport.”

“Lots of secrets,” he said, glancing from the rifles to Alex with a grimace.

“How did you end up at Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport? I assume you didn’t ride that bike from Seattle,” said Alex.

“A Humvee pulled up to my house at three in the morning on Monday. I got fifteen minutes to pack up and say good-bye to my family. Less than an hour after that, I was sitting on a government Learjet taking off from McChord Field, headed here. The whole squadron was deployed.”

“Any word on what happened?”

Gedmin shook his head. “Mum’s the word from higher echelon stations. Any news on your end?”

“Nothing official, but it’s pretty obvious that we’re dealing with an EMP.”

“What do you think about the Homeland broadcasts claiming a near-Earth object landed off the coast?”

“I’ve just returned from Boston. Witnesses reported seeing a messy contrail headed out over the water, like the one in Siberia several years ago. I’m inclined to believe what they’re saying, but the rest?”

“We thought it might be a limited nuclear attack. Something the government is to keep under wraps while they figure out how to retaliate. Maybe North Korea?”

“Funny you say that. My father picked up several HAM broadcasts claiming that our entire ballistic missile sub fleet has been deployed. Bangor Naval Base, up in your neck of the woods, supposedly emptied out yesterday.”

“I wish they’d tell us something. Anything.”

“They won’t. Not if there’s a nuclear option on the table. How were things back west? My dad heard reports that the EMP effects weren’t as bad in the Pacific Northwest.”

“We still had power at the house when the Humvees arrived. I have no idea if any of our cars worked. I barely got a chance to kiss my girls. The ride over looked about the same, but that’s not saying much for three in the morning. I can’t even remember if the stoplights were flashing. What about Boston?”

“Devastated by whatever hit offshore. No power. Near total anarchy,” said Alex.

“Jesus,” Gedmin said. “None of this really makes sense. A nuclear blast at ground level doesn’t cause widespread EMP effects. Very localized, as in you won’t be around to try to start your car anyway. This is something else,” he said, looking at the sky.

“I’d keep that to yourself,” said Alex, walking over to the first container and opening the doors. “Care to take a guess what pattern?”

“Digital urban? Looks like you got one of the containers earmarked for Manhattan.”

“Federal Security pattern.”

“Interesting,” said Gedmin.

“That’s an understatement,” Alex said, thinking about something Adler had said when he first arrived. “Do you have Adler on ROTAC?”

“Yeah,” said Gedmin, unsnapping the radio from his combat rig. “Preset four. Just hold down the numeric key and it’ll lock onto Adler’s radio.”

Alex pressed “4” and listened.

“Captain Adler.”

“Rick, this is Captain Fletcher, using Tech Sergeant Gedmin’s radio.”

“Sorry about the intrusion. I sent him out to meet you. Figured you’d need to coordinate tarmac activity.”

“Quick question about the arrival of my conex boxes.”

“Send it,” said Adler.

“It was awfully fortunate that I arrived when I did. This isn’t the kind of gear you’d want lying around unattended. Can you shed any light on this coincidence?”

“The incidence of coincidence around here defies explanation.”

“Sounds like a tongue twister. Would it help if I paid a visit to the guard unit hauling these boxes?”

“I’ve already looked under that rock. They receive orders from the North Pole and deliver the requested containers.”

“Santa Claus, huh?”

“May as well be,” said Adler. “This has been a ‘monkey see, monkey do’ operation from minute one. Not much thought required.”

“Likely by design. I’ll stop by on the way out.”

“I’ll keep the water room temperature for you,” said Adler.

Alex handed the radio back.

“Did your gear arrive as soon as you touched down?”

“The truck was idling next to the field,” said Gedmin.

“Did you have your ROTAC with you on the flight, or was it part of the waiting load out?”

“It was issued at McChord.”

Alex pulled his tactical radio out of its pouch. “Do you think they could track these phones?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s all satellite based.”

“I’d be careful what you said on these regarding any theories you might have.”

“Roger that, sir. Good advice.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual in these containers,” said Alex.

“Of course not, sir. Advanced combat rifles with integral suppressor systems is precisely what I would expect for a reservist infantry battalion.”

Technical Sergeant Gedmin pedaled across the taxiway as the Matvee returned. Lianez parked the vehicle in front of the hangar bay holding the containers.

“All clear. We shut the hangars and locked the doors,” he said, holding out the keys.

His eyes went straight for the second container. “Are those for us?”

“I really hope not.”

Chapter 7

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Ryan Fletcher balanced his bandaged left hand against the shredded drywall and moved his folding chair with his good hand to the window facing the pond. Careful not to topple over, he slid the chair under the windowsill and lowered his weight cautiously, balancing on his right leg until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t end up on the floor. His leg throbbed from the trip up two flights of stairs, but he didn’t have a choice. One of the tactical vehicles had sped away a few minutes ago, taking three of the Marines out of the perimeter, and nobody else volunteered to leave the basement.

He felt guilty as soon as the thought passed through his mind. He couldn’t fault any of them for seeking refuge below ground. The house had become a shooting gallery. What his dad called a “bullet-rich environment.” He’d thought the phrase was funny—until yesterday. Ryan didn’t blame them at all.

The stairs creaked, and he lifted a pair of binoculars to scan the tree line. He stared vacantly at the trees, catching the occasional glimmering streak of reflected sunlight from the pond. The hardwood floor announced a presence in the bedroom doorway.

“I brought you an extra sandwich,” said his mom.

“I thought you came up here to chase me into the basement,” he said, lowering the binoculars and twisting in the chair.

His mom looked worn out and dazed, in a grizzled, survivor kind of way. Dressed in filthy khaki pants and one of his dad’s old woodland MARPAT blouses, she sat on the edge of the bare mattress behind him, forcing a smile across her lightly bruised and cut face.

“Nothing would make me happier than knowing you’re tucked away in the convalescent ward with the Walkers and Thorntons,” she said, handing him the tinfoil-wrapped grilled cheese.

He ripped open the package and started to stuff one of Nana’s grilled cheese marvels into his mouth.

“She does make a mean grilled cheese,” said Kate.

“Yours are good too, Mom,” Ryan said, purposely slowing his consumption rate.

“Uh-huh. How’s your hand?” she said, unslinging her AR-15 and laying it on the bed.

“It should be fine,” he said, holding it out to show her. “A scratch.”

She took the bandaged hand and examined it suspiciously. “Staff Sergeant Evans said he could see your knuckle. Like, the actual bone.”

“Barely. The bullet tore some skin away. Hurts like hell, but not a big deal. Nothing a little ibuprofen can’t take care of.”

“And your leg?”

“I can manage,” Ryan said, looking away.

“You look like you’re in a lot of pain. One of the Marines can give you some stronger painkillers.”

“I can’t take any of those. I felt sluggish during the attack yesterday, still drugged up from Boston. I can manage the pain.”

“When your dad gets back, I want you in the basement resting up.”

“I’m not going down into the morgue, Mom.”

“Ryan, you’ve been through enough. You need to take it easy.”

“This is the perfect job for me. I’m resting and helping. Seriously.”

“You’re probably cutting off the blood flow to your injured leg on that chair, and it’s hot up here,” she said.

“I have a full CamelBak, and there’s a little breeze flowing through the windows. I win.”

“You can’t win against a worried mom. I’ll have the cleaning crew bring you one of the dining room chairs.”

“Is everyone going to be up here?”

“Even Chloe,” she whispered, “so be nice.”

“What do you mean? She’s the one that’s been ignoring
me
since we got back,” he whispered back.

“She’s embarrassed about what happened in Boston. Just be nice. I know a thing or two about how women think, and I can tell she still wants to be your
friend,
” she said, miming air quotes.

“What does that mean?”

“Call it a mother’s intuition…and a few loose lips among the adults.”

He felt like breaking into a sweat. He didn’t think any of them suspected he had been dating Chloe for most of the summer. They’d spent a lot of time together in high school, mostly as friends, but had drifted apart during her last year in high school. Most of the senior girls dated other seniors or guys in college, so he didn’t dwell on it. She left for Boston College with a hug and a warm smile, excited to start a new life. Ryan spent his senior year badly missing her. They’d always had a few minutes here and there in school. Their occasional jog on the weekends. Walking over to her driveway to catch her getting out of her car. He didn’t realize how much she meant to him until she was gone.

When it came time to apply to colleges, he tried to play it cool. No way he could fill out an application to Boston College. That would look desperate. He had the grades to get into at least two or three competitive schools in Boston that wouldn’t raise any suspicion about his intentions. Northeastern and Boston University put him on Chloe’s side of the Charles River and an easy “T” ride away.

Ryan put applications in the mail for Dartmouth, NYU and Fordham University, with the secret hope that he didn’t get accepted. NYU panned out, but it didn’t take much effort on his part to convince his parents that he should stay closer to home, “especially after the pandemic.” Acceptance to Boston University sealed the deal, and he eagerly awaited the start of his freshman year in Boston. Then this happened. It was time to change the subject.