THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “We need more .308s in our arsenal. That goes on the list. You sure we didn’t kill any of them?”

  “Unless they buried some folks on the other side of the house, where I couldn’t see. I watched them drag our KIAs into the woods through my scope. All MultiCam uniforms. Nothing else. It took them over an hour.”

  Eli’s eye twitched. Twenty-nine killed for three wounded? He couldn’t accept that. A dangerous thought flashed across his synapses and hid in the dark recesses of his mind, waiting to be retrieved. He knew he should turn away from it. Nothing good could come from dragging it into light.

  Twenty-nine dead in Limerick, twenty-five dead in Milton Mills. Jimmy. Nathan. These assholes had to pay.

  “How many do you think are in the house? How many marines?”

  “I counted five different civilians and three marines. One tactical vehicle stationed in the backyard. The other vehicle hadn’t returned by the time I left. Probably stayed with the wounded.”

  “How did the marines get past the gates?”

  “Busted right through. Those things are built like tanks,” said Brown.

  “Tell me about it,” said McCulver, facing the crates in the truck. “We’ll have to build shaped charges to do any damage.”

  “So the gates are broken?” said Eli.

  Brown nodded, and McCulver turned around with a wary look.

  “Eight total?”

  “There could have been a few more in the house,” added Brown.

  “How are the marines set up?”

  “One guy on the 240. The other two helping out around the house.”

  “Only one Marine in the vehicle?”

  “That’s what I saw when I left.”

  Eli ran the scenario in his head and started to tremble. He might not have to wait as long as he thought to get his revenge.

  ****

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  Go back to Contents

  Turn the page to read Book 4 in the Alex Fletcher Series:

  Point of Crisis

  Point

  of

  Crisis

  Alex Fletcher Book Four

  “Point of Crisis”

  A fixed point in the “Malthusian Catastrophe,” where population levels exceed the food production and distribution capacity of a system—resulting in a crisis that can only be regulated by famine, war or disease. – From Thomas Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of Population (1798).

  Prologue

  EVENT +2 Days

  Space Fence “Site Alpha”

  Kwajalein Island, Republic of the Marshall Islands

  Technical Sergeant Marla Quinn typed the last lines of code into the Joint Space Operations Center (JSpOC) interface and pressed return. Her strained face relaxed, revealing the early stages of a grin.

  “Frank, we’re connected to Vandenberg,” she said, turning to find the Raytheon contractor responsible for engineering the bypass.

  An air force sergeant seated near the door shrugged his shoulders. “He left with the rest of the civilians a minute ago.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” Quinn muttered, turning back to the computer station.

  She had been so busy typing code that she hadn’t noticed the exodus. The contractors had worked tirelessly with the station’s U.S. Air Force personnel to figure out a way to package the post-“event” Space Fence data and deliver it to the Joint Space Operations Center at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Under normal conditions, the information streamed continuously to the California base, but two days ago, at 20:58 local time, the Joint Space Operations Center stopped accepting data. Less than thirty minutes later, the U.S Air Force garrison on Kwajalein Island went into lockdown.

  Her fingers returned to the keyboard, typing the last string of commands that would route 593.7 terabytes of orbital tracking data through dozens of satellites, on a circuitous path to reach Vandenberg’s central processing mainframe. She was surprised that Frank left the room. He was well aware that she was minutes away from rebooting the system and testing his program.

  “Did he say where they were going?” she asked.

  “Negative. Manuel poked his head in and said everybody needed to see something. You know these guys. They interpret the term ‘appointed place of duty’ pretty loosely,” he said.

  “They’ve busted their asses for thirty-six hours straight on this, so I don’t care if they’re hitting golf balls into the atoll. Can you run out and look for Frank? I’d hate for him to miss this.”

  “Just send it. It’s not like the computer’s gonna pour him a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue to celebrate.”

  “I’ll type,” Quinn said. “You find out what’s so important.”

  She wouldn’t be surprised if they had been called to another “closed” security briefing. Several of the contractors held security clearances higher than their commanding officer, and they’d spent considerable time behind closed doors since the “event.” The new Space Fence system had applications far beyond tracking the flight paths of more than twenty thousand orbital objects. The powerful S-band frequency radar used by Site Alpha could detect smaller objects than the previous VHF version, providing the United States with the capability to track China’s latest fleet of previously undetectable microsatellites. That was all she knew—and all they were going to tell her. She typed the rest of the code and held her pinkie finger above the return key.

  “Marla, get out here now!” said the duty sergeant, suddenly appearing in the operations center door.

  “Hold on,” she said, tapping the key. “What the fuck is the big deal?”

  “Something happened to the navy ship. Something bad,” he said, disappearing.

  Quinn stood up, mostly annoyed, but partly frightened. The USS Paul Hamilton, one of the U.S. Navy’s Ballistic Missile Defense (BMD) capable Arleigh Burke class destroyers, arrived at the recently constructed naval facility two months ago. The ship’s mission was unknown to the station, but it didn’t take a War College degree to figure out that it had something to do with Site Alpha’s unadvertised tracking capabilities. Yelling erupted in the hallway, and she dashed through the door, colliding with Frank DeMillo.

  “Did you send the data?” he asked, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

  “I started the sequence a couple seconds ago. Sorry, I didn’t think you—”

  “We need to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her arm.

  The door leading outside crashed open, spilling bright light and another civilian into the hallway.

  “It’s fucking gone, Frank! They sank the Hamilton!”

  “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from the door.

  She wrestled her arm away from DeMillo and sprinted past the panicked contractor. They were out of their minds. A swell of warm, muggy air enveloped her like a shroud when she stepped out of the climate-controlled building, instantly creating droplets of perspiration on her face and neck. Two men dressed in khaki pants and polo shirts stood around a telescope, one frantically adjusting the knobs; the other staring at the horizon with binoculars.

  “Dan! What the hell happened?” she asked.

  The overweight, balding man behind the scope turned to face her. “The Hamilton took off at full speed, zigzagging east. Anti-torpedo maneuver. Less than a minute later, we saw a massive geyser engulf the ship. When the spray cleared, the ship was in two pieces. Went down within seconds. Un-fucking believable. We need to get clear of this building ASAP,” he said, picking up the telescope.

  The second man lowered his binoculars.

  “Dan?”

  “What?”

  “Do the Chinese have nuke-tipped SLCMs?”

  “Of course they do,” said Frank, walking briskly toward her.

  “I don’t think running will make any difference,” he said, pointing toward the Pacific Ocean.

  In the distance, a faint
ly visible smoke trail arced skyward, lazily tipping at the apex of its trajectory and disappearing. Quinn back-stepped toward the door, shielding her eyes from the sun while searching for the object. She found it. A small, gray dot at a forty-five-degree altitude above the horizon. One of the civilians pulled her across the grass, toward the western fence line. They had reached the corner of the two-story operations building when the fifteen-kiloton warhead attached to the DongHai 10 (DH-10) cruise missile detonated directly above Kwajalein Island.

  EVENT +3 Days

  Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor

  Bangor, Washington

  David Grant turned his passenger-burdened SUV left onto Sturgeon Street, still not sure what to make of the cars headed in the opposite direction. Whenever one of the “boomers” graced Delta Pier with a visit, every contractor at the naval base’s Intermediate Maintenance Facility (IMF) flocked north to take advantage of the submarine’s short stay. He recognized enough of the passing faces to guess that his group would soon join the exodus back to Building 7000.

  “This isn’t looking good,” stated Bob Pearson from the passenger seat.

  “No, it’s not,” muttered Grant.

  He eased the vehicle onto Sea Lion Road, mindful of the men crammed into the back seat, and headed north along the eastern shore of Hood Canal. Through the dense underbrush and trees lining the road, he caught distant glimpses of the lush, emerald Toandos Peninsula. They passed two cars on the brief coastline stretch before the road turned sharply inland, leading to the Enclave.

  Established several years ago as an independent security zone within the naval base, the Enclave featured an illuminated, double-layered, electrified fence that extended from the tip of Bangor Lake to the Explosive Handling Wharf north of Delta Pier. Protected by an elite battalion of Security Force Marines, access to the Enclave was firmly restricted to the submarine crew and authorized naval base support personnel—on a case-by-case basis. His carload of electrical engineers had been granted eight days to inspect and test critical circuits aboard USS Maine (SSBN 741), to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boat’s $110-million-dollar EMP-hardening upgrade had been worth the money.

  Three days into their assessment, Grant’s team hadn’t found any reason to suggest that the Ohio Class ballistic missile submarine was anything less than one hundred percent mission capable. Of course, he was still five long days away from putting his stamp of approval on the final report. The boat had been hooked to shore power while berthed at Delta Pier, and despite the somewhat limited effects of the EMP throughout the Pacific Northwest, he’d insisted on a full inspection. Equipment malfunctions several hundred feet below the ocean’s surface tended to be catastrophic.

  “She’s gone! Slow down, Dave,” said one of the men from the back seat.

  Grant gently applied the brakes, pulling even with a break in the trees. Son of a bitch. Delta Pier’s southwestern-facing berth was empty. He couldn’t believe SUBPAC would put her to sea without finishing the inspections. His team was one of several dozen IMF crews scouring the submarine for evidence of EMP damage. Without a completed systems assessment, the admiral was taking a serious risk with a key strategic asset. The implications of SUBPAC’s decision didn’t escape him.

  A car travelling in the opposite direction pulled even with his SUV, partially blocking their view. He recognized the driver—one of IMF’s master electricians.

  “Marines have the Enclave locked down. We’re headed back to the shop.”

  “Did they say why?” asked Dave, instantly realizing the silliness of his question.

  “They’re not very talkative today—or any day.”

  “The boat’s gone,” said Dave, pointing past the car.

  The car’s occupants craned their heads toward the sliver of water between the trees. The electrician shook his head slowly and met Dave’s eyes.

  “They must have been in a hurry to get her out of the Sound.”

  “A big hurry,” replied Dave.

  EVENT +3 Days

  USS GRAVELY (DDG 107)

  Atlantic Ocean

  Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries visually confirmed the aft Vertical Launch System (VLS) status on the Combat Information Center’s (CIC) Fire Control Systems screen, before sliding behind Petty Officer Clark’s seat at the dedicated C2BMC (Command, Control, Battle Management and Communications) console. He rested both of his hands on the back of Clark’s chair and leaned forward, watching the digital display for any changes to Graveley’s launch orders.

  “Same as it’s been for the past two hours, Chief,” said Clark, “not that it matters on our end.”

  Chief Jeffries patted Clark’s shoulder. “I know, but we can’t fuck this up. This may be our only chance at payback.”

  Clark was referring to the fact that no buttons would be pushed in CIC to carry out the mission. They would continue to function as a Launch-On-Remote platform, controlled by the Missile Defense Agency. The only key difference between today and every other day Gravely spent assigned to the Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) mission was that the ship was plying through the Atlantic Ocean at twenty knots. Typically, they were tied securely to the dedicated BMD pier at Naval Station Norfolk—like the day of the “event.”

  He’d never forget the terror of reaching the flight deck and seeing the naval station in flames. Across the water, the city of Hampton burned fiercely, reflecting bright yellow off the churned-up water of Hampton Roads. Confusion reigned for the next several minutes as the engineering duty section tried to restore power to the drifting ship.

  The thermal effects of the blast had burned the mooring lines, weakening them significantly for the inbound 117-mile-per-hour air blast recorded by the ship’s anemometer. Without the lines to keep her in place, the prevailing winds and the tide pushed the 9,200-ton warship lazily into Hampton Roads, sending her toward the mouth of the James River. Tugboats from the naval station responded with fifteen minutes, barely in time to keep Gravely from hitting the southern Hampton Roads Beltway Tunnel entrance.

  Most of the ship’s EMP fail-safes rebooted by the time they nestled against Pier 14, restoring the critical mission systems that had been automatically disabled to save them. Once pierside, the crew spent the next ninety-three minutes frantically conducting underway checks. Gravely had orders to get underway at 0730, with whatever crew she could muster.

  At 0729, with frantic family members lining the pier, Gravely sounded one prolonged blast, followed by three short blasts on the ship’s horn as the gray ship backed into Hampton Roads with 182 of her 380 crewmembers. Most of the officers and senior enlisted personnel never arrived, including the captain.

  After six days of steaming evasive patterns in an assigned patrol station east of Cape May, New Jersey, Gravely received a warning order preparing them for the remote launch of the ship’s twenty modified antisatellite-capable SM-3 missiles. Jeffries’ only mission in life for the past eight hours had been to ensure the successful launch of those missiles.

  The orders contained no information regarding the missiles’ targets, but enough information had surfaced since the event to suggest they would be used against satellites owned and operated by the People’s Republic of China. Long-range, unencrypted transmissions between Russian Federation Space Agency stations and the International Space Station (ISS) indicated damage to the station consistent with the detonation of a thermonuclear weapon in Low Earth Orbit over the United States. Coincidentally, the Chinese Space Station (CSS) had changed orbital location three days prior to the event and was several hundred miles further away from the ISS than normal.

  The crew was eager to connect the dots, and more than willing to launch the missiles. They had woken to a nightmare on Monday morning—left with the hellish image of their world on fire and no way to contact their families. The ship had set the strictest emissions-control conditions after cruising over the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel, eliminating all transmissions. Gravely was in receive-only mode, hidden from ele
ctronic observation until she fired her full complement of twenty Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectiles (LEAPs) into orbit over the continental United States.

  “Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor seated at a console near the entrance.

  Lieutenant Commander Gayle Thompson rushed across CIC to the C2BMC console, bumping into the back of the first chair. Her eyes were several minutes away from making the adjustment between the bright sunlight of the ship’s bridge and the catacomb-like darkness of the ship’s nerve center. Thompson, previously the Combat Systems Officer, had been the senior officer present onboard Gravely when they got underway, designating her the ship’s acting commanding officer.

  “How are we looking, Chief?” she said, sounding out of breath.

  “Green lights across the board, ma’am. As long as the ship doesn’t sink in the next few seconds, we’ll get some payback,” said Jeffries.

  “Don’t say that,” she said.

  “About the payback?”

  “The other part. The C2 link is working?”

  “It’s transmitting the countdown time and all of the launch data. I’ve been watching it like a hawk. We’ve got this one, ma’am. Go watch over the new ensigns on the bridge.”

  “I feel like they’re keeping an eye on me. I’ve spent my last three years down here.”

  “Lieutenant Mosely’s keeping us out of trouble,” said Jeffries.

  “Barely,” grumbled Mosely. “Skylight One-One is still downloading surface tracks. All clear. No maritime bands on the ‘Slick 32’ or contacts of interest detected by TACTAS (Tactical Towed-Array Sonar).”

  “Nothing coming into the Delaware Channel?” Thompson asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am. We would have picked up any commercial radar transmissions.”

  “Hard to believe nothing’s heading in to Philly,” Jeffries remarked.

  “Eerie. TAO, I’m headed back to the bridge. I’d like a countdown over the 1MC. The crew needs to know that their nation is back in the fight,” said Thompson.

  “Excellent, ma’am,” said Mosely, nodding in their direction.