“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). 1st BTN, 25TH,” 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 1st Battalion, 25th 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.
“They weren’t expecting trouble from this side of the border, and we got lucky.”
“You’re gonna have to deal with Eli at some point. He’s been travelling from town to town, spreading rumors about government assassination teams and the impending Homeland takeover. The people are starting to listen.”
“Then we need to shut him down immediately,” said Alex.
Cuskelly nodded. “We know where to find him.”
“He’s not in Parsonsfield,” Alex said. “The trailer and barn burned to the ground yesterday. Probably right after the attack on my house. He’s not at his house in Waterboro either. We checked.”
“I doubt he’ll show up for any more town hall meetings either. I’ll put the word out to my network, in case he slips up and makes a public appearance,” Campbell promised. “My guess is he’ll lay low for a while. If we’re lucky, he’ll try to kill you again.”
“What does unlucky look like?”
“He starts blowing shit up. Fomenting an insurgency—”
“And still tries to kill you,” added Cuskelly.
“Option number one sounds marginally better,” said Alex.
“Either way,” Campbell said, “he won’t stop until you’re dead.”
“Then we’ll have to work together to make sure that doesn’t happen. The assassination of a key provisional Recovery Zone security officer won’t sit well with Lieutenant Colonel Grady.”
“I assume you’ll need more than a border checkpoint and some scattered intelligence on Eli Russell?”
“A few more things,” answered Alex, taking a long sip of coffee.
Chapter 3
EVENT +5 Days
Bridgton, Maine
Welcome to Bridgton, The Maine Place for All Seasons. Incorporated 1794.
Eli Russell twisted his body in the front passenger seat and eased the .45 Colt Commander out of his hip holster.
Welcome indeed.
“Gentlemen, let’s pass all of the rifles back, keeping them low. Safeties engaged. Magazines removed. We want the rifles in plain sight within the rear storage compartment. Gotta be a checkpoint up here somewhere.”
“You want us to clear the rifles?”
“Negative. Keep the first rounds chambered, in case we need to put them into action pronto-like.”
“What about the pistols?” asked one of the men in the back seat.
“Keep them in their holsters. They won’t fuck with us for carrying pistols.”
“It’s illegal to transport a loaded firearm without a concealed carry permit,” said the man.
“Thanks for the gun law update, mister helper. You want to shut up and let me run the show?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a bit of a different situation going on nowadays, something to do with a fucking EMP attack! Keep your hands where they can see them, and don’t say a word unless asked a question. They’ll be glad to see responsible folks like us helping out,” said Eli, passing his rifle between the seats.
The turn straightened onto a long stretch of tree-flanked road, revealing the roadblock. A few hundred feet ahead, an oversized pickup truck and a white police car blocked both lanes of Route 93, squeezed between two guardrails. The cruiser’s blue strobe lights started flashing.
“Slow us down a little more,” Eli said, tracking their approach to the roadblock.
“I don’t know about this,” said his driver nervously.
“We’ll be fine, Griz. I may ask you to vouch for me.”
“I can do that.”
John Barry, aka “Grizzly,” had eagerly joined his organization after the town hall meeting in Limerick. He’d led Eli to Ken Haskell, who’d been more than happy to play a role in keeping Limerick safe from government assassination teams. Haskell had identified one of the young women riding in Nathan Russell’s silver BMW SUV. “One of the Fletcher kids or something like that. They live out on Gelder Pond.” Less than an hour later, “Deputy” Eli Russell and Jeffrey Brown had paid the Fletchers a little visit, scoping out their compound.
Grizzly followed the police officer’s hand signals, easing the car to a stop about twenty feet in front of the blockade. Two men dressed in civilian clothes and tactical gear shuffled between the vehicles, approaching Eli’s SUV with rifles aimed into the cabin. The police officer trailed them by several feet, keeping his pistol pointed at Eli through the windshield. A fourth shooter stood behind the pickup truck’s hood, aiming a bipod-supported, optics-equipped assault rifle at them. Eli hated feeling this helpless, but it was the only way to gain enough trust to talk his way into town. The riflemen split up, drawing even with the front doors and covering the men in the SUV.
“No sudden movements,” whispered Eli.
The police officer approached Eli from an oblique angle, partially obscured from his sight by the doorframe.
“Shut the car down! Hands out of the vehicle!”
“Boys. Hands out the windows. Slowly,” said Eli.
He nodded at Grizzly before turning his body far enough to rest his hand
s, palms up, on the top of the doorframe.
“This is a no-fucking-around situation, gentlemen. If you move your hands, you’re dead. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Eli.
Once the men in the SUV settled, the riflemen closed the distance, peering deeper into the vehicle.
“I have four military-style rifles in the cargo compartment. I see at least one shoulder holster!” yelled the rifleman on the driver’s side of the vehicle.
“You have about five seconds to explain why you were driving into town with this shit,” said the police officer.
“My name is Eli Russell, and I’m the founder of the Maine Liberty Militia.”
“Never heard of it,” replied the officer.
“We’re based out of York County.”
“You’re coming from the wrong direction.”
“We were just up in Lovell, warning them about the government takeover down south.”
“Why do you need military-style hardware to spread the word?” asked the rifleman, waving his AR at the back of the SUV.
“In case we’re attacked. The government has been killing local law enforcement and militia members down south, softening the area for whatever they have planned. We’ve lost over forty men since the supposed EMP. I put the rifles in back because I didn’t want to alarm you.”
“We haven’t heard about any attacks down south,” said the officer.
“It doesn’t surprise me. York County sheriff’s deputies started to disappear right after the EMP. Mostly the ones under contract with the small townships. The state police and regular departments seem fine, but something fishy is definitely happening in the rural areas. Checkpoints like this along the border have been wiped out. I was personally asked by the state police to send my people to one of the more obscure border crossings. None of them returned.”
“What happened?” asked the rifleman.
“They were killed in Milton Mills, right on the New Hampshire border. I lost twelve men, including my brother. I recognized the tactics from my time as a military advisor in Central America in the ’80s. We tracked down the government black ops team to a small lakeside property in Limerick. I lost twenty-nine men trying to take that house. They had it fortified with light machine guns and sandbag bunkers inside.”
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 100