THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  The stone-faced former inmate slowly shook his head. “Eli’s orders were clear. No improvising.”

  “Eli isn’t here. If we don’t take them down at the same time, one of them will radio ahead.”

  “You let me worry about that,” he said, adjusting his grip on the suppressed pistol tucked between his right thigh and the door.

  When the bright light started to fill the cabin, McCulver stole a closer glance at his passenger and nearly stopped the vehicle. A stain several shades darker than the hunter green uniform shirt covered most of Karl Pratt’s left shoulder, an anomaly somehow overlooked when they distributed the dead sheriffs’ gear by flashlight at the staging area. The blemish continued past the yellow patch sewn into the upper sleeve, covering half of the York County emblem with a crusty maroon film.

  “Jesus, Karl,” he hissed. “You look like you dressed a deer in that uniform.”

  Karl glanced at his shoulder patch as the sentry approached. “Change of plans,” he said, raising his handheld radio. “Shooter, this is Raider Lead. Fire at the sentry next to our car. Fire now.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” said McCulver, putting the cruiser into park.

  “Saving the operation,” said Pratt, tossing the radio on the dashboard.

  The ranger’s body language didn’t change when Pratt stepped out of the car. He kept his rifle aimed at the ground in a patrol ready position.

  Maybe this will work.

  Despite McCulver’s initial reservations, the police cruiser and uniforms got them close enough without drawing suspicion.

  “Deputy, please wait inside the vehicle while I clear you with dispatch,” he said, removing one of his hands to activate his radio.

  A sharp crack spun the soldier flat against the guard post wall. Pratt was already in motion, sprinting in front of the car with his pistol aimed across the hood. A second bullet hit the sentry, knocking him to the ground and spraying a bright red line across the police cruiser’s windshield. Bullets clanked off the thick armor as Pratt disappeared behind the guard post, relentlessly firing his suppressed pistol at an unseen target.

  Through the thick glass windows imbedded high in the armored wall next to the car, successive flashes illuminated the sentry station’s interior, followed by muffled gunshots. The night fell silent for several moments until a single flash and muted crack inside the guard post temporarily jolted McCulver out of his fear-induced stupor. He fumbled for the door handle, spilling onto the asphalt next to the downed sentry.

  The wounded soldier reacted to his arrival by clawing at the Motorola attached to his tactical vest. Lurching forward, McCulver ripped the radio free before the sentry could send a warning. Karl Pratt poked his head around the corner of the guard post.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, stepping into view. “Start the attack. No way this went unnoticed.”

  “Did you get the other sentry?”

  “What do you think?”

  McCulver grabbed the radio Pratt had left on the dashboard, settling into the driver’s seat. Two sharp reports caused him to duck and reach for the compact pistol hidden in the door panel. Groping for the door, he peeked over the dashboard. Pratt’s pistol was aimed downward at the sentry—slide locked backward.

  “All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. Commence your attack runs. I say again. Commence your attack runs.”

  Pratt ran up to his door. “Are you going to move the car?”

  “Douse the lights,” McCulver said, shifting the car into drive.

  He pulled the cruiser through the opening and parked behind the armored enclosure. In the rearview mirror, he watched the checkpoint darken. Pratt’s shadowy figure emerged from the back door a few seconds later, sprinting for the car. McCulver climbed over the center console, twisting into the passenger seat. He reached between the seats and pulled a red plastic toolbox into his lap.

  “You didn’t have to park fifty feet away,” said Pratt, crashing into the driver’s seat.

  McCulver didn’t respond. Something was off with this guy. He didn’t like the mercurial shift from respectful to insolent when they arrived at the guard post. Eli would never tolerate shit like that. Not from a piece of shit like Pratt. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it right now. Pratt had demonstrated enough competence under pressure to buy him a second chance—or at least another five minutes.

  ***

  Specialist Gabriel Martinez froze, straining to listen over the leaves rustling in the faint breeze. Nothing for several moments, then two barely audible cracks from the west. He turned his head in the direction of the airfield and processed the green image provided by his night-vision goggles. Nothing. He flipped the goggles upward and completed the same sweep with his rifle’s thermal scope. They were still alone as far as he could tell.

  “You hear any of that?” he whispered to Staff Sergeant Mark Jensen, his patrol leader.

  Jensen edged closer.

  “Just the one sound.”

  “Nothing out there?”

  “Negative. I thought the relief team had arrived early,” said Martinez.

  They were an hour away from completing a six-hour shift patrolling the 1,500-foot strip of forest bordering Route 109, along the eastern edge of the airfield. The woodlands lay just inside the airport’s security fence, representing a possible security risk from insurgent teams wishing to approach the airfield unseen.

  “Wishful thinking. Suppressed weapon?”

  “Hard to tell. Thought it came from the airfield.”

  “The Marines have a shit ton of those suppressed HK rifles,” said Jensen.

  “I haven’t seen them carry any on patrol,” replied Martinez.

  “Call it in. We’ll make our way to the airfield.”

  “Roger that, Staff Sergeant.”

  ***

  Second Lieutenant Kyle Walker sat on a rusty folding chair inside the Seacoast Aviation hangar, watching the steam rise from the metal canteen cup perched on a WhisperLite camp stove. He’d pulled the mid-watch again, putting him in front of Bravo Company, 2nd Ranger Battalion’s radios for eight hours, starting at twenty-two hundred hours. The eight-hour stretch was brutal, but he’d fall out of the rotation for the next twenty-four hours, giving him a chance to patrol with his platoon and catch up on rest. With five officers in the company, including the company commander, they had enough flexibility to meet the RRZ’s requirement to keep an officer and staff NCO on dispatch duty at all times.

  “That water ain’t gonna boil any faster with you eyeballing it, sir.”

  “How did I get stuck with you, First Sergeant?”

  “Captain asked me to keep an eye on you,” said First Sergeant McMillan, glancing deeper into the hangar. “Speaking of the good captain…”

  A muscular African-American man dressed in running gear emerged from the shadows, walking toward the tables of electronics gear pushed against the hangar wall.

  “Morning, gents. I’m headed out for a quick run and some PT before the RRZ briefing. Brought this for you, First Sergeant,” Hines said, tossing the MRE at McMillan. “Briefing’s at 6:15.”

  “I don’t like to eat on duty, sir. Sets a bad example for the more impressionable members of the company,” said McMillan, nodding at the lieutenant.

  The radio squawked. “Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. Over.”

  Walker glanced at his watch before answering. 5:12. Perimeter teams checked in at the bottom of the hour. This wasn’t a check-in.

  “This is Rogue Watch. Over.”

  “Interrogative. Did any other Rogue units report noise to our west?”

  “Negative. What did you hear?”

  “Distant crackling noise. Best guess is suppressed gunshots.”

  The amplified words hung in the air for a moment.

  “Tell them to stand by,” said Hines. “What’s Rogue Three’s location?”

  “Stand by, Rogue Three. Out.”

  Walker turned to the laptop on the
table in front of him, forgetting about the boiling water on the concrete floor next to him. After a few mouse clicks, he had zoomed in on Rogue Three’s passive tracking beacon.

  “Moving parallel to Route 109, less than one hundred feet from the western edge of their patrol zone.”

  “Where’s Rogue Two?”

  “Sweeping the woods adjacent to the RRZ Authority compound,” said Walker.

  “Contact Rogue Two and the Outland Four,” Hines ordered. “I want to know if they can corroborate any of these sounds. First Sergeant, may I borrow your NVGs?”

  The seasoned ranger handed the captain his helmet with NVGs attached while Walker contacted the units. Rogue Two had nothing to report. He grabbed the radio handset tuned to the outer perimeter checkpoints and transmitted.

  “Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

  No response.

  “Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

  He waited a few seconds before checking the radio set to make sure he was still transmitting on the Outland frequency. He tried one more time before calling out to Captain Hines, who stood in the middle of the open hangar door twenty feet away.

  “No response from Outland Four.”

  “I don’t see their security lights,” said Hines.

  “I recommend we send QRF out to the checkpoint, sir,” said First Sergeant McMillan, standing with his rifle.

  “Send QRF. Raise alert status to Red for all stations. Contact Patriot and pass the alert. Wake the troops, First Sergeant.”

  ***

  Specialist Martinez held up a fist, stopping their progress.

  “Vehicle. Up ahead,” he whispered.

  “Let’s go,” said Jensen, sprinting past him.

  They stopped at the edge of the woods and crouched, searching the open landscape next to the airfield for the source of the engine sounds.

  “Two buses and several smaller vehicles headed toward the airport from Outland Four. Running dark,” said Jensen, turning his head east. “What the fuck happened to Outland’s lights?”

  “They should be on. I’m calling this in,” said Martinez.

  “Hold on. I see a police cruiser behind the buses.”

  Martinez watched the darkened convoy speed toward the empty intersection ahead. The buses showed no signs of slowing.

  Something’s way off.

  “Staff Sergeant?” said Martinez.

  “Send it as a SPOTREP,” said Jensen, disengaging his rifle’s safety.

  Before Martinez could transmit, his earpiece activated.

  “All Rogue and Outland units. Alert Level Red. Outland Four not responding to radio calls. Any unit with eyes on Outland Four—report immediately.”

  “Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. SPOTREP. Fifteen vehicles headed west on Kennebunk Road. Outland Four is dark. Over.”

  “Copy fifteen vehicles. Are you reporting them as confirmed hostile?” said Rogue Watch.

  “Uh—wait one,” said Martinez, releasing the transmit button. “Staff Sergeant, what do you—”

  “Confirmed hostile!” interrupted Jensen. “They’re ramming the fence!”

  The lead bus slammed into the gate directly across from the intersection, snapping the padlocked chains and barreling through the fence like it didn’t exist. He thumbed the Motorola button as the second bus passed through the new opening, headed toward the runway.

  “Confirmed hostile! I say again, confirmed hostile! They just breached the gate in front of the Kennebunk Road intersection.”

  Chapter 33

  EVENT +21 Days

  Main Operating Base “Sanford”

  Regional Recovery Zone 1

  Standing in the stairwell next to the folding doors, Matt Gibbs gripped the steel handrail and ducked when the front of his bus smashed into the fence. A quick jolt, followed by several halfhearted cheers, told him that McCulver had been right. The brute force produced by a fifteen-ton bus travelling at thirty-five miles per hour had snapped the gate like a twig, leaving a few spider cracks in the windshield.

  “I can’t see the runway,” said the driver, slowing the bus.

  Gibbs opened his eyes and peered through the windshield, quickly reaching the same conclusion. The shapeless black view ahead gave him no indication if they were on the dirt access road leading to the runway. Logic told him the runway was dead ahead, but he couldn’t afford to be wrong. Eli had stressed the importance of timing and speed on this operation, especially if they hoped to return alive. Any delay reaching the primary targets could doom them to failure, and failure was not an option—especially with Eli. He hated to give up the element of surprise, but he needed to be sure.

  “Hit the lights for a second.”

  “Don’t you have night vision?”

  “Did you see me bring any on board? All of the night vision is in the cars. They need it to get to their targets.”

  “We turn these lights on, they’ll see us coming.”

  “We’re not driving the whole way with the lights. Just long enough to reach the runway. Hit the goddamn lights,” said Gibbs.

  “Whatever,” the driver said and flipped on the headlights.

  They were twenty or thirty feet to the right of the dirt road. The runway lay several hundred feet ahead.

  “Get us back on the road,” he said. “Careful turning in the grass.”

  As the bus eased left, his radio squawked.

  “Raider One, this is Raider Lead. Turn your lights off immediately.”

  “This is Raider One. We’re off the road. We can’t see where we’re going,” said Gibbs.

  “Turn your lights off—immediately. You’re compromising the mission. I’ll guide you to the runway. Follow the green light,” said Raider Lead.

  “Told you,” said the driver, killing the lights.

  Before the view ahead disappeared, he caught a glimpse of McCulver’s police cruiser speeding past. A few seconds later, a subdued, green glow lit the cruiser’s interior. Through the bus’s windshield, the familiar shape of a chemlight waved side to side.

  “Follow that car,” Gibbs said.

  Ten seconds later, the chemlight flew out of the cruiser’s window and bounced twice before stopping.

  “Raider Two, this is Raider Lead. Green chemlight is your mark to turn right and proceed down the taxiway to your targets. Good luck and God bless America. Rally at the same chemlight for group extract to staging area. Raider One stay on me. The main runway is dead ahead. Out.”

  The bus continued past the green mark, driving blind until the cruiser’s interior reappeared, bathed in green light. McCulver had clearly thought this one through. Gibbs had a good feeling about it, despite the audacity of Eli’s overall plan. Casualties would no doubt be high, and there was no guarantee he’d survive to celebrate their victory, but the price paid in blood today would be well worth the sacrifice. This morning’s attack would deliver a strong message to the government, rallying patriots throughout New England and ultimately sparking a countrywide revolution. He was proud to play an integral role in a battle that would be compared to the “shot heard round the world” fired at North Bridge in Concord.

  “Raider One, this is Raider Lead. Mark your turn at the chemlight and commence your attack run. Good luck and God bless America. Hit them hard and rally at the chemlight.”

  The second chemlight sailed in a shallow arc, landing on the runway ahead of the bus. Gibbs pulled the door release handle, retracting the bifold door and bathing the stairwell in a cool gust of moist air. Peering through the open doorway, he could vaguely identify the dark shapes of Raider Two racing down the taxiway toward the hangars crowding the airfield’s main tarmac. As the bus started its wide turn onto the runway, he tightened his grip on the vertical handle in the stairwell and triggered his radio.

  “Raider One units, this is Raider One Lead. Once you hit the runway, proceed at best speed to the hangars along the western edge of the airfield and return to the chemlight. We need to be back on Kennebunk
Road in less than five minutes. Respond. Over.”

  By the time Raider One-Six, the sixth vehicle in Gibbs’ formation, responded, the bus had completed its turn, accelerating on the open runway. He could barely believe they were doing this. Gibbs climbed the stairs and studied the view ahead. The obsidian murk still hid the distant hangars, but he knew the bus was headed in the right direction. A dark gray strip, several times wider than the bus, cut through the sea of black ahead. A dark shape appeared in his peripheral vision as one of the Raider vehicles sped past the bus.

  “How fast are we going?” he yelled over the wind blowing into the doorway.

  “Fifty-five!”

  “Kick it up to seventy. I don’t want to fall too far behind the cars.”

  “This thing isn’t designed for drag racing,” said the driver.

  Gibbs felt a weak burst of acceleration as the rest of his attack force zipped by on both sides of the bus.

  “I got the damn thing floored. This is it!”

  He patted the driver on the shoulder.

  “Keep it going as fast as you can,” he said, watching the dark shapes pull away.

  Raider One Lead had the same problem. Three hundred feet away, running parallel to the main runway, the long, gray shape of the second correctional bus drifted further behind the pack of smaller vehicles, which had nearly disappeared in the darkness ahead. Gibbs didn’t like the separation between the buses and the cars. It was the one aspect of Eli’s plan that left him uneasy.

  With the faster vehicles arriving ahead of the buses, they would bear the brunt of the return fire from the stirred-up hornets’ nest at the other end of the runway. Eli spun the situation differently, which rallied the troops but did little to quell his apprehension. He described the buses as battleships, which would shatter the confused enemy’s morale with a broadside of concentrated gunfire. A little overstated, Gibbs thought, but not a bad image.

  Much like the battleship Eli described, a mixed group of militia and inmates would simultaneously fire a medley of semiautomatic rifles, bolt-action hunting rifles and shotguns at the hangar. The volume of fire exiting the slatted security windows might be impressive, but it hardly qualified as a fearsome broadside. Firing into the dark from a moving platform, his team of twenty-three men would be lucky to hit anything. Despite Eli’s elevated claims, Gibbs understood that the buses functioned more as a show of force than a force multiplier. The car bomb would do most of the damage.