Together.
“Does the other house have more than one toilet?” asked Alex, raising an eyebrow.
Charlie and Ed broke into laughter, knocking down more of the wall Alex had spent the past six years building around him. He flipped the selector switch on his rifle to “safe,” and clipped the helmet to the side of his vest.
“Can’t be any worse than a thirty-eight-foot sailboat,” said Ed.
Alex smiled, shaking his head. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Chapter 46
EVENT + 22 Days
Penobscot Bay, Maine
A crisp, north Atlantic gust penetrated his jacket, providing a stark reminder of the family’s decision. Instead of warm trade winds and endless summer days, they unanimously decided to steer the Katelyn Ann north, toward a bitter cold winter in Belgrade, Maine, relieved to keep the sturdy bonds of hard-earned friendship intact. Doubts still lingered about the Federal Recovery Plan’s long-term impact on New England, but they all agreed that northern Maine provided adequate geographical isolation to keep them out of harm’s way for the immediate future.
Alex raised the binoculars hanging from his neck and scanned the wispy fog ahead for the signs of Belfast harbor. His handheld GPS receiver indicated they were less than a nautical mile from the town docks. White specks materialized in the distance, announcing the outer edge of Belfast’s extensive mooring field. From what he could tell, the field was intact, untouched by the wall of water that had devastated coastal facilities further south in Casco Bay.
Sailing the Katelyn Ann out of Yarmouth through petroleum-covered inner Casco Bay had reintroduced Alex to the extent of the tsunami’s damage. Marinas and town facilities they’d frequented on family sailing trips had been wiped out of existence, now marked by little more than bobbing clusters of discarded boats, heavy debris and the occasional decayed body. Alex steered them as far away from land as possible until they passed Monhegan Island, where he pointed the bow in a northeasterly direction for the transit into Penobscot Bay.
He tracked a steady flow of merchant vessels and petroleum carriers headed in the same direction, maintaining a cautious distance from the behemoths. The sight of inbound maritime traffic was encouraging, signaling the first real steps toward recovery he had seen since the morning of the event. The unusual volume of ships plying the bay’s restricted waters meant one thing: Searsport’s Intermodal Cargo Terminal had power and was open for business. Good news since petroleum and durable goods reaching Searsport could be transported by pipeline and truck to points south, easing recovery efforts in the most damaged areas of New England.
As the field of swaying sailboat masts came into focus ahead, the familiar deep growl of a throttling lobster boat reached him. Scanning the mist, he spotted the ancient wooden contraption cutting across the bay for open water and its crustacean harvest. On the surface, Belfast harbor appeared unchanged in the wake of the disaster. Alex knew better, but seeing the waterfront emerge unscathed gave him hope. He’d seen nothing but one devastated harbor after another on the trip up the coast.
“Mom, bring the kids topside!” said Alex. “We’re getting close.”
Amy Fletcher appeared through the open cabin hatch. “How close?”
“Ten minutes from tie up.”
“That close?” she said, climbing into the cockpit and peering over the ripped dodger. “Belfast looks completely untouched,” she said.
“On the outside. It’s a different story behind every door. We need to offload as quickly as possible and get out of here. Two vehicles and a loaded trailer are bound to attract attention.”
“What about the boat?” she said.
“I’ll find an empty mooring and do a ten-minute winter prep. Throw a little fuel stabilizer in the diesel tank. Pump the water from the lines and run a jug of antifreeze through the system. Same with the engine. If we need to leave, we can have the boat running in less than two minutes.”
“We won’t need to do that. I have a good feeling about this,” said his mom.
“Me too, Mom, but it’s always good to have options.”
“I’ll leave you to your options while I get the kids up to help,” she said, climbing below deck to send the kids topside.
Alex pulled back on the stainless steel throttle lever, slowing the sailboat for their transit through the crowded mooring field. Most of the boats appeared empty, devoid of the telltale signs of a cruising family or couple: towels and bathing suits draped over the boom, or dinghies swinging lazily from a line tied off to an aft cleat. Occasionally, a head peeked through a hatch or appeared in a cabin window. He wondered if they had been there since the day of the event or if they had fled north seeking refuge. Either way, they couldn’t stay on the water much longer.
Studying the rapidly developing image of Belfast’s waterfront in his binoculars, he spotted the first marina on the edge of town. He’d arranged to meet Kate at the first dock that could handle a five-foot draft at low tide. Extending a few hundred feet into the harbor from a concrete pier at the end of a dirt parking lot, the slips looked full—and Kate was nowhere in sight. He struggled with a rising sense of anxiety. He’d been out of radio contact with Kate for more than a day. A lot could happen in a day.
The decision to join the Walkers and Thorntons in Belgrade came with a few logistical requirements, which they decided should be handled by splitting up in Yarmouth. The most critical necessity was food. They had stocked the boat with a two-month supply of dehydrated food packets and MREs, which represented more than enough sustenance to reach South America, but nowhere close to the amount required to survive a Maine winter. The earliest they could expect to start eating modestly from a garden was mid-June. Nine months. He came up with a plan, utilizing the Marines, to transport the rest of their long-term food stores from Limerick to Belgrade.
Since Alex needed to keep a low profile in southern Maine, he agreed to take the sailboat north, ferrying the younger kids and his mother to the Belfast harbor. Kate, Tim and Ryan split up between the two vehicles in Yarmouth and returned to the compound in Limerick. With Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s blessing, Alex had arranged for the Marines at FOB Lakeside to stuff two Matvees with most of the remaining dry foods in their basement. Additional survival gear, ammunition and domestic supplies would be packed in the two SUVs, which would join the convoy of tactical vehicles headed north. Grady justified the deployment of the Matvees to recover his “stranded” Marines.
Alex scanned the dock again, still not seeing any signs of human activity. She was probably at the next dock. At the far left of his visual field, a car door opened in the parking lot. Two figures ran across the concrete pier, waving with both hands as they sprinted down a steep metal ramp toward the floats. They stopped three-quarters of the way down the dock, jumping up and down to draw his attention. The empty slip appeared as soon as he cleared the last cluster of boats in the mooring field. He lowered the binoculars and steered toward the dock, curious and eager to start a long chapter with his new Band of Brothers—as long as it didn’t involve sharing a bathroom.
Epilogue
EVENT +45 Days
Main Operating Base “Sanford”
Regional Recovery Zone 1
Lieutenant Colonel Grady pressed orange earplugs into his ears and muttered a few obscenities. The noise from the C-17 Globemaster III’s massive quad turbofan engines cut through the foam as the beast taxied in front of the battalion’s hangar and stopped. The table vibrated under his laptop computer, and papers started to flap on the clipboards fixed to the tables.
“Sergeant Major!” he said, standing up and knocking his chair back. “Close the hangar doors.”
According to the air operations task list, MOB Sanford had twelve hours of continuous heavy airlift scheduled, which guaranteed one of these noisemakers parked right in front of his TOC for the rest of the day. When the last hangar door clanged against the concrete hangar deck, he risked removing one of the foam earplugs. It was better.
Sort of. The high-pitched scream of the engine had been replaced by the rattle of the metal bay doors, which he could tolerate. He turned his attention to the computer screen and read today’s tasking report, shaking his head. Maybe Alex had the right idea.
020245Z OCT 19
FM NSC WASHDC IMMEDIATE
TO DIRECTOR FEDREC/HOMELAND WASHDC
INFO RRZ AUTHGOV IMMEDIATE
INFO RRZ MILCOMMAND
SECRET NOFORN SECTION 1 OF 1 WASHDC
DECL: NDA
FEDRECBULLETIN
SUBJECT: TASKREP OCT19
GENTEXT/REMARKS/
1. URGENT//RECALL INITIATED 010001Z OCT 19 FOR ALL FORWARD DEPLOYED MILITARY COMPONENTS OF FOLLOWING UNIFIED COMMANDS: A. USCENTCOM B. USPACOM C. USEUCOM D. USAFRICOM. RETURNING UNITS WILL BE REDEPLOYED IAW CATEGORY FIVE PROTOCOLS WHEN 80 PERCENT READINESS ACHIEVED. ESTIMATED REDEPLOYMENT DATE FOR PHASE ONE RECALL UNITS 010001Z DEC 19. ESTIMATES ON LATER PHASES TBA.
ACTION//START PROCESS OF EXPANDING FOOTPRINT WITHIN RRZ TO EMPLOY UNITS. PRIORITY TO SECURITY AND HUMANITARIAN MISSION.
2. HIGH PRIORITY//INFRASTRUCTURE REPAIR BELOW EXPECTED LEVELS. ACTION//EXPEDITE IDENTIFICATION OF KEY CRITICAL PERSONNEL FOR REPLACEMENT/REPAIR OF TRANSFORMERS AND LOCAL LEVEL ELECTRICAL GRID SUPPORT EQUIPMENT.
ACTION//SUBMIT CRITICAL TRANSFORMER REPLACEMENT REQUESTS TO FEDREC/HOMELAND DIRECTLY. SEE PRIORITY TABLES IN FEDRECINST1057.3B
3. HIGH PRIORITY//DOMESTIC TERRORISM EXPECTED TO INCREASE IN NORTHERN LATITUDE RRZS AS WEATHER DETERIORATES.
ACTION//EXPEDITE EXPANSION OF REFUGEE CAMP SYSTEM BEYOND CURRENT AUTHORIZED CAPACITY. ACTION//INITIATE FRONT LOADING NUTRITION PROGRAMS WITHIN CAMP SYSTEM TO ENCOURAGE COMPLIANCE AND PARTICIPATION IS AUTHORIZED. USE OF LONG TERM FOOD RESERVES IS AUTHORIZED. DO NOT EXCEED 70 PERCENT INVENTORY DEPLETION LEVELS WITHOUT APPROVAL FROM FEDREC/HOMELAND.
4. PRIORITY//COMMUNICATIONS BANDWIDTH EXPECTED TO DECREASE WITH CONTINUED LOSS OF LOW EARTH ORBIT SATELLITES DUE TO ANTI-SATTELITE MISSILE ATTACKS BY PRC.
ACTION//IMPLEMENT SATELLITE DATA COMMUNICATION RESTRICTIONS ALPHA THRU DELTA EFFECTIVE 030001Z OCT19.
5. PRIORITY//HUMANITARIAN AIRLIFT FROM EUROPE EXPECTED TO CEASE WITHIN NEXT FIVE TO TEN DAYS. MILITARY PRESSURE FROM RUSSIAN FEDERATION INVASION OF FORMER SATELLITE NATIONS CITED BY EUROPEAN COUNCIL AS PRIMARY REASON. CHINESE ECONOMIC PRESSURE SUSPECTED TO PLAY A SECONDARY ROLE.
ACTION//REFOCUS CURRENT HUMANITARIAN AID MATERIALS TO TASKS CRITICAL TO SECURITY.
BT#3459
NNNN
****
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Go back to Contents
Turn the page to read the final Book in the Alex Fletcher Series:
Dispatches
Dispatches
Alex Fletcher Book Five
About Dispatches
After finishing Point of Crisis, I thought the series was finished. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. As I walked away from the series, glancing fondly over my shoulder, two main themes emerged from emails, reviews and blog comments. 1.) What’s happening in the world outside of New England? 2.) I can’t wait to see what happens to the Fletchers after the winter.
I tried to keep walking, but eventually I turned around and stared at these loose ends. Ideas formed, and before I knew it, a new concept emerged. One that would address both themes voiced by readers. The format for this concept changed several times, ultimately resulting in a hybrid novel. Essentially two stories in one.
Dispatches is broken into two parts. Big Picture and Little Picture. Big Picture takes readers across the globe, to conflicts arising in the absence of the United States’ foreign presence. Of course, America is not out of the fight—she’s just taking a quieter, more satisfying role in the unfolding events. Little Picture pulls you back to Maine, to once again walk in Alex Fletcher’s shoes (and many others), as the Fletcher crew is once again faced with drastic choices that will ultimately decide their fate.
But first—Happy Reading!
PART I
“BIG PICTURE”
Winter 2019-2020
“Meet the New Soviets. Same as the Old Soviets”
Chapter 1
Narva, Estonia
Late November 2019
Colonel Egon Saar drifted to sleep in his seat, his head snapping up to greet the same digital screen he’d stared at for the past several hours. He checked his watch, already knowing the time. Zero-two hundred. Two in the damn morning and the Russians were still playing games across the river.
“Let’s get this over with already,” he mumbled.
His artillery battalion had been moved to Narva two weeks earlier, based on NATO satellite intelligence suggesting a buildup of Russian armor units east of the Luga River. Three days ago, Estonian agents in Kingisepp reported T-14 “Armata” tanks crossing the Luga. He hadn’t slept since receiving that message. The presence of T-14s, Moscow’s latest generation main battle tank, meant one thing. Invasion was imminent, spearheaded by the Moscow-based, elite 4th Independent Tank Brigade. The Estonian Defense Forces assembled in the vicinity of Narva would be little more than a speed bump on the road to Tallinn for a Russian tank brigade.
He prayed his wife had listened and taken the kids to Stockholm. If they hadn’t left by now, they might never get out. The Russian invasion would undoubtedly be combined with an air and naval blockade of Tallinn, cutting off any possible means of escape. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing if they had left the country. Saar had surrendered his cell phone before deploying. It was better not knowing, because there was nothing he could do to help them.
He’d said goodbye in their apartment, a few blocks from the main gate to the sprawling Estonian Defense Force base in Tapa—fighting off tears his children couldn’t fully understand. His wife knew there was little chance that he would return. She had heard enough about Russian artillery from him to know that he’d be among the first casualties. Kissing them goodbye for the last time was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
The Russians would pay a dear price for this.
He removed his headset, stood up in the cramped command vehicle, and weaved through the equipment operators, pulling his headset cable with him. A small coffee station stood on the map table, rigged directly to the armored personnel carrier’s electrical system. Besides the heating system, the coffee maker represented their only luxury in the field. A gust of wind buffeted the thirteen-ton vehicle, barely audible through the armored hull. Conditions outside were miserable. Positioned in a thick forest on the bluffs northeast of Narva, his artillery battalion was exposed to the bitter northerly winds sweeping off the Gulf of Finland.
The weather didn’t matter to the men and women of his artillery battalion. They were all tucked inside heated vehicles. The battalion consisted of twelve self-propelled ARCHER systems and three times that many support vehicles. Not a single soldier in his unit needed to be outside in the subfreezing temperature. The same couldn’t be said about the infantry battalion guarding his position. Their perimeter extended several hundred meters in every direction, consisting of observation posts, machine-gun nests and squad-sized rapid response teams—huddled in shallow holes carved out of the frozen ground. They were miserable.
“Colonel, I’ve lost the ARTHUR feed,” said the operator next to him.
Colonel Saar turned his attention to one of the screens behind him. ARTHUR, or Artillery Hunting Radar, represented their only chance of detecting an incoming artillery attack. Since his battalion’s artillery batteries were the only viable threat to Russian tanks crossing the Narva River, he fully expected to be the focus of an intense artillery strike at the outset of hostilities.
“Get a report from them immediately,” said Saar.
A few seconds later, the operator lifted the headset above his ears. “I think we’re being jammed.”
Saar pressed one of the buttons connected to his headset. “Vortex, this is Thunder
actual. Lost contact with Watchtower.”
When he released the button, a shrill, oscillating sound filled his ears, causing him to throw the headset onto the map table. They were most definitely being jammed. Somewhere high above the cloud layer on the Russian side of the border, several aircraft were flooding his battalion’s radio frequency spectrum with “noise,” rendering digital communication impossible. He started the stopwatch function on his sports watch.
“Contact battalion spotters via landline. I want to know what’s happening in Narva.”
“Colonel, spotters report heavy small-arms fire at the Narva Bridge.
“Which side?” demanded Saar.
“Ours!”
“Copy,” said Saar, contemplating the situation.
The Russians had probably sent a sizable Spetsnaz force to secure the western bridgehead. There was only one course of action left, and Saar needed to act immediately to give it any chance of success.
“Transmit over landline to battery commanders. Execute Fire Plan Alfa X-ray. Expend all rounds.”
The sergeant stared at him for a moment before quickly lowering his headset to pass Saar’s command. “Alfa X-ray” was a northern-front battle plan devised several days earlier under the direction of his commanding officer, Brigadier General Lepp. It wouldn’t prevent the Russian invasion, but it would buy Tallinn some time to petition NATO. Not that NATO was in much of a position to help. They had been completely unprepared for the sudden withdrawal of U.S. military forces from Europe.
“Battery commanders have acknowledged the order, sir.”
Saar nodded before grabbing his combat helmet hanging on his seat. “I suggest everyone gears up.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. The combined firepower of an entire Russian artillery brigade would be leveled against them. There wouldn’t be much left of his battalion after the Russians’ first salvos. Before he’d finished snapping his chinstrap, the vehicle shook from a hollow crunching sound—the first of his battalion’s two hundred and fifty-two high-explosive artillery rounds had been fired.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 131