Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  Pearson distributed another folder marked FEMA Region I. The country was divided into ten regions. Region I included Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut.

  “Homeland Security will be directing you to secure the FEMA Regional Offices on High Street in Boston. You will assist in the protection of personnel and assets as the High Street facility plays a more expansive role in the recovery effort.”

  “A couple of things, Agent Pearson,” began Brad. “When is this to take place?”

  “By Wednesday at the latest,” replied Pearson. “What else?”

  “Why am I receiving orders from Homeland Security and not USCENTCOM?”

  Pearson stood and began to gather his briefcase. Apparently, the briefing was over. “Colonel, the President has issued a series of executive orders regarding the safety of our nation and the protection of its citizens. Reserve units such as yours will play an integral role in providing a uniformed response in these trying times. The President believes a unit such as yours will be ideally suited for this purpose.”

  “What purpose is that, Agent Pearson?”

  “I will be able to provide you greater detail about the new mission of the 25th Marine Regiment when I return on Thursday afternoon.” Pearson began to walk out of the briefing room when he suddenly stopped.

  “Oh, one more thing, Colonel,” said Pearson, turning slowly to address Brad. “The President, by executive order, has commuted the sentences of all federal inmates below the penitentiary classification. We are no longer able to house and feed them. Please advise the warden of the local federal prison camp to release all inmates in his custody.”

  There were nearly a quarter of a million federal inmates in the Bureau of Prison’s system. With the stroke of a pen, the President just released ninety-six percent of them.

  “Where will they go?” asked Brad.

  “That’s not your problem,” replied Pearson. “Just tell them to go.”

  Chapter 53

  Monday, September 5, 2016

  5:26 p.m.

  Triple Q Ranch, Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Brad’s Humvee pulled up to the entry gate to Prescott Peninsula. He instructed his driver to wait a moment, and he hopped out to address his men. CWO Shore greeted him.

  “Good evening, sir!” said Shore as he saluted his colonel. Brad snapped a salute in return. “I’ll have the gate opened for you.”

  “Thank you, Shore,” said Brad. “Have you had any incidents?” Brad walked up and down the entry gate and surveyed the surroundings.

  “Our first one occurred this morning, sir,” replied Shore, following closely behind. “Two men dressed in hunting gear rode up to the gate on four-wheelers. They made small talk but did ask some questions. We responded as ordered, sir.”

  “You told them you were private contractors protecting the families?”

  “Yes, sir. They didn’t seem to question our statements, sir.”

  “Okay, good. Carry on, Shore.” Brad headed back towards his Humvee.

  “Sir, there is one more thing about the two men. They inquired about the helicopter. They apparently noticed the chopper’s arrival last night as well as its lack of departure. Just an FYI, sir.”

  Brad nodded and got into the truck. Morgan’s arrival by helicopter caused unneeded exposure to 1PP. When the power was off, any noise was exaggerated. The noise from the rotors probably reverberated from one side of the reservoir to the other. Brad hoped that wouldn’t come back to bite them in the ass.

  As Brad’s convoy entered the clearing at 1PP, he was greeted by everyone, including Mr. Morgan. Brad had limited contact with John Morgan in the past. His uncle, Samuel Bradlee, played an active role in keeping Brad in charge of the 25th Marines. It was his uncle’s close relationship with Mr. Morgan that helped Brad rise to battalion commander status at the fairly young age of forty.

  Brad hopped out and greeted Mr. Morgan first. “Hello, sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Yes, Colonel, it is my pleasure as well,” said Morgan. “My friend, Samuel, has always spoken highly of you. I am very impressed with the security you have provided for this facility. Your men are top notch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. In fact, I have another dozen men joining the team tonight.”

  “Excellent,” said Morgan. Brad waved to the rest of the Loyal Nine and Sabs. He addressed his men, who gathered around. “Corporal, have the men refuel that chopper and then secure the fuel tanker in a suitable location in the woods, but not too close to any structure.”

  “Hi, Brad,” greeted Donald. The men shook hands. “I like the fuel truck. But we no longer have our pilot.”

  “We do now.” Brad smiled. “I brought more men in with me, and two of them are checked out on the old Sikorsky HRS Chickasaws. They tell me flying the Chickasaw is like driving a John Deere compared to the S76, which is like a Mercedes. But they all have collective levers, cyclic sticks, and anti-torque pedals. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Donald. “You never know if we might need this thing at some point.”

  “I agree. When I learned of the chopper’s landing, my initial reaction was not positive. Then I thought of the usefulness the Sikorsky could have to us. So I brought the tanker with me to refuel this bird. We’ll conveniently forget the fuel truck when we leave in the morning.”

  “Come in, Brad,” said J.J. as he put his arm around Brad’s shoulders. The two men had become better acquainted during the build-out of Prescott Peninsula. They seemed to enjoy exchanging war stories. “We’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Pour away, my friend. Listen up, everybody, there’s lots to discuss,” started Brad. “Before we get started, how are Sarge and Julia coming along?”

  Susan spoke up because she had continued to maintain communications with Julia. “Everything is on schedule. Sarge was picking up Mr. Morgan’s associates, and they should all be at 100 Beacon by tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest. I believe Mr. and Mrs. Endicott were the only ones not accounted for.”

  “What?” asked Morgan.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I thought you knew. As of my last communication with Julia, Sarge has not been able to contact the Endicotts. If he is unsuccessful by tomorrow morning, he plans on going to their residence.”

  “Keep me informed,” said Morgan.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Susan. The group made their way into the large living area, where the Quinn girls were coloring.

  “Uncle Brad!” shouted the girls in unison. They ran to give him a hug. Brad was a career military man who rarely had time for a date, much less a wife and kids. He chose to live vicariously through the Quinns. He was immediately handed a crayon drawing by the youngest Quinn.

  “Look. I drew a picture of Mr. Morgan’s helo-chopper,” said Rebecca.

  “I drew one too,” chimed in Penny. “We don’t have to go to school for a while, so Mommy said we have to practice our artwork every day. This is our first no-more-school school project.”

  “Well, you two have done a fine job, don’t you think, sir?” said Brad as he handed Rebecca’s drawing to Mr. Morgan.

  “You sure have,” he said as he rubbed the child on the head and handed her back the drawing.

  “Girls,” started Sabs, “why don’t we go into the kitchen and see what Private Wilson has on tonight’s menu. Maybe she has some mac and cheese!”

  “Yeah! Our favorite!” exclaimed the girls. Sabs led them out of the room so the adults could spend some time getting up to speed.

  J.J. grabbed a bottle of Glengoyne from the cabinet and poured glasses for everyone.

  “Toast,” said Donald. Each of the group clinked glasses except Susan, who didn’t partake of alcohol.

  “Tell us what you’ve learned, Brad,” said Donald.

  Donald relayed the briefing with Agent Pearson, and everyone agreed the President was taking unprecedented control over the
military. He was apparently looking to centralize power over both military and law enforcement functions. Mr. Morgan was the first to raise the issue of Agent Pearson’s role and the role of FPS in general.

  “What do you make of Homeland Security’s involvement?” asked Morgan.

  “I believe Homeland Security has been looking for an opportunity like this one for a long time—and I mean years,” replied Brad. “When Jade Helm was first announced by the Pentagon, I thought it would be a continuation of regular military training exercises in the past. But Jade Helm went further. By taking place across seven states, the most conservative of which were labeled hostile, Jade Helm expanded the size and scope of previous exercises. Many, myself included, saw this as a way to condition Americans to accept a military presence on our streets.”

  “I looked at Jade Helm as a prelude to martial law,” said Susan. “This would not be the first time a major false-flag operation was undertaken while training exercises were being conducted. In ’95, a few hours before the Oklahoma City bombing of the federal building, an ATF bomb squad was seen holding an anti-terror drill there. Later, it came out that despite the FBI- and ATF-maintained offices in the building, none of their personnel were injured in the blast.”

  “Isn’t that a little conspiratorial, Mrs. Quinn?” asked Morgan.

  “However it is labeled, the facts speak for themselves. Here’s another example. As the hijacked airliners were headed toward the Pentagon and the World Trade Centers on 9/11, NORAD interceptor jets designated for just such an attack were hundreds of miles away, preoccupied with their training exercise.”

  “I recall something similar in London in’05,” added J.J. “At the time of the London subway bombings, a training exercise was taking place by a private contractor on another train concurrently with the placement of the actual bombs by Pakistanis.”

  “These false-flag events aren’t uncommon and have been used throughout history to gain an advantage politically and militarily,” said Brad. “It’s impossible to tell whether this is a false-flag event. My biggest concern at this point is the potential use of our military as law enforcement agents on U.S. soil.”

  “Isn’t that prohibited by the Constitution?” asked Susan.

  “Not exactly,” replied Brad. “The Posse Comitatus Act was passed to prevent our military personnel from being used in traditional law enforcement functions on American soil. In fact, our Congress has repeatedly upheld the law, including following Hurricane Katrina. New Orleans was so out of control that Congress considered a law permitting an exception to the Act in cases of significant natural disasters. Although it was passed, it was repealed shortly after that.”

  “Assuming Jade Helm was a dress rehearsal for the imposition of martial law in America, the timing is certainly suspect, don’t you think?” Susan asked rhetorically. “I mean, we’re in the middle of the largest military exercise on the streets of America since the Civil War, and a cyber attack takes down our power grid. Pretty coincidental.”

  “The circumstances do seem odd,” said Abbie finally. Brad noticed that she was quiet, but assumed it was due to the loss of Drew Jackson. Morgan shot her a glance. What’s that all about?

  “All I know is the declaration of martial law is synonymous with the suspension of our Constitutional rights,” said Susan. “Americans should rise up in arms if that happens.” The group sat quietly for a moment and then Morgan spoke up. He finished his drink and indicated for J.J. to pour him another.

  “Assuming, arguendo, that Jade Helm was an extensive military exercise for the very circumstances we find ourselves in today, Mrs. Quinn, would you prefer chaos or control?” Morgan sat back in his chair and studied Susan. She seemed unfazed by the question.

  Susan, taking a deep breath, looked Morgan directly in the eye and answered, “If given the choice between losing my constitutional rights—and the freedoms those rights afford me—in the name of controlling the chaos to which you refer, I’ll choose freedom.”

  Chapter 54

  Tuesday, September 6, 2016

  10:15 a.m.

  1st Battalion, 25th Marines HQ

  Fort Devens, Massachusetts

  “Gentlemen, I’m going to give you both the option to go home and turn away from what we have set into motion,” said Brad to his two most trusted officers—Gunny Falcone and CWO Shore. “The actions we take today may ensure our survival and the potential security of the future leaders of our nation. But to some, our actions may constitute treason. I want you to have the opportunity to leave. Go home to your families or friends. I will understand and say that I am proud to have served as your commanding officer.”

  Gunny Falcone walked a few paces away and then returned to Brad. “Forgetting the fact that there’s nothing out there for me, I wouldn’t leave. I am loyal to you, this unit, and America. I believe wholeheartedly in what we’re doing. Regardless of my suspicions surrounding the events that brought us here, I will continue to devote my life to protecting the Constitution.”

  “I’m in, hondo percent!” said Shore. Hondo was Shore’s way of saying one hundred.

  “Gentlemen, I’m humbled by your loyalty and couldn’t be prouder to serve with you. We have a limited amount of time to logistically reposition our assets. When that jackass Pearson returns on Thursday, he’ll find a facility at quarter strength in both troops and firepower. Agreed?”

  “Absolutely, Colonel,” replied Gunny Falcone.

  “Good. The first order of business is to speak personally with each of the Mechanics. Look them in the eye. Confirm their commitment while keeping them on a need-to-know basis. Over the next two days, they’ll gather up the critical assets and weaponry necessary to maintain this unit at battalion strength, but housed in a different location. By dusk tomorrow evening, we’ll start quietly rolling out of here under the auspices of traveling to Boston to assist local law enforcement and for the protection of those FEMA fucks. In reality, we’ll move the Mechanics to Prescott Peninsula.”

  “We’ll make it happen, sir!” said Shore.

  “I’ve been in contact with our fellow patriots and oath keepers throughout the military community,” said Brad. “They’re all making similar arrangements. How many soldiers will follow in our cause is unknown. But those in the Pentagon and the so-called Western White House who underestimate the number of soldiers who will stand by the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic, will do so at their peril. I believe there are far more military personnel who will defy tyrannical orders infringing upon the constitutional rights of freedom-loving Americans than there are those who will blindly follow such orders. As for those who don’t stand with us, let’s hope they go home to their families rather than stand against us.”

  “Sir, once we pull out, what will you do?” asked Gunny Falcone. Brad had thought of this extensively. His battalion would lose more than half its personnel and deployable assets over the next forty-eight hours. Someone would need to provide Agent Pearson an explanation.

  “I’ll stay here and keep Pearson occupied. There are already defections across the country. More soldiers go AWOL every day. He won’t be surprised.”

  “What about the equipment and weaponry?” asked Shore.

  “For one thing, he doesn’t know what we’re supposed to have. I trust that you two can make the records look like shit.”

  “They already do.” Gunny Falcone laughed.

  “Great, I guess,” said Brad. “Remember, he’s not military. He’s a pencil-pushing prick that’s learning on the job. As this thing continues, which I believe it might for months to come, he will grow bored and either move on or go home himself.”

  “Maybe you can take him to Boston and tell him to wait on a street corner in Roxbury,” said Shore. “He can explain to the locals that he’s from the government, and he’s there to help.” All of the men laughed at Shore’s bastardized quotation of President Ronald Reagan’s famous statement.

  In a 1986 news conference, President Reag
an famously said the nine most terrifying words in the English language are: I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.

  Brad thought for a moment. Yeah, maybe that’s what I’ll do.

  Chapter 55

  Tuesday, September 6, 2016

  7:13 p.m.

  Triple Q Ranch, Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  “Hey, girls, guess what?” asked Susan. Rebecca and Penny came over to where she was sitting with Sabs on the couch. They were all ears.

  “What do we get if we guess it right?” asked Penny.

  Susan laughed at the young negotiator. “Well, you’ll probably never guess, but I can tell you it’ll be loads of fun for you girls!”

  “Tell us now! Tell us now!” exclaimed a hopping Rebecca. The girls looked up at their mom like baby chicks would plead for that big fat worm in her mouth. Chirp, chirp, chirp.

  Sabs laughed and commented, “There is no end to their enthusiasm.”

  “Very true,” said Susan. She pulled the girls in close. “Tomorrow, we’ll be getting lots of visitors to stay with us, and one of them has a cute little French bulldog—Winnie the Frenchie.”

  “Is it for us?” asked Rebecca innocently.

  “No, but I’m sure they’ll let you play with her lots. How does that sound?”

  “Are you serious?” asked soon-to-be teenager Penny.

  “Yes, honey, sometime tomorrow you’ll have a new playmate!”

  “Awesome!” exclaimed Rebecca.

  J.J. entered the room, holding a couple of board games. “Ladies, who’s up for a game of Chutes and Ladders or Sorry?”

  Donald and Susan discussed the possibilities of having to bug out with children. If you had a family with children, a bug-out situation was not as simple as grabbing your bags and hitting the front door. They recognized that kids were not wired for quick, organized reaction. Their needs were far more complicated than adults. One regret Susan had was not teaching the girls more about the possibilities of a disaster and a prolonged stay away from home. When she and Donald sat down with the girls on Monday, it went better than expected. Oddly, it was Rebecca, who was fairly new to school at age seven, who protested the most. She was very social, and not being around children for an extended period would take its toll on her.